his hunger after knowledge concerning abnormal workings of the human heart. He made his way swiftly to the young man’s side and took his arm. “Come with me at once,” he said, in the low but commanding voice that his waiters had learned to fear.
“Pinched,” remarked the young man, looking up at him with expressionless eyes. “Pinched by a painless dentist. Take me away, flatty, and give me gas. Some lay eggs and some lay none. When is a hen?”
Still deeply seized by some inward grief, but tractable, he allowed Quigg to lead him away and down the street to a little park.
There, seated on a bench, he upon whom a corner of the great Caliph’s mantle has descended, spake with kindness and discretion, seeking to know what evil had come upon the other, disturbing his soul and driving him to such ill-considered and ruinous waste of his substance and stores.
“I was doing the Monte Cristo act as adapted by Pompton, N. J., wasn’t I?” asked the young man.
“You were throwing small coins into the street for the people to scramble after,” said the Margrave.
“That’s it. You buy all the beer you can hold, and then you throw chicken feed to—Oh, curse that word chicken, and hens, feathers, roosters, eggs, and everything connected with it!”
“Young sir,” said the Margrave kindly, but with dignity, “though I do not ask your confidence, I invite it.
