The Margrave, with a gloomy air, held out his hand.
“I cannot express my regret,” he said, sadly. “Never before have I found myself unable to assist in some way. ‘What kind of a hen lays the longest?’ It is a baffling problem. There is a hen, I believe, called the Plymouth Rock that—”
“Cut it out,” said the young man. “The Caliph trade is a mighty serious one. I don’t suppose you’d even see anything funny in a preacher’s defense of John D. Rockefeller. Well, good night, Your Nibs.”
From habit the Margrave began to fumble in his pockets. He drew forth a card and handed it to the young man.
“Do me the favor to accept this, anyhow,” he said. “The time may come when it might be of use to you.”
“Thanks!” said the young man, pocketing it carelessly. “My name is Simmons.”
******
Shame to him who would hint that the reader’s interest shall altogether pursue the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen Quigg. I am indeed astray if my hand fail in keeping the way where my perseur’s heart would follow. Then let us, on the morrow, peep quickly in at the door of Hildebrant, harness maker.
Hildebrant’s 200 pounds reposed on a bench, silver-buckling a raw leather martingale.
Bill Watson came in first.
“Vell,” said Hildebrant, shaking all over with the vile
