playing the piano there to-night. I recognized him, I tell you, only I couldn't think at first."
"Well, he didn't look like a cowboy to-night," replied Fudge dubiously. "Besides, what would he be doing here? This isn't any place for cowboys. I guess you kind of imagined that part of it. Maybe he had on a felt hat; I don't say he didn't; but I guess you imagined the rest of it. It—it's psychological, Perry. You were thinking about cowboys and such things and then this fellow appeared at the window and you thought he was dressed like one."
"No, I didn't. I tell you I could see the handkerchief around his neck and—and everything! I don't say he really is a cowboy, but I know mighty well he was dressed like one. And I know he's the fellow we saw playing the piano."
"Oh, shucks, cowboys don't play pianos, Perry. Besides, what does it matter anyway?"
"Nothing, I suppose, only—only it's sort of funny. I'd like to know why he was got up like a cowboy."
"Why don't you ask him? Tell you what we'll do, Perry, we'll go up there to-morrow after the show's over and lay in wait for him."
"Up to his room? I wonder if he has an office. Maybe he gives lessons, Fudge."
"What sort of lessons?"
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