CHAPTER III.
THE CLEVER PENCIL.
A DOZEN idlers leaned against the bar or sat in chairs tilted against the wall. Trant examined these idlers one after another closely. The only man at whom he did not seem to look was one who, as the only red-headed man in the place, must plainly be Meyan. "Red-headed" was the only description they had of him, but meager as it was, with the landlady's statement that he was in the saloon, Trant resolved to test him.
The psychologist took an envelope from his pocket and wrote rapidly upon the back of it. "I am going to try something," he whispered, as he flicked the envelope along the bar to Edwards. "It may not succeed, but if I am able to get Meyan into a test, then go into that back room and speak aloud what I have written on the envelope, as if you had just come in with somebody."
Then, as Edwards nodded his comprehension, the psychologist turned easily to the man nearest him at the bar—a pallid Lithuanian sweatshop worker.
"I suppose you can stand a lot of that?" Trant nodded at the glass of pungent whisky. "Still—it has its effect on you. Sends your heart action up—quickens your pulse."
"What are you?" asked the man, grinning. "Temperance lecturer?"
"Something like that," the psychologist answered. "At least, I can show you the effect whisky has upon your heart."
He picked up the instrument case and opened it. The loungers gathered about him, and Trant saw with satisfaction that they thought him an itinerant temperance advocate. They stared curiously at the instrument he had taken from its case.
"It goes on the arm," he explained. The Lithuanian, with a grin toward his companions, began to turn up his sleeve. "Not you," Trant said; "you just had a drink."
"Is there a drink in this? I ain't had a drink since breakfast!" said another who pushed up to the table and bared his blue-veined forearm for Trant to fasten the instrument to it.
Young Winton Edwards, watching as curiously as the others, saw Trant fasten the sphygmograph on the mechanic's arm. and the pencil point commence to trace on the sooty surface a wavy line, the normal record of the mechanic's pulse.
"You see it!" Trant pointed out to the others the record, as it unwound slowly from the drum. "Every thought you have, every feeling, every sensation—taste, touch, smell—changes the beating of your heart and shows upon this little record. I could show through that whether you had a secret you were trying to conceal, as readily as I will show the effect whisky has on you, or as I can learn whether this man likes the smell of onion." He took from the free lunch on the bar a slice of onion, which he held under the man's nose. "Ah! You don't like onion! But the whisky will make you forget its smell, I suspect."
As the odor of the whisky reached the man's nostrils, the record line—which when he smelled the onion had become suddenly flattened with elevations nearer together, as the pulse beat weakly but more quickly—began to return to the shape it had had at first. He tossed off the liquor, rolling it upon his tongue, and all saw the record regain its first appearance; then, as the stimulant began to take effect, the pencil point lifted higher at each rise and the elevations became farther apart. They stared and laughed.
"Whisky effects you about normally, I should say." Trant began to unfasten the sphygmograph from the man's wrist. "I have heard it said that black-
