LITMIR.BIZ

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each making toward a similar goal, only in a million different ways, that absorbed him. Subconsciously he was always counting, counting, now by fives, now by tens, but invariably found new entertainment ere he reached the respectable three numerals of an even hundred. Sometimes it was a silk hat which he followed till it became lost up the Avenue; and as often as not he would single out a waiting cabman and speculate on the quality of his fare; and other whimsies.

      That this was such and such a woman, or that was such and such a man never led him into any of that gossip so common among club-men who are out of touch with the vital things in life. Even when he espied a friend in this mysterious flow of souls, there was only a transient flash of recognition in his eyes. When he wasn't in the tennis-courts, or the billiard- or card-rooms, he was generally to be found in this corner. He had seen all manner of crowds, armies pursuing and retreating, vast concords in public squares, at coronations, at catastrophes, at play, and he never lost interest in watching them; they were the great expressions of humanity. This is perhaps the reason why his articles were always so rich in color. No two crowds were ever alike to him, consequently he never was at loss for a fresh description.

      To-day the Italian vender of plaster statuettes caught his eye. For an hour now the poor wretch hadn't even drawn the attention of one of the thousands passing. Fitzgerald felt sorry for him, and once the desire came to go over and buy out the Neapolitan; but he was too comfortable where he was, and beyond that he was expecting a friend.

      Fitzgerald was thirty, with a clean-shaven, lean, and eager face, russet in tone, well offset by the fine blue eyes which had the faculty of seeing little and big things at the same time. He had dissipated in a trifling fashion, but the healthy, active life he lived in the open more than counteracted the effects. A lonely orphan, possessing a lively imagination, is seldom free from some vice or other. There had never been, however, what the world is pleased to term entanglements. His guardian angel gave him a light step whenever there was any social thin ice. Oh, he had some relatives; but as they were neither very rich nor very poor, they seldom annoyed one another. He was, then, a free lance in all the abused word implies; and he lived as he pleased, spending his earnings freely and often carelessly, knowing that the little his father had left him would keep a moderately hungry wolf from the door. He had been born to a golden spoon, but the food from the pewter one he now used tasted just as good.

      "So here you are! I've been in the billiard-room, and the card-room, and the bar-room."

      "Talking of bar-rooms!" Fitzgerald reached for the button. "Sit down, Hewitt, old boy. Glad to see you. Now, I'll tell you right off the bat, nothing will persuade me. For years I've been jumping to the four points of the compass at the beck of your old magazine and syndicate. I'm going to settle down and write a novel."

      "Piffle!" growled the editor, dropping his lanky form into a chair. "Thank goodness, they haven't swivel chairs in the club. I've been whirling round in one all day—a long, tall Scotch, please—but a novel! I say, piffle!"

      "Piffle it may be, but I'm going to have a whack at it. If I ever do another article it will be as a millionaire's private secretary. I should like to study his methods for saving his money. What is it this time?"

      "A dash to the North Pole."

      "Never again north of Berlin or south of Assuan for mine. No."

      "Come, Fitz; a great chance."

      "When you sent me to Manila I explored hell for you, but I've cooled off considerably since then. No ice for mine, except in silver buckets."

      "You've made a pretty good thing out of us; something like five thousand a year and your expenses; and with the credentials we've always given you, you have been able to see the world as few men see it."

      "That's just the trouble. You've spoiled me."

      "Well, you may take my word for it, you won't have the patience to sit down at home here and write a hundred thousand words that mean anything. There's no reason why you can't do my work and write novels on the side. We both know a dozen fellows who are doing it. We've got to have this article, and you're the only man we dare trust alone on it, if it will flatter you any to know it."

      "Come, pussy, come!"

      "If it's a question of more money—"

      "Perish the thought!" cried Fitzgerald, clasping his knees and rocking gently. "You know as well as I do, Hewitt, that it's the game and not the cash. I've found a new love, my boy."

      "Double harness?" with real anxiety. Hewitt bit his scrubby mustache.

       When a special correspondent married that was the end of him.

      "There you go again!" warned the recalcitrant. "If you don't stop eating that mustache you'll have stomach trouble that no Scotch whisky will ever cure. The whole thing is in a nutshell," a sly humor creeping into his eyes. "I am tired of writing ephemeral things. I want to write something that will last."

      "Write your epitaph, Jack," drawled a deep voice from the reading table. "That's the only sure way, and even that is no good if your marble is spongy."

      "Oh, Cathewe, this is not your funeral," retorted the editor.

      "Perhaps not. All the same, I'll be chief mourner if Jack takes up novel writing. Critics don't like novels, because any one can write an average story; but it takes a genius to turn out first-class magazine copy. Anyhow, art becomes less and less particular every day. The only thing that never gains or loses is this London Times. Someday I'm going to match the Congressional Record and the Times for the heavyweight championship of the world, with seven to one on the Record, to weigh in at the ringside."

      "You've been up north, Arthur," said Fitzgerald. "What's your advice?"

      "Don't do it. You've often wondered how and where I lost these two digits. Up there." The Times rattled, and Cathewe became absorbed in the budget.

      Arthur Cathewe was a tall, loose-limbed man, forty-two or three, rather handsome, and a bit shy with most folk. Rarely any one saw him outside the club. He had few intimates, but to these he was all that friendship means, kindly, tender, loyal, generous, self-effacing. And Fitzgerald loved him best of all men. It did not matter that there were periods when they became separated for months at a time. They would some day turn up together in the same place. "Why, hello, Arthur!" "Glad to see you, Jack!" and that was all that was necessary. All the enthusiasm was down deep below. Cathewe was always in funds; Fitzgerald sometimes; but there was never any lending or borrowing between them. This will do much toward keeping friendship green. The elder man was a great hunter; he had been everywhere, north and south, east and west. He never fooled away his time at pigeons and traps; big game, where the betting was even, where the animal had almost the same chance as the man. He could be tolerably humorous upon occasions. The solemn cast to his comely face predestined him for this talent.

      "Well, Fitz, what are you going to do?"

      "Hewitt, give me a chance. I've been home but a week. I'm not going to dash to the Pole without having a ripping good time here first. Will a month do?"

      "Oh, the expedition doesn't leave for two months yet. But we must sign the contract a month beforehand."

      "To-day is the first of June; I promise to telegraph you yes or no this day month. You have had me over in Europe eighteen months. I'm tired of trains, and boats, and mules. I'm going fishing."

      "Ah, bass!" murmured Cathewe from behind his journal.

      "By the way, Hewitt," said Fitzgerald, "have you ever heard of a chap called Karl Breitmann?"

      "Yes," answered Hewitt. "Never met him personally, though."

      "I have," joined in Cathewe quietly. He laid down the Times. "What do you know about him?"

      "Met him in Paris last year. Met him once before in Macedonia. Dined with me in Paris. Amazing lot of adventures. Rather down on his luck, I should judge."

      "Couple of scars on his left cheek and a bit of the scalp gone; German student sort, rather good-looking, fine physique?"

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