A covered wagon had at that moment stopped before the door. It was drawn by a horse whose appearance, like that of the piano, spoke more eloquently of services in the past than of hopeful promises for the future. On the side of the vehicle appeared in large letters: "_What's the Matter with Mother_? Latest Melodic Triumph by America's Greatest Composer, Mr. Kerry Mackintosh." A little to the left of this announcement was painted a harp, probably a reminder of the one Saint Cecilia was supposed to have played. This sentimental symbol was obviously intended to lend dignity and respectability to the otherwise disreputable vehicle of concord and its steed without wings, waiting patiently to be off--or to lie down and pay the debt of nature! "Shall we try it again, angel voice?" asked Mr. Mackintosh, playing the piano, or "biffing the ivories," as he called it. "Drop it," returned the visitor, "that 'angel' dope." "Oh, all right! Anything to oblige." Before this vaguely apologetic reply, the new-comer once more relapsed into thoughtfulness. His eye passed dubiously over the vehicle of harmony; he began to take an interest in the front door as if again inclined to "back out." Perhaps a wish that the horse _might_ lie down and die at this moment (no doubt he would be glad to!) percolated through the current of his thoughts. That would offer an easy solution to the proposal he imagined would soon be forthcoming--that _was_ forthcoming--and accepted. Of course! What alternative remained? Needs must when an empty pocket drives. Had he not learned the lesson--beggars must not be choosers? "And now," said Mr. Mackintosh with the air of a man who had cast from his shoulders a distinct problem, "that does away with the necessity of bailing the other chap out. What's your name?" The visitor hesitated. "Horatio Heatherbloom." The other looked at him keenly. "The right one," he said softly. "You've got the only one you'll get," replied the caller, after an interval. Mr. Mackintosh bestowed upon him a knowing wink. "Sounds like a _nom de plume_," he chuckled. "What was your line?" "I don't understand." "What did you serve time for? Shoplifting?" "Oh, no," said the other calmly. "Burglarizing?" With more respect in his tones. "What do you think?" queried the caller in the same mild voice. "Not ferocious-looking enough for that lay, I should have thought. However, you can't always tell by appearances. Now, I wonder--" "What?" observed Mr. Heatherbloom, after an interval of silence. "Yes! By Jove!" Mr. Mackintosh was speaking to himself. "It might work--it might add interest--" Mr. Heatherbloom waited patiently. "Would you have any objections," earnestly, "to my making a little addenda to the sign on the chariot of cadence? _What's the Matter with Mother_? 'The touching lyric, as interpreted by Horatio Heatherbloom, the reformed burglar'?" "I _should_ object," observed the caller.