He produced and consulted a watch--one that struck the professor as being almost too loud an ornament for a Christmas tree. An infant's face showed within as the case opened. 'Your baby?' inquired Professor Browne. 'Never. Not good enough. This kid I found--where do you suppose? On a picture-postal at a news-stand. The picture was no good--except the kid; and I cut him out, you see. Say, do you know the picture was painted by a man out in Montana? Yes, sir, Montana. They had the cards made over in Europe somewhere,--Dagoes, likely,--and when they put his name on it, they didn't do a thing to that word Montana. Some spelling!' 'Why, what you have there,' said the professor, taking the watch with interest, 'is the Holy Child of Andrea Mantegna's Circumcision,--it's in the Uffizi at Florence. Singularly good it is, too. I'm very much wrapped up in the question, raised in a late book, of Mantegna's influence upon Giovanni Bellini. There's a rather fine point made in connection with another child in this same picture--a larger one, pressing against his mother's knees.' Mr. Squem was perfectly uncomprehending. 'Come again,' he remarked. 'No, you needn't, either, for I don't know anything about the rest of the picture. I told you it was no good. There was an old party in a funny bathrobe and with heavy Belshazzars, I remember--but the picture was _this_.' He rose and began to get into his overcoat. 'There's one thing about this kid,' he said, in a casual tone which somehow let earnestness through. 'I know a man,--he travels out of Phillie, and he's some booze-artist and other things that go along,--who's got one of those little "Josephs." You know, those little dolls that Catholics tote around? Separate him from it? Not on your life. Why, he missed it one night on a sleeper, and he cussed and reared around, and made the coon rout everybody out till he found it. It's luck, you see. Now this kid'--Mr. Squem was pulling on his gloves--'isn't luck, but he works like luck. He talks to me, understand, and'--here a pause--'he puts all sorts of cussedness on the blink. You can't look at him and be an Indian. I was making the wrong sort of date in Trenton one day, and I saw him just in time--sent the girl word I'd been called out of town. I was figuring on the right time to pinch a man in the door,--he'd done me dirty,--and I saw _him_ again. Good-night! I'm never so punk that he doesn't ginger me--doesn't look good to me. The management is mixed up with him--and I hook up to him. Here's the taxi. So long, professor.--Rats! I haven't done one little thing. Good luck to your game leg!' * * * * *