“Hm-m-m. Well—the general sense. Livius seems to yearn in modern print for any honest employment, but especially scrapping of the ancient variety or secretarying. Apply to Agrippa for references. Since he describes his conversation as being confined to Latin, I take it he won’t find many jobs reaching out eagerly for him. Anybody who wants him can find him in the Park of the Wild Boar in Baltimore. That’s about what I make of it. Now, what’s his little lay, I wonder.” “Some lay of Ancient Rome, anyhow,” suggested Bertram. “Association with Agrippa would put him back in the first century, B. C., wouldn’t it? Besides, my informant tells me that Mr. Livius, who seems to have been an all-around sort of person, helped organize fire brigades for Crassus, and was one of the circle of minor poets who wrote rhapsodies to the fair but frail Clodia’s eyebrows, ear-lobes and insteps.” “Your informant? The man’s actually been seen, then?” “Oh, Yes. He’s on view as per advertisement, I understand.” Average Jones rose and stretched his well-knit frame. “Baltimore will be hotter than the Place-as-Isn’t,” he said plaintively. “Martyrdom by fire! However, I’m off by the five-o’clock train. I’ll let you know if anything special comes of it, Bert.” Barye’s splendid bronze boar couches, semi-shaded, in the center of Monument Park, Baltimore’s social hill-top. There Average lounged and strolled through the longest hour of a glaring July morning. People came and went; people of all degrees and descriptions, none of whom suggested in any particular the first century, B. C. One individual only maintained any permanency of situation. He was a gaunt, powerful, freckled man of thirty who sprawled on a settee and regarded Average Jones with obvious and amused interest. In time this annoyed the Ad-Visor, who stopped short, facing the settee. “He’s gone,” said the freckled man. “Meaning Livius, the Roman?” asked Average Jones. “Exactly. Lucius Livius, son of Marcus Praenestinus.” “Are you the representative of this rather peculiar person, may I ask?” “It would be a dull world, except for peculiar persons,” observed the man on the settee philosophically. “I’ve seen very many peculiar persons lately by the simple process of coming here day after day. No, I’m not Mr. Livius’ representative. I’m only a town-bound and interested observer of his.” “There you’ve got the better of me,” said Average Jones. “I was rather anxious to see him myself.” The other looked speculatively at the trim, keen-faced young man. “Yet you do not look like a Latin scholar,” he observed; “if you’ll pardon the comment.” “Nor do you,” retorted Jones; “if the apology is returnable.” “I suppose not,” owned the other with a sigh. “I’ve often thought that my classical capacity would gain more recognition if I didn’t have a skin like Bob Fitzsimmons and hands like Ty Cobb. Nevertheless, I’m in and of the department of Latin of Johns Hopkins University. Name, Warren. Sit down.”