O'Rourke's affairs went along merrily. He wrote and sold stories and poems. His name began to appear each month on the cover of a certain widely read magazine. Everything was in line for an early wedding and a career of happiness "for ever after." One morning, while O'Rourke was hard at work, Hemming, who had gone out immediately after breakfast, returned to their sitting-room and laid a red leather case on his friend's manuscript. O'Rourke completed a flowing sentence, and then straightened up and opened the case. A very fine brier-root pipe was disclosed to his view. "Where did you steal this?" he inquired. "It is a present for you," said Hemming, dropping into a chair. O'Rourke put down his pen, and eyed his friend with an air of surprise. "A present!" he exclaimed. "Why, my dear chap, surely I've been taking anything of yours that I happened to want long enough for you to see that there is no need of this depressing formality." "But we've been such chums." "You haven't just found that out, I hope." Hemming shook his head. "I'm going away," he explained, "and I suppose it will be without you this time." "I wouldn't mind going to Staten Island," replied O'Rourke, "but for any farther than that you will have to mark me out." "I sail for England to-morrow," Hemming informed him. "Have you been--have you received a letter, or anything of that kind?" inquired his comrade. "No, but Stanley told me I was a fool not to go back." "Could have told you that myself." "Then why didn't you?" "Thought you knew it." "I didn't know it,--and I am not sure, even now," retorted Hemming. "Well, old man," rejoined O'Rourke, "you know her better than I do, so suit yourself. But my advice is the same as Stanley's." He stared moodily at the Englishman. In fact, he was already lonely for his energetic, steel-true roommate. What days and nights they had seen together! What adventures they had sped, knee to knee! What vigils they had kept by the camp-fires and under the cabin-lamps! And now a girl!--but at that thought his brow cleared. "I think we have both done with the old pace," he remarked, pensively. "I wonder," said Hemming. That night about a dozen men gathered in Tarmont's studio. Hemming was the guest of honour. The big room was soon filled with smoke. There were many things to drink and a few things to eat. Songs were sung, and stories told. Hemming tried to make a speech, and O'Rourke had to finish it for him. After that, Tarmont suggested leap-frog. "Just wait until I do my little stunt," begged Potts. He tuned his banjo, and, to an accompaniment of his own composing, sang the following verses: "'You may light your lamps to cheer me, You may tune your harps for me, But my heart is with my shipmates Where the lights are on the sea. "'You may wine me, you may dine me, You may pledge me to the brim, But my heart is pledging Charlie, And you have no thought of him.