encumbered with scaffolding, there was not much to choose. But the judge did not think so; to his mind there was a great deal to choose. As the days passed, Christopher Hollis became more and more his companion; the judge grew into the habit of expecting to see his high head, topped with a silk hat, put stealthily through the crevice of the half-open door of Paul's dining-room (Hollis never opened a door widely; whether coming in or going out, he always squeezed himself through), with the query, "Hello! What's up?" There was never anything up; but the judge, sitting there forlornly, with no companion but the local newspaper (which he loathed), was glad to welcome his queer guest. Generally they went out together; Port aux Pins people grew accustomed to seeing them walking down to the end first of one pier, then of the other, strolling among the stumps in the suburbs, or sitting on the pile of planks which adorned one corner of the Public Square, the long-legged, loose-jointed Kit an amusing contrast to the small, precise figure by his side. "I say, he's pretty hard up for entertainment, that old gentleman of yours," announced Hollis one day, peering in through the crevice of the door of Paul Tennant's office in the town. "I depended on you to entertain him," answered Paul without lifting his head, which was bent over a ledger. "Well, I've taken him all over the place, I've pretty nearly trotted his legs off," Hollis responded, edging farther in, the door scraping the buttons of his waistcoat as he did so. "And I've shot off all my Latin at him too--all I can remember. I read up on purpose." "Is he such a scholar, then?" "No, he ain't. But it does him good to hear a little Horace in such an early-in-the-morning, ten-minutes-ago place as this. See here, Paul; if you keep him on here long he won't stand it--he'll mizzle out. He'll simply die of Potterpins." "I'm not keeping him. He stays of his own accord." "I don't believe it. But, I say, ain't he a regular old despot though! You ought to hear him hold forth sometimes." "_I_ don't want to hear him." "Well, I guess he don't talk that way to you, on the whole. Not much," said Hollis, jocularly. And Paul Tennant did not look like a man who would be a comfortable companion for persons of the aggressive temperament. He was tall and broad-shouldered; not graceful like Ferdie, but powerful. His neck was rather short; the lower part of his face was strong and firm. His features were good; his eyes, keen, gray in hue. His hair was yellow and thick, and he had a moustache and short beard of the same yellow hue. No one would have called him handsome exactly. There was something of the Scandinavian in his appearance; nothing of the German. His manner, compared with Ferdie's quick, light brilliancy, was quiet, his speech slow. "Have you been thinking about that proposition--that sale?" Hollis went on. "Yes." "What are you going to do?" "It's done. I've declined."