Thus progressing, he came close to one who spraddled in solitary comfort over two seats. This one was interred nose-deep in a book. "Hello," said Mr. Birdseye tentatively, almost timidly, for increasing doubt assailed him. "'Lo," answered the reader in a chill monosyllable without lifting his face from his book. Mr. Birdseye noted that the book contained verse printed in German, and he regretted having spoken. It wasn't in the nature of things for a ballplayer to be reading German poetry in the original, and he had no time to waste upon any other than a ballplayer. In that same instant, though, his glance fell on the next two passengers, and his heart gave a glad upward leap in his bosom. Surely the broad man with the swarthy skin and the straight black hair must be the Indian. Just as surely the short, square man alongside, the owner of that heavy jaw and that slightly up-tilted nose, could be none but the Richelieu of managers. Mr. Birdseye almost sprang forward. "Well, Chief!" he cried genially. "Well, Swifty! I thought I'd find you. How's everything?" Coldly they both regarded him. It was the short, square man who answered, and the reader behind put down his volume of Heine to listen. "Everything would be all right if they'd only keep these car doors locked," said the short man, and he didn't speak as a true sportsman should speak--tone, inflection, pronunciation, all were wrong. Enthusiasm was lacking, joviality was woefully missing. He continued, in the manner rather of a civil engineer--an impassive ordinarily civil engineer, say, who was now slightly irritated about something: "I figure you've made a mistake. This gentleman is not a chief--he's my private secretary. And my name does not happen to be Swift, if I heard you right. My name is Dinglefoogle--Omar G. Dinglefoogle, of Swedish descent." He disengaged his gaze from that of the abashed Birdseye and resumed his conversation with his companion at a point where it had been interrupted: "Have it your own way, John. Abbey for yours, but Sargent and Whistler for mine--yes, and Remington." "But where are you going to find anything to beat that thing of Abbey's--The Search for the Holy Grail?" It was the swarthy man taking up the issue. "Every time I go to Boston----"