Once upon a time I found a ten-cent magazine lying on a bench in a little city park. Anyhow, that was the amount he asked me for when I sat on the bench next to him. He was a musty, dingy, and tattered magazine, with some queer stories bound in him, I was sure. He turned out to be a scrap-book. "I am a newspaper reporter," I said to him, to try him. "I have been detailed to write up some of the experiences of the unfortunate ones who spend their evenings in this park. May I ask you to what you attribute your downfall in--" I was interrupted by a laugh from my purchase--a laugh so rusty and unpractised that I was sure it had been his first for many a day. "Oh, no, no," said he. "You ain't a reporter. Reporters don't talk that way. They pretend to be one of us, and say they've just got in on the blind baggage from St. Louis. I can tell a reporter on sight. Us park bums get to be fine judges of human nature. We sit here all day and watch the people go by. I can size up anybody who walks past my bench in a way that would surprise you." "Well," I said, "go on and tell me. How do you size me up?" "I should say," said the student of human nature with unpardonable hesitation, "that you was, say, in the contracting business--or maybe worked in a store--or was a sign-painter. You stopped in the park to finish your cigar, and thought you'd get a little free monologue out of me. Still, you might be a plasterer or a lawyer--it's getting kind of dark, you see. And your wife won't let you smoke at home." I frowned gloomily. "But, judging again," went on the reader of men, "I'd say you ain't got a wife." "No," said I, rising restlessly. "No, no, no, I ain't. But I _will_ have, by the arrows of Cupid! That is, if--" My voice must have trailed away and muffled itself in uncertainty and despair. "I see you have a story yourself," said the dusty vagrant--impudently, it seemed to me. "Suppose you take your dime back and spin your yarn for me. I'm interested myself in the ups and downs of unfortunate ones who spend their evenings in the park." Somehow, that amused me. I looked at the frowsy derelict with more interest. I did have a story. Why not tell it to him? I had told none of my friends. I had always been a reserved and bottled-up man. It was psychical timidity or sensitiveness--perhaps both. And I smiled to myself in wonder when I felt an impulse to confide in this stranger and vagabond. "Jack," said I. "Mack," said he. "Mack," said I, "I'll tell you." "Do you want the dime back in advance?" said he. I handed him a dollar. "The dime," said I, "was the price of listening to _your_ story." "Right on the point of the jaw," said he. "Go on." And then, incredible as it may seem to the lovers in the world who confide their sorrows only to the night wind and the gibbous moon, I laid bare my secret to that wreck of all things that you would have supposed to be in sympathy with love.