He was to see Tom Poppins the coming Thursday at Miggleton’s. And now he was going to find Morton! He laughed so loudly that the policeman at Thirty-fourth Street looked self-conscious and felt secretively to find out what was the matter with his uniform. Now, this evening, he’d try to get on the track of Morton. Well, perhaps not this evening—the Pennsylvania offices wouldn’t be open, but some time this week, anyway. Two nights later, as he waited for Tom Poppins at Miggleton’s, he lashed himself with the thought that he had not started to find Morton; good old Morton of the cattle-boat. But that was forgotten in the wonder of Tom Poppins’s account of Mrs. Arty’s, a boarding-house “where all the folks likes each other.” “You’ve never fed at a boarding-house, eh?” said Tom. “Well, I guess most of ’em are pretty poor feed. And pretty sad bunch. But Mrs. Arty’s is about as near like home as most of us poor bachelors ever gets. Nice crowd there. If Mrs. Arty—Mrs. R. T. Ferrard is her name, but we always call her Mrs. Arty—if she don’t take to you she don’t mind letting you know she won’t take you in at all; but if she does she’ll worry over the holes in your socks as if they was her husband’s. All the bunch there drop into the parlor when they come in, pretty near any time clear up till twelve-thirty, and talk and laugh and rush the growler and play Five Hundred. Just like home! “Mrs. Arty’s nearly as fat as I am, but she can be pretty spry if there’s something she can do for you. Nice crowd there, too except that Teddem—he’s one of these here Willy-boy actors, always out of work; I guess Mrs. Arty is kind of sorry for him. Say, Wrenn—you seem to me like a good fellow—why don’t you get acquainted with the bunch? Maybe you’d like to move up there some time. You was telling me about what a cranky old party your landlady is. Anyway, come on up there to dinner. On me. Got anything on for next Monday evening?” “N-no.” “Come on up then——East Thirtieth.” “Gee, I’d like to!” “Well, why don’t you, then? Get there about six. Ask for me. Monday. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I don’t have to get to the store evenings. Come on; you’ll find out if you like the place.” “By jiminy, I will!” Mr. Wrenn slapped the table, socially. At last he was “through, just _through_ with loafing around and not getting acquainted,” he told himself. He was tired of Zapps. There was nothing to Zapps. He would go up to Mrs. Arty’s and now—he was going to find Morton. Next morning, marveling at himself for not having done this easy task before, he telephoned to the Pennsylvania Railroad offices, asked for Morton, and in one-half minute heard: “Yes? This is Harry Morton.” “Hullo, Mr. Morton! I’ll just bet you can’t guess who this is.” “I guess you’ve got me.” “Well, who do you think it—” “Jack?” “Hunka.” “Uncle Henry?”