“Why—” wailed that hurt and astonished victim of ingratitude, Mr. Guilfogle. “I’ll leave the middle of June. That’s plenty of notice,” chirruped Mr. Wrenn. At five that evening Mr. Wrenn dashed up to the Brass-button Man at his station before the Nickelorion, crying: “Say! You come from Ireland, don’t you?” “Now what would you think? Me—oh no; I’m a Chinaman from Oshkosh!” “No, honest, straight, tell me. I’ve got a chance to travel. What d’yuh think of that? Ain’t it great! And I’m going right away. What I wanted to ask you was, what’s the best place in Ireland to see?” “Donegal, o’ course. I was born there.” Hauling from his pocket a pencil and a worn envelope, Mr. Wrenn joyously added the new point of interest to a list ranging from Delagoa Bay to Denver. He skipped up-town, looking at the stars. He shouted as he saw the stacks of a big Cunarder bulking up at the end of Fourteenth Street. He stopped to chuckle over a lithograph of the Parthenon at the window of a Greek bootblack’s stand. Stars—steamer—temples, all these were his. He owned them now. He was free. Lee Theresa sat waiting for him in the basement livingroom till ten-thirty while he was flirting with trainboards at the Grand Central. Then she went to bed, and, though he knew it not, that prince of wealthy suitors, Mr. Wrenn, had entirely lost the heart and hand of Miss Zapp of the F. F. V. He stood before the manager’s god-like desk on June 14, 1910. Sadly: “Good-by, Mr. Guilfogle. Leaving to-day. I wish—Gee! I wish I could tell you, you know—about how much I appreciate—” The manager moved a wire basket of carbon copies of letters from the left side of his desk to the right, staring at them thoughtfully; rearranged his pencils in a pile before his ink-well; glanced at the point of an indelible pencil with a manner of startled examination; tapped his desk-blotter with his knuckles; then raised his eyes. He studied Mr. Wrenn, smiled, put on the look he used when inviting him out for a drink. Mr. Guilfogle was essentially an honest fellow, harshened by The Job; a well-satisfied victim, with the imagination clean gone out of him, so that he took follow-up letters and the celerity of office-boys as the only serious things in the world. He was strong, alive, not at all a bad chap, merely efficient. “Well, Wrenn, I suppose there’s no use of rubbing it in. Course you know what I think about the whole thing. It strikes me you’re a fool to leave a good job. But, after all, that’s your business, not ours. We like you, and when you get tired of being just a bum, why, come back; we’ll always try to have a job open for you. Meanwhile I hope you’ll have a mighty good time, old man. Where you going? When d’yuh start out?” “Why, first I’m going to just kind of wander round generally. Lots of things I’d like to do. I think I’ll get away real soon now…. Thank you awfully, Mr. Guilfogle, for keeping a place open for me. Course I prob’ly won’t need it, but gee! I sure do appreciate it.”