Cyrus responded with a loud yell. Inappropriate as the outcry was, it saved a situation becoming potentially dangerous, for not far below those luminous eyes was a dimple that flickered at the corner of a challenging mouth; unconsciously challenging, doubtless, yet--And then Fluff, opportunely descrying her imaginary butterfly on the side of Cyrus's trouser-leg, made a flying leap and drove ten keen claws through the fabric into the skin beneath. Her mistress dislodged the too ardent entomologist, and apologized demurely. “You see,” said she, “you've become an intimate of the household. When you're too busy to come and see us, Fluff and I will peek out and admire you as you go plunging past on your irresistible course.” “It's going to be a lonely job,” said Cyrus the Gaunt wistfully, “compared to this one.” “Nonsense!” she retorted briskly as she handed him a dollar bill. “Here's your pay. You'll be too busy to be lonely. Good luck, Mr. Engineer.” II Thus Cyrus the Gaunt became a toiler in, and by slow degrees a citizen of, Our Square. We are a doubtful people where strangers are concerned. The ritual of initiation for Cyrus was, at first, chance words and offhand nods, then an occasional bidding to sit in at Schwartz's, and finally consultations and confidences on matters of import, political, social, or private. Thus was Cyrus the Gaunt adopted as one of us. Quite from the outset of his job he became a notable pictorial asset of the place, standing out, lank and black, in the intermittent gleam of his own engine, as he rolled on his appointed course amidst firmamental thunderings. Acting as chauffeur to ten tons of ill-balanced metal, he promptly discovered, is an occupation to which the tyro must pay explicit heed if he would keep within the bounds of his precinct. About the time when he was beginning to feel at ease with his charger, he came to a stop, one misty night, directly opposite the window of a taxicab, and met a pair of eyes which straightway became fixed in a paralysis of amazed doubt. “No; it isn't. It can't be,” said the owner of the eyes presently. “Yes, it is,” contradicted Cyrus. “Well, I'm jiggered!” “That's all that the pious young Presbyterian boss of a fashionable church has a right to be.” “_What_ are you doing up there?” “Piloting a submarine under Governor's Island.” “So I see.” The taxi-door opened, and some six feet of well-tailored manhood mounted nimbly to Cyrus's side. “What's the fare? And why? Is it a bet?” Cyrus the Gaunt grinned amiably in the face of the Reverend Morris Cartwright, whose appearance in that quarter did not greatly surprise him. “How did you know? It's leaked out at the club, has it?” “Not that I know of. I guessed it.” “Thought nothing short of a bet would account for such a reversal of form, eh? Keep it to yourself, and I'll tell you the rest.” “You've hired an ear,” observed the young cleric.