“You are not a real poet,” she said as gently as she could. “You lack the true celestial fire. Your poems all savor of those I read in the street-cars. Poets are born, and not made. The true poet is a noble soul, floating above the heads of common mortals, destined to live alone, and unmarried--” Mr. Milward sat up suddenly and ceased laughing. “And now,” continued Kate, “I must ask you both to excuse me, for I am very tired.” But what do you think! As I was bowing good-night, while her poet was struggling into his rubber overshoes, she whispered, so that only I could hear:-- “Come up to-morrow evening. I will be all alone!” When, two days later, I told Perkins of my engagement, he only said:-- “Pays to advertise.” VII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE CRIMSON CORD I I HAD not seen Perkins for six months or so, and things were dull. I was beginning to tire of sitting indolently in my office, with nothing to do but clip coupons from my bonds. Money is good enough in its way, but it is not interesting unless it is doing something lively--doubling itself or getting lost. What I wanted was excitement,--an adventure,--and I knew that if I could find Perkins, I could have both. A scheme is a business adventure, and Perkins was the greatest schemer in or out of Chicago. Just then Perkins walked into my office. “Perkins,” I said, as soon as he had arranged his feet comfortably on my desk, “I'm tired. I'm restless. I have been wishing for you for a month. I want to go into a big scheme, and make a lot of new, up-to-date cash. I'm sick of this tame, old cash that I have. It isn't interesting. No cash is interesting except the coming cash.” “I'm with you,” said Perkins; “what is your scheme?” “I have none,” I said sadly. “That is just my trouble. I have sat here for days trying to think of a good, practical scheme, but I can't. I don't believe there is an unworked scheme in the whole wide, wide world.” Perkins waved his hand. “My boy,” he exclaimed, “there are millions! You've thousands of 'em right here in your office! You're falling over them, sitting on them, walking on them! Schemes? Everything is a scheme. Everything has money in it!” I shrugged my shoulders. “Yes,” I said, “for you. But you are a genius.” “Genius, yes,” Perkins said, smiling cheerfully, “else why Perkins the Great? Why Perkins the Originator? Why the Great and Only Perkins of Portland?” “All right,” I said, “what I want is for your genius to get busy. I'll give you a week to work up a good scheme.” Perkins pushed back his hat, and brought his feet to the floor with a smack. “Why the delay?” he queried. “Time is money. Hand me something from your desk.” I looked in my pigeonholes, and pulled from one a small ball of string. Perkins took it in his hand, and looked at it with great admiration. “What is it?” he asked seriously.