"Good-by," smiled Mrs. Quimby. "Be careful of matches." Mr. Quimby led the way with the lantern, and presently they stepped out upon the road. The storm had ceased, but it was still very dark. Far below, in the valley, twinkled the lights of Upper Asquewan Falls. "By the way, Quimby," remarked Mr. Magee, "is there a girl in your town who has blue eyes, light hair, and the general air of a queen out shopping?" "Light hair," repeated Quimby. "There's Sally Perry. She teaches in the Methodist Sunday-school." "No," said Mr. Magee. "My description was poor, I'm afraid. This one I refer to, when she weeps, gives the general effect of mist on the sea at dawn. The Methodists do not monopolize her." "I read books, and I read newspapers," said Mr. Quimby, "but a lot of your talk I don't understand." "The critics," replied Billy Magee, "could explain. My stuff is only for low-brows. Lead on, Mr. Quimby." Mr. Quimby stood for a moment in dazed silence. Then he turned, and the yellow of his lantern fell on the dazzling snow ahead. Together the two climbed Baldpate Mountain. CHAPTER II ENTER A LOVELORN HABERDASHER Baldpate Inn did not stand tiptoe on the misty mountain-top. Instead it clung with grim determination to the side of Baldpate, about half-way up, much as a city man clings to the running board of an open street-car. This was the comparison Mr. Magee made, and even as he made it he knew that atmospheric conditions rendered it questionable. For an open street-car suggests summer and the ball park; Baldpate Inn, as it shouldered darkly into Mr. Magee's ken, suggested winter at its most wintry. About the great black shape that was the inn, like arms, stretched broad verandas. Mr. Magee remarked upon them to his companion. "Those porches and balconies and things," he said, "will come in handy in cooling the fevered brow of genius." "There ain't much fever in this locality," the practical Quimby assured him, "especially not in winter." Silenced, Mr. Magee followed the lantern of Quimby over the snow to the broad steps, and up to the great front door. There Magee produced from beneath his coat an impressive key. Mr. Quimby made as though to assist, but was waved aside. "This is a ceremony," Mr. Magee told him, "some day Sunday newspaper stories will be written about it. Baldpate Inn opening its doors to the great American novel!" He placed the key in the lock, turned it, and the door swung open. The coldest blast of air Mr. Magee had even encountered swept out from the dark interior. He shuddered, and wrapped his coat closer. He seemed to see the white trail from Dawson City, the sled dogs straggling on with the dwindling provisions, the fat Eskimo guide begging for gum-drops by his side. "Whew," he cried, "we've discovered another Pole!" "It's stale air," remarked Quimby. "You mean the Polar atmosphere," replied Magee. "Yes, it is pretty stale. Jack London and Doctor Cook have worked it to death."