Jim Sakers, in appearance and in temperament, was as different from Barry Cumberland as a Gruyère cheese is different from an ivory Buddha. He was dark and of a lovable ugliness; practical to a degree that his friend sometimes found irritating; invariably good-humoured; and frankly ignorant of everything that could not be dealt with on Wall Street. An enthusiastic sportsman to whom the Arts were an awful mystery, he, withal, regarded the moody Barry more tenderly than Horatio looked upon Hamlet. Once extricated from the crossword puzzle of New York’s traffic and clear of Hoboken’s shores, they began to make speed, Jim commenting continuously upon sights by the way, as was his manner, Barry answering only in monosyllables and being entirely wrapped up in his own thoughts. Presently: “When we get to the house,” he said, “I propose to call.” “Cheers!” cried Jim. “I hope the Egyptian princess keeps a good cellar. But what for?” “To thank her for looking after me. I shall take it for granted that she did.” “Wait until we find the house,” Jim warned; “and then, wait until we get in!” Barry smiled lightly. “Of course we shall find the house,” he asserted. “You know the way, don’t you?” “Absolutely,” Jim assured him, “as far as the forks. I simply couldn’t go wrong. But from there onward, I am entirely in your hands. You say you took the middle road?” “Yes,” Barry nodded. “The middle one.” He became lost in thought again, paying so little attention to his companion’s cheery remarks that presently these ceased, as mile after mile was left behind and New York seemed to become very remote, in the peace of the countryside that they were traversing. And now, undaunted, Jim began to sing, loudly. “‘_Dear one, the moon is waiting for the sunshine_----’” “Shut up!” Barry implored. “Don’t sing. Or, if you _must_ sing, sing the right words. It isn’t ‘the moon’--it’s ‘the world.’” “Oh!” Jim stared. “I don’t believe it. But, anyway, I like ‘the moon’ better.” “The tune is all wrong as well.” “You’re too blamed particular!” said Jim. Engaged in this argument they came sweeping down a long, straight road, turned sharply to the right, and Jim pulled up. “Behold!” he cried, and pointed. Barry could not conceal his excitement. “Gad!” he muttered. “It looks all different, now. But, yes, that’s the road.” “Middle one, boss?” “Yes.” “Very good, boss.” Jim grinned cheerfully and swung around into the thoroughfare indicated. “Tell me when to stop, boss!” he shouted. “‘_Dear one, the moon_…’” He sang lustily, and inaccurately, for half a mile or more; until: “Here we are! Left!” Barry shouted. Jim obediently turned into the narrow way indicated by his companion, raced along it, and then: