A soft, moist breeze, with something of the sea in it, blew gently in at an open window of the second floor of the business establishment of T. Copernicus & Son. Near the window a gas–jet flickered. Under the gas–jet, on, or rather in, a bed ingeniously constructed of the heaped–up covering–cloths from the long counters, lay Mr. Michael Quinlan, half–supported on his left elbow. In his other hand he held, half–open, a yellow–covered French novel. Between his lips was a cigarette. A faint shade of something like amusement lent expression to his placid features as he listened to Mr. Copernicus puffing his way up the stairs, followed by Mr. Mitts and Barney. The hands on the clock pointed to eleven. Mr. Quinlan’s attire was appropriate to the hour. He wore only a frayed cotton night–shirt. His other clothes were carelessly disposed about his couch. He waited calmly until his visitors had appeared before him, and then he greeted them with a gracious wave of his hand—an easy gesture that seemed to dismiss Quinlan and announce Chester. “Gentlemen,” he drawled, “you’ll excuse my not gig–gig–getting up to welcome you. Ah, Joseph! I saw you this evening, and I supposed the j–j–jig was up.” Mr. Copernicus was purple and speechless for the better part of a minute. Then he demanded, in a husky whisper: “_Who are you?_” Mr. Chester, with nothing of the Quinlan left about him, waved his hand once more. “Mr. Joseph Mitts is a gentleman of irre–pip–pip–proachable veracity,” he said. “I can kik–kik–confidently confirm any statements he has made about me.” “And why—” Mr. Copernicus had found his voice—“why have you humbugged me in this iniquitous—infamous way?” The late Quinlan gazed at him with blank surprise. “My dear sir, did–did–don’t you see? If I’d told you who I was, you’d have thought I was a did–did–damn fool not to know more than I did. Whereas, don’t you see? you thought I was a did–did–devil of a fellow.” “Get up and dress yourself and get out of here!” said his employer. “The jig, then,” inquired Mr. Dudley Chester, slowly rising, “is did–did–definitely up? No more Fif–Fif–French lessons? No? Well,” he continued, as he leisurely pulled on his trousers, “that’s the kik–kik–cussèd inconsistency. The j–j–jig is up for the gentleman; but when you thought I was a did–did–damn Mick, I was right in the bib–bib–bosom of the blooming family.” “Here are your week’s wages,” said Mr. Copernicus, trembling with rage. “Now, get out!” “Not exactly,” responded the unperturbed sinner: “a ticket to Chicago!” “I’m afraid you had best yield,” whispered Mr. Mitts. “Your family, you know. It wouldn’t do to have this get out.” Mr. Copernicus had a minute of purple rage. Then he handed the money to Mr. Mitts. “Put him on the train,” he said. “There’s one at twelve.” “We can make it if we hurry,” said the obliging Mr. Mitts. “Where’s your lodging–house, Chester?”