"Sorry, old scout," says I. "Didn't know you'd dodged in behind. And it's my buy on the eyeglasses." "Sho!" says he. "No great harm done, young man. But them specs did cost me a quarter in Portland, and if you feel like you----" "Sure thing!" says I. "Here's a half--get a good pair this time." "No, Son," says he, "a quarter's all they cost, and Jim Isham never takes more'n his due. Just wait till I git out the change." So I stands there lookin' him over while he unwraps about four yards of fishline from around the neck of a leather money pouch. Odd old Rube he was, straight and lean, and smoked up like a dried herring. "There you be," says he, countin' out two tens and a five. Course, I'd felt better if he'd kept the half. The kale pouch wa'n't so heavy, and from the seedy blue suit and the faded old cap I judged he could use that extra quarter. But somehow I couldn't insist. "All right, Cap," says I. "Next time I turn sudden I'll stick my hand out." I was movin' off when I notices him still standin' sort of hesitatin'. "Well?" I adds. "Can I help?" "You don't happen to know," says he, "of a good eatin' house where it don't cost too all-fired much to git a square meal, do you?" "Why," says I, "I expect over on Eighth-ave., you could----" And then I gets this rash notion of squarin' the account by blowin' him to a real feed. Course, I might be sorry; but he looks so sort of lonesome and helpless that I decides on takin' a chance. "Say, you come with me," says I, "and lemme stack you up against the real thing in Canadian mutton chops." "If it don't cost over twenty-five cents," says he. "It won't," says I, smotherin' a grin. He wa'n't a grafter, anyway, and the only way I could ease his mind on the expense question was to let him hand me a quarter before we went in, and make him think that covered his share. Max, the head waiter, winks humorous as he sees who I'm towin' in; but he gives us a table by a Broadway window and surprises the old boy by pullin' out his chair respectful. "Much obliged, Mister," says Jim Isham. "Much obliged." With that he hangs his old cap careful on the candle shade. It's one of these oldtime blizzard headpieces, with sides that you can turn down over your ears and neck. Must have worn that some constant; for from the bushy eyebrows up he's as white as a piece of chalk, and with the rest of his face so coppery it gives him an odd, skewbald look. I expected a place like Collins's, with all its pictures and rugs and fancy silverware, would surprise him some; but he don't seem at all fussed. He tucks his napkin under his chin natural and gazes around int'rested. He glances suspicious at a wine cooler that's carted by, and when the two gents at the next table are served with tall glasses of ale he looks around as if he was locatin' an exit. Next he digs into an inside pocket, hauls out a paper, spreads it on the table, and remarks: "Let's see, Mister--jest about where are we now?"