Course, we get all kinds in our buildin'; but when the lady voice culturist on the top floor sublets her studio for the summer to this freak I thought we'd gone from bad to worse. And she even has the nerve to leave the key with me, sayin' Mr. Ham would call for it in the course of a week or so. [Illustration: He sidles up to the desk and proceeds to make some throaty noises.] We'd enjoyed about ten days of peace too, with no bloodcurdlin' sounds floatin' down the light shaft, and I was hopin' maybe the subtenant had renigged, when one mornin' the front office door opens easy, and in slips this face herbage exhibit. It's no scattered, hillside crop, either, but a full blown Vandyke. When he'd got through growin' the alfalfa, though, his pep seemed to give out, and the rest of him was as wispy as a schoolgirl. He sidles up to the desk, where I have my heels elevated restful, and proceeds to make some throaty noises behind his hand. I'm just readin' how Tesreau pulled out of a bad hole in the seventh with two on bases; but I breaks away long enough to glance over the top of the paper. "Go on, shoot it," says I. "I--I'm very sorry," says he, "but--but I am Mr. Ham." "Never mind apologizin'," says I. "Maybe it ain't all your fault. After the key, ain't you?" "Yes, thank you," says he. "Eggleston K., I suppose?" says I. "Oh, yes," says he. "Here you are, then, Eggy," says I, reachin' into a pigeonhole and producin' it. "What's your instrument of torture, the xylophone?" "I--I beg pardon?" says he. "Come now," says I, "don't tell me you're a trombone fiend!" "Oh, I see," says he. "No, no, I--I'm not a musician." "Shake, Eggy!" says I, reachin' out my hand impulsive. "And I don't care how many cubist pictures you paint up there so long as you ain't noisy about it." He fingers his soft hat nervous, smiles sort of embarrassed, and remarks, "But--but I'm not an artist either, you know." "Well, well!" says I. "Two misses, and still in the air. Is it anything you can speak of in public?" "Why," says he, "I--I've said very little about it, as a matter of fact, but--but I am doing a little research work in--in anthropology." "Good night!" says I. "Mixin' things up that's liable to blow the roof off, ain't it?" "Why, no," says he, starin' at me puzzled. "It's merely studying racial characteristics, making comparisons, and so on. Incidentally, I--I'm writing a book, I suppose." "Oh!" says I. "Authoring? Well, there's no law against it, and ink is cheap. Go to it, Eggy! Top floor, first door to your left." And that seems to be the finish of the Ham incident. All was peaceful in the light shaft,--no squeaky high C's, no tump-tump-tump on the piano: just the faint tinkle of a typewriter bell now and then to remind us that Eggy was still there. Once in awhile I'd pass him on the stairs, and he'd nod bashful but friendly and then scuttle by like a rabbit.