On a narrow strip of paper he wrote, “_We have just completed another murder_.” As the train slowed down at Red Hill, he leant out of the window and tossed the pigeon up. “Never trouble trouble, till trouble troubles you.” The distinguished looking person had laid aside his paper. “Excuse me,” he said, and with that he drew off his patent-leather shoes and rested his feet on the window ledge to air them. “Tight?” suggested Teddy politely. “Very,” said the distinguished looking person. “To tell the truth, they’re not mine. I’m too kind-hearted.” He picked up his paper and wriggled his toes in his silk socks. It was difficult to trace the connection between wearing tight shoes and kind-heartedness. “A mystingry,” whispered Ruddy. “Eh! What’s that?” The Roman nose appeared for an instant above _The Pink ’Un_ and the lazy gray eyes twinkled. “I’m wearing ’em easy out of affection for a dear friend. No splendor without pain. I take the pain and leave him the splendor.” Both boys nodded as though his explanation had made his conduct, which had at first seemed unusual, entirely conventional. Teddy drew a pencil from his pocket and commenced to make a surreptitious sketch. If the imposing stranger were anything that he ought not to be, it might come in useful. “What are you doing?” The paper was tossed aside. “Humph! Colossal! If I may, I’ll keep it I’m a black-and-white artist myself.” He narrowed his eyes as if to hide their real expression. “You won’t know my name. I’m what you might call a professional amateur. Could make a fortune at it, but won’t be bothered with the vulgarity of selling.” And then, with an airy wave of his hand, flicking the ash off his cigarette: “Of course I don’t need to.” “Of course not,” said Teddy, with winning frankness. “Of course not,” echoed Ruddy, with a sly intonation, winking at the patent-leather shoes. The stranger, who had been using the seat as a couch, shifted his position and glanced at Ruddy. “My dee-ar boy, I meant that. If you have very affectionate friends and enough of them, you never need to earn money. It was only when I was young--about as young as you are--that I was fool enough to labor.” He pronounced it “laybore.” “Well, I’ve not been fool enough to ’laybore’ yet,” said Ruddy, with sham indignation, as though defending himself from a shameful accusation. “If you do what I do, there’ll be no necessity.” The stranger closed his eyes. “If you cater to the world’s vanity you can live well and do nothing. There’s nothing--absolute--” he yawned widely, “--lutely nothing to prevent you.” They waited for his eyes to open. If he wasn’t mad, he was the possessor of a secret--a secret after which all the world was groping: nothing more nor less than how to fare sumptuously and not to work. But his eyes remained shut. Ruddy spoke. “I wish you’d tell us how.”