The Margrave, still with a gloomy air, held out his hand. “I cannot express my regret,” he said, sadly. “Never before have I found myself unable to assist in some way. ‘What kind of a hen lays the longest? It is a baffling problem. There is a hen, I believe, called the Plymouth Rock that—” “Cut it out,” said the young man. “The Caliph trade is a mighty serious one. I don’t suppose you’d even see anything funny in a preacher’s defense of John D. Rockefeller. Well, good night, Your Nibs.” From habit the Margrave began to fumble in his pockets. He drew forth a card and handed it to the young man. “Do me the favor to accept this, anyhow,” he said. “The time may come when it might be of use to you.” “Thanks!” said the young man, pocketing it carelessly. “My name is Simmons.” Shame to him who would hint that the reader’s interest shall altogether pursue the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen Quigg. I am indeed astray if my hand fail in keeping the way where my peruser’s heart would follow. Then let us, on the morrow, peep quickly in at the door of Hildebrant, harness maker. Hildebrant’s 200 pounds reposed on a bench, silver-buckling a raw leather martingale. Bill Watson came in first. “Vell,” said Hildebrant, shaking all over with the vile conceit of the joke-maker, “haf you guessed him? ‘Vat kind of a hen lays der longest?’” “Er—why, I think so,” said Bill, rubbing a servile chin. “I think so, Mr. Hildebrant—the one that lives the longest— Is that right?” “Nein!” said Hildebrant, shaking his head violently. “You haf not guessed der answer.” Bill passed on and donned a bed-tick apron and bachelorhood. In came the young man of the Arabian Night’s fiasco—pale, melancholy, hopeless. “Vell,” said Hildebrant, “haf you guessed him? ‘Vat kind of a hen lays der longest?’” Simmons regarded him with dull savagery in his eye. Should he curse this mountain of pernicious humor—curse him and die? Why should— But there was Laura. Dogged, speechless, he thrust his hands into his coat pockets and stood. His hand encountered the strange touch of the Margrave’s card. He drew it out and looked at it, as men about to be hanged look at a crawling fly. There was written on it in Quigg’s bold, round hand: “Good for one roast chicken to bearer.” Simmons looked up with a flashing eye. “A dead one!” said he. “Goot!” roared Hildebrant, rocking the table with giant glee. “Dot is right! You gome at mine house at 8 o’clock to der party.” XVI COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON There are no more Christmas stories to write. Fiction is exhausted; and newspaper items, the next best, are manufactured by clever young journalists who have married early and have an engagingly pessimistic view of life. Therefore, for seasonable diversion, we are reduced to very questionable sources—facts and philosophy. We will begin with—whichever you choose to call it.