I said: “To those who are familiar with your work there is something that makes you just the man to pick up for a quarter of an hour.” His blank expression showed that I had made some mistake. He is a tall, portly man, and he seemed alarmed at the prospect of being picked up. A fall would be serious. “I don’t quite get your meaning, but I suppose you refer to the men about town who stray in for a few minutes.” It seemed a queer way to express it, but I replied: “Oh, yes; just to browse. You repay browsing, Mr. Cavendish.” He smiled reminiscently. “Speaking of browsing, when I was told to go ahead on Richelieu, I browsed a long time in the British Museum getting up data.” [Illustration] What, a painter, after all? I forgot all else he had said, and told him I thought he was as happy as Sargent or Whistler. “Yes; I don’t let little things worry me much. Sometimes the paint gives out at a critical time in a small town.” Good heaven! Why should the paint give out in a small town at a critical time? _Was_ he a painter, after all? Could he be a traveling sign-painter? “Does it bother you to work up in the air?” “That’s an original way of putting it,” said he, with a genial laugh. “To play to the grand stand, as it were. Oh, no; a man must do more or less of that to succeed.” I was shocked. “You surely don’t believe in desecrating nature! Sermons in stones, if you will, but not sermons _on_ stones. You wouldn’t letter the Palisades if you had a chance, would you?” He edged away from me, and said: “Oh, no, I wouldn’t letter the Palisades, although I dare say my man of affairs would be glad to.” Then I gave up. His man of affairs! He must be a gentleman of leisure to have a man of affairs. And then up came Ticknor Fields, the dramatic critic, and said: “How do you do, Mr. Cavendish? Let me congratulate you upon your success as Richelieu. At last a successor to Booth has been found.” I went and drank a glass of iced water. My throat was dry. IX INSTINCT SUPPLIED TO HENS A company has just been formed in New Jersey for the purpose of supplying instinct to hens. Such well-known farmers as Frank R. Stockton, Russell Sage, and Bishop Potter are stockholders in it, and if filling a long-felt want is all that is needed, the success of the company is already assured. No one who has ever dabbled in hens needs to be told that the gallinaceous birds have no instinct whatever. Some have blind luck, but a hen with instincts in good working order would be an anomaly. I visited Mr. Stockton at his extensive farm in New Jersey in order to find out what I could about the project. I found him in a frock-coat and overalls, training a squash-vine up a maple-tree. He greeted me cordially, and asked me to come and see his tomato-trenches. He also showed me quite an extensive area covered with birch poles for his radishes to climb on. He was very urbane, and willingly told me all about the company.