"Stow that," called MacHugh, from his easel. He was working on a country corner picture, a group of farmers before a country post office. "You don't want to break up this shack, do you?" Both of these men were fond of Eugene. They found him inspiring, helpful, always intensely vigorous and apparently optimistic. "I don't want to break up any shack. But haven't I a right to get married?" "I vote no, by God!" said Smite emphatically. "You'll never go out of here with my consent. Peter, are we going to stand for anything like that?" "We are not," replied MacHugh. "We'll call out the reserves if he tries any game like that on us. I'll prefer charges against him. Who's the lady, Eugene?" "I bet I know," suggested Smite. "He's been running up to Twenty-sixth Street pretty regularly." Joseph was thinking of Miriam Finch, to whom Eugene had introduced both him and MacHugh. "Nothing like that, surely," inquired MacHugh, looking over at Eugene to see if it possibly could be so. "It's all true, fellers," replied Eugene, "--as God is my judge. I'm going to leave you soon." "You're not really talking seriously, are you, Witla?" inquired Joseph soberly. "I am, Joe," said Eugene quietly. He was studying the perspective of his sixteenth New York view,--three engines coming abreast into a great yard of cars. The smoke, the haze, the dingy reds and blues and yellows and greens of kicked about box cars were showing with beauty--the vigor and beauty of raw reality. "Soon?" asked MacHugh, equally quietly. He was feeling that touch of pensiveness which comes with a sense of vanishing pleasures. "I think some time in October, very likely," replied Eugene. "Jesus Christ, I'm sorry to hear that," put in Smite. He laid down his brush and strolled over to the window. MacHugh, less expressive in extremes, worked on medatively. "When'd you reach that conclusion, Witla?" he asked after a time. "Oh, I've been thinking it over for a long time, Peter," he returned. "I should really have married before if I could have afforded it. I know how things are here or I wouldn't have sprung this so suddenly. I'll hold up my end on the rent here until you get someone else." "To hell with the rent," said Smite. "We don't want anyone else, do we, Peter? We didn't have anyone else before." Smite was rubbing his square chin and contemplating his partner as if they were facing a catastrophe. "There's no use talking about that," said Peter. "You know we don't care about the rent. Do you mind telling us who you're going to marry? Do we know her?" "You don't," returned Eugene. "She's out in Wisconsin. It's the one who writes the letters. Angela Blue is her name." "Well, here's to Angela Blue, by God, say I," said Smite, recovering his spirits and picking up his paint brush from his board to hold aloft. "Here's to Mrs. Eugene Witla, and may she never reef a sail to a storm or foul an anchor, as they say up Nova Scotia way."