“And there's no better business for any one than playing with a fair maid.” “He knows that there's a tennis match this afternoon and a dance this evening, and he leaves me,” the girl complained. “I shall have to take a week off and come up here and convince you that no man is fonder of fun and a fair maid,” said Forbes. “I could do it in ten minutes,” I declared. “But you have had practice and experience,” said Forbes. “And you are more supple,” was my answer. “I should hope so,” the girl laughed. “If all men were like Mr. Potter the world would be full of old maids. It took him thirty years to make up his mind to get married.” “No, it took _her_ that long--not me,” I answered, and the arrival of the train saved me from further humiliation. On the way to town I got acquainted with young Forbes, and liked him. He was a big, broad-shouldered athlete, two years out of college. The glow of health and good nature was in his face. His blue eyes twinkled merrily as we sparred for points. He had a full line of convictions, but he didn't pretend to have gathered all the fruit on the tree of knowledge. He was the typical best product of the modern wholesale man factory--strong, modest, self-restrained, well educated, and thinking largely in terms of profit and loss. That is to say, he was sawed and planed and matched and seasoned like ten thousand other young men of his age. His great need had been poverty and struggle and individual experience. If he had had to climb and reach and fall and get up and climb again to secure the persimmon which was now in his hands, he would have had the persimmon and a very rare thing besides, and it's the rare thing that counts. But here I am finding fault with a thoroughly good fellow. It's only to clear his background for the reader, to whose good graces I heartily recommend the young man. His father had left him well off, but he had gone to work on a great business plan, and with rare talent for his task, as it seemed to me. II.--MY INTERVIEW WITH THE PIRATE IT had been a misty morning, with slush in the streets. For hours the great fog-siren had been bellowing to the ships on the sound and breaking into every conversation. “Go slow and keep away!” it screeched, in a kind of mechanical hysterics.