“Nonsense! Don’t bring up that thing again.” “Of course it was a trifling matter to you, my boy, but to me it meant all the difference between life and death. I was lost; I should have frozen, for my snowshoes were broken. You came and saved me, God bless you, Craig.” “What are you doing here?” asks the other, as he shows a desire to change the subject, and glancing meaningly at the fez Wycherley wears. The latter chuckles; his disposition seems to be a genial one. “To tell you the truth, Aleck, I’m studying human nature, too. Just now I’m passing through an apprenticeship. I make it an object to spend as I go, and each night I throw away what I have made during the day.” “If you’re the same old rolling stone I knew a year or two ago, that isn’t probably a very hard business,” smiles Aleck, for good-natured Claude was usually in a chronic state of financial collapse, yet he would cheerfully bestow his last nickel in charity. “You’re quite correct; but there are times when it bothers me just what to do with certain sums.” “Indeed! That is news. Glad to hear you have been so lucky. Thinking of starting any hospitals, sanitariums, orphan asylums?” “They’ll all come to-morrow, if fortune is kind,” returns the man with the fez. Craig steals a side look at him, as though wondering whether this is a joke or the other has gone mad. “What has to-day done for you, then?” he asks, bent upon solving the mystery, whereupon Claude deliberately takes out a notebook, turns over the pages, and sighs: “I made a poor investment, which cuts a big figure in the whole, so my profits for the day only amount to the pitiful sum of seventeen thousand, three hundred and eleven.” “Dollars?” exclaims the astonished Aleck. “Why, certainly,” nods the other; “and that is a wretched showing in comparison to some others I could pick out in here,” tapping the wonderful notebook affectionately. The Canadian draws a long puff at his cigar, as though reflecting. Then he turns suddenly upon his companion and says: “I see how it is, my dear fellow; you are running the Midway--it is a little private speculation of yours.” “No, no; I deny the soft impeachment,” returns the Chicagoan, laughing heartily. “At least you own the Ferris wheel? Now don’t deny that.” “I must. True, I took in tickets at the entrance for a time, and even pushed people into the cars, but when I went into this other colossal business I had to give that up. No man could continually put twenty people where ten ought to go, and at the same time do justice to great deals involving _millions_.” “You are right, my boy. But will you kindly relieve my suspense and tell me the nature of this marvelous business.” Wycherley removes his pipe and says laconically: