“Come, this is very unlike you, my dear fellow, to keep one in suspense so long. If there’s a story back of it all, let’s have it. You always found me a sympathetic listener. Come, wet your lips with a mug of this French cider, served by a divinity in wooden shoes, and then I’ll listen to your tale of woe.” When this ceremony has been completed, they saunter toward the great Ferris wheel near by, which continues to revolve, its electric-lighted arch spanning the heavens, the most remarkable object in this feast of wonders. “Now, tell me what you mean by a 'goner.’ If your plans carry, you ought to be happy, Claude.” “True, true; but you see I’m now thirty-three, and I’ve been _so_ free from care. It will be a tremendous thing for me to assume the responsibility for another,” sighs the Chicagoan. “Ah, I see! you intend taking a partner.” “For weal or woe,” groaning. “Not get married, my boy?” “I’m afraid there’s some truth in it, though the matter rests on certain conditions. Do you know, it worries me considerably?” “I should think it would. You have been a regular Bohemian, living from hand to mouth, always cheerful and contented. Now you will have to turn over a new leaf and go to work.” “Perhaps so; but somehow you’ve got the cart before the horse. It has happened before now that the wife has supported the husband.” “Wycherley, I didn’t think that of you.” “Well,” resumes the other with a little laugh, “I suppose I’d have my hands full looking after her stocks and bonds, as a sort of agent or manager. That is one reason I’ve devoted myself to the markets so assiduously of late--ever since the subject has been broached, in fact.” “Then the lady is--ahem--very wealthy?” “Im--_mensely_ so.” “Accept my congratulations, Wycherley. May you----” “Hold on, Aleck, my boy; it isn’t all settled yet.” “Father object?” “I’m not bothering much about him.” “Then you mean the day hasn’t been set. That’s a difficulty easily overcome, my boy.” The retired Thespian gives a melo-dramatic groan. “Confound it all! thanks to this modesty on my part, though I’ve seen the dear girl dozens of times, I’ve never dared address her.” Craig remains silent. In his mind he is resolving the question of his friend’s sanity. He has known him for a jolly dog in times gone by, but his eccentricities as revealed on this occasion certainly stamp him the most astonishing and original fellow Craig has ever met. “See here, Wycherley, you’re bent on muddling me up to-night. Explain this puzzle. How is it you are bent on marrying a girl to whom, as you confess, you have never even been introduced?” he finally demands somewhat shortly, as if a suspicion has flashed across his brain that the other may be guying him--Craig has had previous acquaintance with such practical jokes as Americans love to play. “Oh, he will fix all that!” returns Claude, knocking the ashes from his pipe, with a manner that speaks of remarkable _sang froid_.