_I read some of your articles In the "Future Age." I think they are great, but don't understand them very good. I am only a poor boy without much education. But I like to think about things. I want to force the capitalists to give us a square deal. I want to learn more about your ideas. Will you let me come to see you? Or tell me where you are going to speak next time._ _Yours respectfully, Henry Cassels._ The druggist gave his permission for Jack to receive an answer at his store, so he gave that as his address. He sent the letter in the care of the _Future Age_ magazine. "There's one line started," he said to himself, as he let it fall in the box. 14 Another thing that Jack had in mind was the necessity of disguising himself. Being an entire stranger to the art of make-up, he required instruction. Ralph, their private bell-boy at the Madagascar, had seemed the likeliest person to apply to in such a case. Leaving the hotel that morning, Jack had said to him carelessly: "I'm invited to a masquerade. Where's the best place to go for an outfit? I want something better than the ordinary costumer." "Why don't you try Harmon Evers?" was the reply. "All the theatrical people go to him. He's the greatest make-up artist in New York." "Where's his place?" "Twenty-ninth street, just east of the Avenue." Jack now bent his steps in that direction. He discovered a neat little shop on the street level with a sign reading: HARMON EVERS, WIGS AND THEATRICAL MAKEUP. In each of the two paneled show-windows one marvelous wig was displayed on its stand, nothing else. The interior was discreetly curtained from view. Opening the door, the pungent odor of grease paints greeted Jack's nostrils. Inside was as neat as out. There was a showcase setting forth cosmetics, and a counter beyond with another wig or two on stands. Back of the counter were tiers of drawers neatly labeled. The wall outside the counter was filled by a collection of small engravings of historical personages with especial regard to their hirsute appendages. Away back in the shop were several curtained alcoves for trying on. Behind the counter sat a little, dumpy old lady befrilled and befrizzed, who suggested an erstwhile favorite of the boards now retired. Her large, faded eyes fell on Jack with a startled look, which however instantly disappeared in the polite saleswoman, as she inquired what he wished. It appeared that Mr. Evers was engaged with a customer. This customer presently issued from one of the alcoves, a dandy of the old school who was obviously much beholden to the wig-maker's art. Evers followed at his heels, rubbing his hands, and proudly surveying his work. Jack had the impression of a stout, rubicund little man of middle-age, clean-shaven and bald as an egg. True to the custom of tradesmen generally, he neglected his trade in his own person.