It was blocked by what appeared to be a long cylindrical bar, some two or three feet in diameter. Covered with burlap, it ran from a motor truck, in which one end still rested, toward the entrance to that part of Creed & Creed’s establishment that lay slightly lower than the pavement. It was a wide entrance, after which came two or three broad, shallow steps, and then a cavern which was evidently a storehouse. Two men were tugging at the long object, the one big, dark, brawny, clad in overalls, and equal to the work, the other a little elf of an old man, nattily dressed for the street, wearing a high soft felt hat, possibly in the hope of making himself look taller. A gray mustache that sprang outward in a semi-circle did not conceal a truculent mouth, though it smothered his wrathful expletives. That he had once been agile I could easily guess, but now his poor old joints were stiff from age or disuse. It was also clear that he was lending a hand to an irksome task because of a shortage of labor. While the younger man—he was about my own age—could manage his end easily enough, the old one tugged desperately at his, finally letting it drop. "Gr-r-r-r!" The growl was that of an irascible man too angry to be articulate. If the thread of flame ever led me, it was then. Without a minute’s hesitation, I picked up the dropped end of the cylinder, with no explanation beyond the words, "Let me have a try," and presently I was finding my way down the steps and into the cavern. "Chuck it there, on top o’ thim," my companion ordered, and our cylinder lay as one of a pile of similar cylinders, which I could see from the labels to have been shipped from India. "There’s eight or tin more of thim things," the big fellow was beginning. "Is that the Floater?" I asked in a hurried undertone, as the little man hobbled down the steps and made his way toward us in the semi-darkness. "He sure is, and some damn light floater at that." Before I could analyze this reply the Floater himself stood in front of me. "Who are you?" he demanded, sharply. "Do you mean my name?" "I don’t care a damn about your name. What business had you to pick up that rug?" "Only the business of wanting to help. I could see it wasn’t a gentleman’s job—and—and I—I thought you might take me on." He danced with indignation. "Take you on? Take you on? What do you mean by that?" "You see, sir, it was this way. I’ve just run up from the Intelligence where I heard a fellow gassing about"—I varied the story from that which I had heard at Miss Bryne’s—"about being kicked out of here." "Was he a gabby sort of a guy?" my big colleague inquired. "That would describe him exactly; and so I thought if I could reach here in time, before you’d had a chance to get any one else—" "Chance to get any one else?" the little man snarled. "I can go out into the street and shovel ’em in by the cartload. Dirt, I call ’em!"