Speaking of odd characters, Wetmore had ‘em in the old days—in numbers. In truth, this assertion takes in just about everyone, except of course Thee and Me—that is, if Thee are still living. The odd characters dominating this story were Mr. O. Bates, Mr. Peter Shuemaker, and Mr. Jim Riley. But first, an opening paragraph introducing a fourth character that shall be nameless—that is, in spelled out letters. I think I shall call my man Mr. June, and guarantee that I have not missed his real name more than thirty days. Also, he had a brother in the business, and the firm-name was June Bros.—only this is one month away from it, in the springtime. Mr. June came into my printing office to arrange for some advertising—and also to get a load of fire insurance. I wrote fire insurance on the side. He was bringing a stock of clothing from his store in Atchison, and putting it in the Bates grocery store below the printing office, in the Bleisener block. Mr. June inquired of me about our fire fighting facilities, and as to whether or not we had waterworks. When I told him we had no waterworks and practically no fire protection, he almost let his portly Jewish self fall off the chair. He promised, “The first thing you should have waterworks when I come.” I told Mr. June that he was moving in with a man who had the agency for a sure-shot fire fighting hand grenade. This seemed to hit him a little off guard—but he rallied, and said he would investigate. It is presumed that his investigation was satisfactory. He moved in right away. Also, he might have heard about Mr. O. Bates’ ineffective demonstration with his hand grenades. They had “fizzled” on him a while back. The clothing stock had been in the building only about sixty days when a mysterious fire occurred at 11:45, in the night—old time. It started in the oil room under the stairs leading up to my office. I was working late that night, with a shaded coal oil lamp on my desk. When I looked away from my work, I was startled by a solid wall of smoke which had come up through a stovepipe hole in the rear end of the room and stood only a few feet away from my desk. Alex Hamel had been working with me, but he had left the office some time before that. Also, Myrtle Mercer had been working that night, and I had gone out to take her home—leaving the office in total darkness while I was away.