“How many this week, Miss Mary?” asked the watchmaker. A mountain of coarse gray shirts lay upon the floor. “Nearly thirty dozen,” said the young woman cheerfully. “I’ve made almost $4. I’m improving, Mr. Kenwitz. I hardly know what to do with so much money.” Her eyes turned, brightly soft, in the direction of Dan. A little pink spot came out on her round, pale cheek. Kenwitz chuckled like a diabolic raven. “Miss Boyne,” he said, “let me present Mr. Kinsolving, the son of the man who put bread up five years ago. He thinks he would like to do something to aid those who where inconvenienced by that act.” The smile left the young woman’s face. She rose and pointed her forefinger toward the door. This time she looked Kinsolving straight in the eye, but it was not a look that gave delight. The two men went down Varick Street. Kenwitz, letting all his pessimism and rancor and hatred of the Octopus come to the surface, gibed at the moneyed side of his friend in an acrid torrent of words. Dan appeared to be listening, and then turned to Kenwitz and shook hands with him warmly. “I’m obliged to you, Ken, old man,” he said, vaguely—“a thousand times obliged.” “Mein Gott! you are crazy!” cried the watchmaker, dropping his spectacles for the first time in years. Two months afterward Kenwitz went into a large bakery on lower Broadway with a pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses that he had mended for the proprietor. A lady was giving an order to a clerk as Kenwitz passed her. “These loaves are ten cents,” said the clerk. “I always get them at eight cents uptown,” said the lady. “You need not fill the order. I will drive by there on my way home.” The voice was familiar. The watchmaker paused. “Mr. Kenwitz!” cried the lady, heartily. “How do you do?” Kenwitz was trying to train his socialistic and economic comprehension on her wonderful fur boa and the carriage waiting outside. “Why, Miss Boyne!” he began. “Mrs. Kinsolving,” she corrected. “Dan and I were married a month ago.” XI THE THING’S THE PLAY Being acquainted with a newspaper reporter who had a couple of free passes, I got to see the performance a few nights ago at one of the popular vaudeville houses. One of the numbers was a violin solo by a striking-looking man not much past forty, but with very gray thick hair. Not being afflicted with a taste for music, I let the system of noises drift past my ears while I regarded the man.