mayhem or murder? Not me! That's better. Now you can approach and greet me like little gentlemen."
He dropped his mallet and they gathered about him.
"Explain yourself," said Corbell. "Where were you last month?"
"East."
"East! Poor old devil. What did you do that for?"
"Couldn't do it by mail. But it paid. Have a drink."
"Wise man that came out of the East," chirped Shotwell Sheridan, and then looked surprised when they burst into mingled laughter and applause.
"Out of the mouths of babes—he actually doesn't know he did it," remarked the stranger, dryly.
After a time, out of the press, Frank Moore emerged and sat on the edge of the table next Kenneth. He nodded in so kindly a fashion that Kenneth felt encouraged to question him.
"That?" answered Frank, surprised. "Don't you know him? That's Gordon Carlson."
"Why!" cried Kenneth startled, "I thought he was a poet."
Frank turned to him gravely, his usual air of dry raillery falling from him.
"He is a poet, son, make no mistake in that. Have you never read any of his stuff? No? Well, you're the only man here who hasn't. Get you a set of them. They're good he stuff, what a man can bite on. Lord! but he can do it. Hunt up one called The Dogie. That'll put hair on your chest. And if you like the pretties read The Meadow Lark."
Kenneth could not adjust so quickly. He looked absolutely bewildered. Moore chuckled.
"I know his wife—I dined at his house the other evening," Kenneth managed at last.
The dry quizzical look returned to Moore's face. He questioned Kenneth further; and at last lifted up his voice above the din.
"Gordy!" he called. "Gordy, come here!"
The poet disentangled himself and sauntered over, grinning pleasantly.
"I want Mr. Boyd to meet you," said Moore. "Now look
