"Eh, that so? You don't look like you 'd done much hard work. What do you do?"
"I— I— ah— write," was the confused answer.
Perkins, fortunately, did not notice the confusion. "Oh, ho!" he said: "do you go in for newspaper work?"
"No, not for newspapers."
"Oh, you're an author, a regular out-and-outer. Well, don't you know, I thought you were somehow different from most fellows I've met. I never could see how you authors could stay away in small towns, where you hardly ever see any one, and write about people as you do; but I suppose you get your people from books."
"No, not entirely," replied Brent, letting the mistake go. "There are plenty of interesting characters in a small town. Its life is just what the life of a larger city is, only the scale is smaller."
"Well, if you're on a search for characters, you'll see some to-night that'll be worth putting in your note-book. We'll stop here first."
The place before which they had stopped was surrounded by a high vine-covered lat-
