For the most part his gaze plunged far into virgin realms of meditation. It was only after several reminding coughs that I succeeded in recalling him from afield; and even then the deeply thoughtful look remained to estrange his face from me.
"Say, Cal, do you believe in powers?"
"What kind of powers?"
"Well, I don't know—every kind—just powers—mystic, occult powers."
"I don't care to commit myself without more details," I answered with a caution that seemed to be needed.
"Well, sir, that woman has 'em—she has powers—she certainly has. There is something in her eye that paralyzes the will; you look at her and you say yes to anything she suggests."
"For example—"
"Well, I've just agreed with her that the Argus isn't what it ought to be."
I gasped. This indeed savored of the blackest magic.
"What did she do to you?"
"Just looked at me, that's all,—and took it for granted."
"Heavens! You're shivering!"
"You wait—wait till she talks to you! She's promised to give me a little book," he went on dejectedly, "'One Hundred Common Errors in Writing and Speaking,' and she says the split infinitive is a crime in this nineteenth century. But, say, this
