“‘Gee, the old lady wasn’t bluffing,’ he said, in a tone of surprise.

“It was early in the evening and he was properly dressed and looked harmless, so I wasn’t frightened.

“‘Good evening,’ I said in my reserved way.

“‘Gave you my room, did she?’ he asked.

“‘She gave me this one,—­for a consideration.’

“‘Yes, it is mine,’ he said sadly.  ’She has threatened to do it, lo, these many years, but I never believed she would.  Faith in fickle human nature,—­ah, how futile.’

“‘Yes?’

“’Yes.  You see now and then I go off with the boys, and spend my money instead of paying my board, and when I come back I expect my room to be awaiting me.  It always has been.  The old lady said she would rent it the next time, but she had said it so many times!  Well, well, well.  Broke, too.  It is a sad world, isn’t it?  Did you ever pray for death?’

“’No, I did not.  And if you will excuse me, I think perhaps you had better fight it out with the landlady.  I have paid a month’s rent in advance.’

“‘A month’s rent!’ He advanced and shook hands with me warmly before I knew what he was doing.  ’A month in advance.  It is an honor to touch your hand.  Alas, how many moons have waned since I came in personal contact with one who could pay a month in advance.’

“‘The landlady—­’

“’Oh, I am going.  No room is big enough for two.  Lots of fellows room together to save money, but it is too multum in too parvum; I think I prefer to spend the money.  I have never resorted to it, even in my brokest days.  I didn’t leave my pipe here, did I?’

“‘I haven’t seen it,’ I said very coldly.

“’Well, all right.  Don’t get cross about it.  Out into the dark and cold, out into the wintry night, without a cent to have and hold, but landladies are always right.’

“He smiled appealingly but I frowned at him with my most ministerial air.

“‘I am a poet,’ he said apologetically.  ’I can’t help going off like that.  It isn’t a mental aberration.  I do it for a living.’

“I had nothing to say.

“‘My card.’  He handed it to me with a flourish, a neatly engraved one, with the word ‘advertisement’ in the corner.  I should have haughtily spurned it, but I was too curious to know his name.  It was William Canfield Brewer.

“’Well, good night.  May your sleep be undisturbed by my ghost stalking solitary through your slumbers.  May no fumes from my pipe interfere with the violet de parme you represent.  If you want any advertising done, just call on me, William Canfield Brewer.  I write poetry, draw pictures, make up stories, and prove to the absolute satisfaction of the most skeptical public that any article is even better than you say it is.  I command a princely salary,—­but I can’t command it long enough.  Adieu, I go, my lady, fare thee well.’

“‘Good night.’