The Bridgeport evening farmer., 1914-02-23

wouldn't believe me. Let such minor matters as the truth wait over till to- morrow.''
 "Well, anyhow Bland said, his foot on the top step, i've are sure of one thing-we don't trust each other. I've | got one parting word for you. Don't try to come downstairs tonight I've got gun, and ain't afraid to shoot" He paused. A look of fright passed over his face, for on the floor above they both heard soft footsteps, then a faint click as though door had been gently closed.
 s.This inn," whispered Bland, .has more keys than literary club in aspro- hibftion town. And every one's in use guess. Remember. don't try to come downstairs. I've warned you. Or Ara bella's caston Romeo may be found with bullet in him yet.'
 T shan't forget what you say,'' an- swered MT. Magee. esShaH we look about upstAirsT'
 Bland shook his head
 stNo,'' he said. "Go in and go t0 bed. It's the downstairs tfat-that concerns me. Good nigAt.s He went swiftly down the steps, leaving MT. Magee staring wondering- 1y after him. Like wrath he merged with the shadows below Magee turn ed slowly and entered No. z. A fan tastic film of frost was on the win dows; the inner room was drear and chill. Partially undressing. he lay down on the brass bed and pulled the covers over him.
 At length his mind seemed to- stand still, and there remained of all that amazing evenings pictures but one <~R s.l I,7r who wept-Wept~ only that her smile might be the more dazzling when it flashed behind the tears. with yell low locks, crisped like golden wire 7 murmured MT. Magee. And so he fell asleep VI ess Nssae
 Every morning at 8, when slumber's chains had bound MT. Magee in his New York apartments. he was awak- ened by pompous valet named Geof- frey, whom he shared with the other young men in the building. It was Geoffrey's custom to enter, raise the curtains and speak of the weather in a voice vibrant with feeling, as of something he had prepared himself and was anxious to have MT. Magee try. So, when a rattling noise came to his ear on his first morning at Baldpate inn, MT. Magee breathed sIeepily from the covers, Good morning, GeoHrey.'' But no cheery voice replied in terms of sun, wind or rain. Surprised, MT. Magee sat up in bed. About him the maple wood furniture of suit stood gl1iverfng in the chill of a December morning. Through the door at his left he caught sight of a white tub. into which, he recalled sadly, not even a l Geonrey could coax a glittering drop. | Yes-he was at Baldpate inn. He re- l membered- climb with the dazed l Quimby up the snowy road, the plaint l of the lovelorn baberdasher, the va l garies of the professor with penchant for blonds, the mysterious click of the door latch on the floor above. And last of all7strange that it should have been Iast-a girl in blue corduroy some what darker than her eyes, who wept l amid the stations gloom.
 ssI wonder,'' reflected MT. Magee, staring at the very brassy bars at the foot of his bed, ''what new varia- tions on sec1usion the day win bring l forth ?e'
 Again came the rattling noise that had awakened him. He looked toward | the nearest window, and through an 1 unfrosted corner of the pane he saw the eyes of the newest variation star ing at him in wonder. They were dark eyes and kindly. They spoke a desire to enter.
 Rising from his warm retreat, Mr. Magee took his shivering way across the uncarpeted floor and unfastened the windows catch. From the bluster- ing balcony plump little man stepped inside. He had a market basket on his arm. His face was stranger to razers: his hair to shears.
 Magee dived hastily back under the covers. seWell ?'' he questioned
 "So you're the fellow ?' remarked the little man in awe. He placed the basket on the floor. It appeared to be filled with bromide groceries, such as the most subdued householder carries home.
 (Which felIow?'' asked MT. Magee. I sThe fellow Elijah Quimby told me about explained he of the long brown locks, 'the fellow that's come up to thoughts You're one of the villagers. take it?'' guessed MT. Magee.
 You're dead wrong. I'm no villager My instincts are all in the other direc- tion-away from the crowd. I live ur near the top of Baldpate in little shack I built myself. My names Pc ters, Jake Peters, in the winter. But in the summer, when the inns open and the red and white awnings are out and the band plays in the Casino every night, then Pm the hermit oi Baldpate mountain. come down here and sell picture postcards of myself
 to the ladies'
 MT. Magee appeared overcome with
 mirth.
 "A professional hermit, by the gods!' he cried. Say, I didn't know Bald
 pate mountain was fitted up with al
 the modem Improvements This is z. great luck. Pm an amateur at the
 hermit business. You'll have to teacI