One afternoon, swinging along Fifth Avenue in his down-town walk,

Samson met Mr. Farbish, who fell into step with him, and began to make

conversation.

"By the way, South," he suggested after the commonplaces had been

disposed of, "you'll pardon my little prevarication the other evening

about having met you at the Manhattan Club?"

"Why was it necessary?" inquired Samson, with a glance of disquieting

directness.

"Possibly, it was not necessary, merely politic. Of course," he

laughed, "every man knows two kinds of women. It's just as well not to

discuss the nectarines with the orchids, or the orchids with the

nectarines."

Samson made no response. But Farbish, meeting his eyes, felt as though

he had been contemptuously rebuked. His own eyes clouded with an

impulse of resentment. But it passed, as he remembered that his plans

involved the necessity of winning this boy's confidence. An assumption

of superior virtue, he thought, came rather illogically from Samson,

who had brought to the inn a young woman whom he should not have

exposed to comment. He, himself, could afford to be diplomatic.

Accordingly, he laughed.

"You mustn't take me too literally, South," he explained. "The life

here has a tendency to make us cynical in our speech, even though we

may be quite the reverse in our practices. In point of fact, I fancy we

were both rather out of our element at Collasso's studio."

At the steps of a Fifth Avenue club, Farbish halted.

"Won't you turn in here," he suggested, "and assuage your thirst?"

Samson declined, and walked on. But when, a day or two later, he

dropped into the same club with George Lescott, Farbish joined them in

the grill--without invitation.

"By the way, Lescott," said the interloper, with an easy assurance

upon which the coolness of his reception had no seeming effect, "it

won't be long now until ducks are flying south. Will you get off for

your customary shooting?"

"I'm afraid not." Lescott's voice became more cordial, as a man's will

whose hobby has been touched. "There are several canvases to be

finished for approaching exhibitions. I wish I could go. When the first

cold winds begin to sweep down, I get the fever. The prospects are

good, too, I understand."

"The best in years! Protection in the Canadian breeding fields is

bearing fruit. Do you shoot ducks, Mr. South?" The speaker included

Samson as though merely out of deference to his physical presence.

Samson shook his head. But he was listening eagerly. He, too, knew

that note of the migratory "honk" from high overhead.




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