explained Andreas seriously. "Of course it doesn't look like much yet-not what I want it to, I mean. The thing's been done thousands of times, I know, but if I can get what I want to into it it'll be worth while doing again. It's a great chance for me."

"Fine magnifique!" declared Coley. "Was that old Hooley posing for you?"

"Yes. I'm using him for the oldest of the Wise Men. In a way he's going to be the center of the whole thing if I can put over what I want to. Old Melchior is the guy's name, you know. Say, where has Hooley disappeared to? Oh, Hoo-ley!"

At his shout the model, a short, wizened, heavily bearded Frenchman, appeared from the back room. Gathering his robe more closely about him, he gazed at the young men as Cæsar might have gazed at beggars.

"You called?" he inquired haughtily. "Yeh," said Andreas shortly. "Sorry to bother you, Hooley."

"Hullo, King," called Coley cheerily. "How is every little thing at the palace?"

Hooley bowed but made no reply. He had been a model for years. If the artists for whom he worked knew his real name they never had the energy to use it. He was a good type and took poses well, but he had one great drawback: he claimed to be the rightful king of France and he was never reticent on the subject.

He took up an ash-tray that had been a finger-bowl at Shanley's before Coley confiscated it, and adjusted his feet in the circles chalked on the floor.

"Make you think of the old days at Versailles, eh, Hooley?" said Coley. "Prime

ministers and chamberlains rolling your cigarettes for you, and all that sort of thing?" "Nix-nix!" Andreas muttered, flashing a warning glance at Coley. "All right, Hooley!" and he returned again to his easel. Coley retreated into his little room. He was a plump young man, with ruddy cheeks, a splendid mop of hair, a wealth of optimism, and the idea that because he had been named Coleridge he was a poet. He wrote moving-picture scenarios just often enough to keep in funds, and devoted his spare time to loafing, scribbling verses, and working up romances. He was very susceptible. Over his typewriter table hung a framed photograph of a blonde young lady. Between that photograph and the backingboard of the frame were the faces of other young ladies-two brunettes and one with red hair. Coley didn't consider himself fickle, but he confessed to being-alert.

When he had changed to the sneakers which served him for house-slippers Coley strolled out into the studio. Feeling very light and springy in the rubber soles, he began to execute fantastic dance steps.

"Care for that, Hooley?" he asked, as he pirouetted near the model. "Kinda poor, eh?" and he kicked over Hooley's head.

Hooley, who was dilating as usual on the subject of his lost throne, ducked in alarm, and for the instant lost his pose.

"Cut it out!" Andreas growled at Coley. Coley skipped to the front of the room and perched on the window-seat.

"Sorry, old boy! My error!" And his burlesque English accent was really Coley's equivalent for an apology.

He was always forgetting that Andreas disliked to be disturbed when he was working from a model. Coley-who never had to be urged to come out and play-could not understand why his friend took his work so seriously. "Life is short," "We're young only once," and "Why be a slave? You're a long time dead," were the simple maxims that summed up life for him. But for all that, he cared more for Andreas's respect than for that of anybody else he knew, and frequently in the midst of a protracted loafing spell he was shamed into simulating industry. This he called "going through the motions," which meant sitting at his desk, pencil in hand, and swearing softly, or pacing the floor, pulling his hair and scowling fiercely at an evasive plot.

Andreas never showed that he saw

through this little deception. To Coley and to everybody else he seemed a simple chap, and a little serious. He had entered college with the idea that he wanted to be a lawyer. With an LL. B. he opened a tiny office, but a year of it convinced him that he was too young and energetic to become a hermit, so he left the law flat and went on the road selling olive-oil. A veil must be drawn over this period. Eventually he drifted into the Art Students' League in New York. There, conscious that he was approaching his proper niche, he worked like a fiend, and in a year and a half was ready for the garret phase of his novitiate. In due time he left amateurishness behind in the garret and, a full-fledged illustrator, boldly signed a lease on a studio on the south side of Washington Square.

As might be expected, he was not, while working, in a mood to discuss with his model the pros and cons of a claim to the French throne. And so Hooley, who on the whole preferred signs of listening in his auditor, addressed his monologue to Coley.

"So many times I have heard my grandfather, the Prince, say to my father: 'Louis, I am no longer young. Soon I shall die, disappoint'; but you, my son, must never forget you are a

"A Hooley?" interrupted Coley gravely. Hooley rolled his eyes fiercely.

"No-no-no-no!" he cried. "This Hoo-lee -it is not my father's name. It is not my name. My grandfather the Prince, he would cause his tombstone to move if he should know-Hoo-lee-Hoo-lee! Agh!"

"Take a rest, Hooley," said Andreas, seeing he had lost the pose.

Hooley placed the dish he had been holding on a chair and worked the cramps out of his legs and arms by a few quick calisthenics.

"Say," cried Coley, "was he really a sohelp-me prince? Pay his dues regularly and attend all the meetings?"

"Eh?"

"Was he a real prince?"

Overwhelmed with indignation, Hooley made three or four false starts, then sputtered: "Ah! If I might show you my papers!"

"Did you ever hear of my father, the President?" queried Coley gravely. "He was a great writer. He wrote the Declaration of Independence and 'Uncle Tom's Cabin.' Ah! He was a bold man with the

cutlass. He would toss a thick book in the air and slash it in halves before it fell. Ah! how the old gentleman loved to show his skill with the cutlass! In the orchard he would with one deft stroke cut the core from an apple, leaving the apple still hanging from its twig. And I have seen him strike an arm off a footman for playing a trombone on Sunday. He used to pitch for the Boston Nationals when he was a young man, my father, the President. One day he said to me: 'My son, when I was your age I faced the west and threw a baseball high in the air. My days here are numbered, but I want you to promise me that ten years from now you will go to Denver and wait for that ball to come down!' He was a great man, my father, the President

Indignant comprehension was slowly dawning on Hooley's face. Suddenly he flew into a rage.

"Agh! Your father, the President!" he cried, waving his fist under Coley's nose. "You are making jest with me, young man! Me, a descendant

"Don't get sore, Hooley; he was only kidding!" broke in Andreas.

"Ye-eh-I wouldn't hurt your feelings for the world," said Coley contritely.

Hooley glared at him for an instant, then he tore off the robe and caught up his coat. "I shall go!" he declared. "I refuse to be insult'!"

Andreas hastily dropped his palette and brushes and tried to calm Hooley down. Coley joined him and apologized beautifully. But Hooley stuck to his grievance and refused to be mollified, and at last, seeing it was a hopeless task, Andreas paid him for the time he had worked. Hooley departed, banging the door behind him.

II

THE NEW MELCHIOR

"Exit Hooley, on heels," said Coley soberly. "Gee, that's a shame, Andreas! Throws you out of a morning's work. That's my style again. Every time I open my mouth I bite somebody."

Andreas made no reply. He walked slowly to the big open window and looked out over the Square. The morning was the first instalment of a fine, high, August day. A rain the night before had washed the

dust from trees and grass, and, all drenched with sunshine, the park was fresh and green against the old red-brick houses on the north.

"Say, let me take a glim at the other two stunts you're working on, will you?" asked Coley, eager to be placating.

Andreas pointed to two canvases stacked against the wall. Coley turned them face out and, squatting on his heels before them, delivered his judgment.

"Say-this is going to be swell, this one of the shepherds. Good composition, Abe! You've got your nerve with you to make that hill so big. Who are the gents stepping down the pike in this other one?"

"The Wise Men again, on their way to Bethlehem. You see, I'm using them twice, and I'm sort of specializing on old man. Melchior. I've got an idea I can make him carry the burden of both pictures, especially the stable one. The deuce of it is, getting the right feeling into him."

Coley straightened up and walked over to the canvas on the easel.

"Maybe it's just as well you got rid of Hooley," he remarked, after scrutinizing it for some minutes. "He isn't the man you

"Well-not exactly-but he would have done

"Nope. He hasn't the right kind of foliage. He's got a bomb-thrower's beardyou want a lad with a fine, long, bushy thicket from his eyes to the middle button of his vest. The whiskers are the whole thing, Androcles. It can't be done without the proper shrubbery."

Andreas took up his palette and began to paint in a section of the stable wall. Coley inserted his left hand in his pistol pocket and, gesturing grandly with his right, declaimed:

"Speaking of whiskers-My friends, there are several reasons for whiskers, such aser-laziness, egotism, weak chins, the desire or the necessity for a disguise, and industrial conditions.

"Under the first head comes the Spanishmoss style of horticulture, and the best specimens are found in rural communities. Hermits are in this class. The second class -er-the second! When a man thinks he has cause to be proud of something he has in his safe, garage, or cerebellum, he advertises his pride by sowing his chops in winter wheat. Small-town bankers, inventors, and

village oracles are found in this division. Whiskers raised for the purpose of defiance and those put forth to scare the wife must be mentioned at this point. The roots of these herbs are all fastened in vanity.

"Now, then, for the incognito canto. In our little world are many men who for personal reasons see fit to hide. When they can go into retreat, all well and good. But the majority of males have to carry their hiding-places around with them. Hence whiskers, which in this case are composed of two parts fear and one part hair. Often when I encounter some mobile underbrush I look to see if the man lurking behind it is an escaped convict or a defeated candidate for alderman. The weak-chinned guys are found in this division. The last chapter, industrial conditions, refers to barbers' strikes Aw! flap your ears, Andreas-just once, to show you're listening!"

"Eh? What'd you say?" asked Andreas, frowning slightly as he stared at Coley. "You didn't hear a word of my little spooch, did you?"

"No," frankly.

"I thought not. You look as though your top floor had been sublet for the season.' Andreas dropped his brushes and palette on the table.

"I've got to get hold of a model, Coleythat's what's worrying me."

Coley had staved it off as long as he could the reckoning had to come. The easiest thing was to try to be useful. He hurried a thick little ledger down from its shelf and began to flip through its pages.

"Let's see what the rogues' gallery has to offer," he cried with his most convincing optimism. "Here we are" and he began to read the notations Andreas had jotted down in it: "Julio di Morgano, toothless, emaciated, scraggly white beard-miser or old-farmer type. Died-' well, that lets him out. Here's Martin Binney-'old man, hatchet face, white clipped beard' Say here you are! I'll bet he's just the boy. Listen! Joseph Dickinson-about sixtyfive, looks older-tall, slightly stooped, fine white Walt Whitman beard, aristocratic, dignified, quiet

"Let's see!" Andreas took the book from him and went on reading. 'Patriarch, oid astrologer or nut inventor type. Fair clothes. Phone drug-store, Gramercy 56428; they will send messenger. Do not mention posing when phoning.' "I re

member him-he might be just the man. Gramercy

"Don't mention posing when phoning, eh? What's the idea?"

"Gramercy 56428-Huh? Oh, I don't know. Gramercy

He hurried into Brackett's room, where the telephone was, called up the drug-store, and delivered his message. Finally Mr. Dickinson, summoned by the drug-store's ton-footed messenger, agreed to call at the studio within the hour.

Andreas returned to the front room, vastly relieved and chanting something about love being like something else.

Old Mr. Dickinson arrived well within the hour, and at sight of him Andreas's spirits went soaring. In spite of his long white hair and beard there was still something young in his face far younger than Hooley-giving him a look of mystery that made Andreas actually gloat. It was a fleeting quality that came for an instant and then hid itself again in a tired, age-old look which suggested æons of tramping over the earth, seeking vainly for the answer to an endless riddle. He was the living embodiment of the Melchior Andreas wanted to paint.

"Could you give me all your time till the job is done?" asked Andreas, coming to the end of his questioning. "It ought to be good for at least three weeks."

"I shall be glad to give you first claim on my time," said Mr. Dickinson.

"Fine-fine! Can you begin right now?" "Very well."

Andreas had been working for an hour when Coley, who had been taking a nap, awoke, furry-mouthed and foggy. He strolled out into the studio, yawning and blinking.

"Mr. Dickinson-Mr. Harkness," said Andreas briefly.

Coley essayed something pleasant about the nice weather, inspecting the model at first lazily and then with a quickened interest. Mr. Dickinson's replies were polite but not eager, and he attended strictly to his business of posing without even a glance at Coley. Coley studied him for a moment and then went over to a shelf that held several large letter-files. This was Andreas's morgue, and contained illustrations and covers clipped from magazines. With only a vague memory of what he was looking for, Coley began going through its contents. An