Quin | Page 7

the
flattering attention of his host, "my people were all missionaries. Most
of them died off before I was fourteen, and I was shipped back to
America to go to school. I didn't hold out very long, though. After two
years in high school I ran away and joined the navy."
"And since then you have been a soldier of fortune, eh? No cares, no
responsibilities. Free to roam the wide world in search of adventure."
Quin studied the end of his cigarette.

"That ain't so good as it sounds," he said. "Sometimes I think I'd
amounted to more if I had somebody that belonged to me."
"Isn't it rather early in the season for a young man's fancy to be lightly
turning----"
The quotation was lost upon Quin, but the twinkle in the speaker's
expressive eye was not.
"I didn't mean that," he laughingly protested; "I mean a mother or a
sister or somebody like that, who would be a kind of anchor. Take Cass,
for instance; he's steady as a rock."
"Ah! Cassius! One in ten thousand. From the time he was twelve he has
shared with me the financial burden. An artist, Sergeant Graham, must
remain aloof from the market-place. Now that I have retired
permanently from the stage in order to devote my time exclusively to
writing, my only business engagement is a series of lectures at the
university, where, as you know, I occupy the chair of Dramatic
Literature."
The chair thus euphemistically referred to was scarcely more than a
three-legged stool, which he occupied four mornings in the week, the
rest of his time being spent at home in the arduous task of writing
tragedies in blank verse.
"What I got to think about is a job," said Quin, much more interested in
his own affairs than in those of his host.
"Commercial or professional?" inquired Mr. Martel.
"Oh, I can turn my hand to 'most anything," bragged Quin, blowing
smoke-rings at the ceiling. "It's experience that counts, and, believe me,
I've had a plenty."
"Experience plus education," added Mr. Martel; "we must not
underestimate the advantages of education."

"That's where I'm short," admitted Quin. "My folks were all smart
enough. Guess if they had lived I'd been put through college and all the
rest of it. My grandfather was Dr. Ezra Quinby. Ever hear of him?"
Mr. Martel had to acknowledge that he had not.
"Guess he is better known in China than in America," said Quin. "He
died before I was born."
"And you have no people in America?"
"No people anywhere," said Quin cheerfully; "but I got a lot of friends
scattered around over the world, and a bull-dog and a couple of cats up
at a lumber-camp near Portland."
"Cassius tells me that you are thinking of returning to Maine."
Quin ran his fingers through his hair and laughed. "That was
yesterday," he said. "To-day you couldn't get me out of Kentucky with
a machine-gun!"
Claude Martel rose and laid an affectionate hand on his shoulder. "Then,
my boy, we claim you as our own. Cassius' home is your home, his
family your family, his----"
The address of welcome was cut short by Cass's arrival with an armful
of wood which he deposited on the hearth, and a moment later the girls,
followed by Edwin, came trooping in from the kitchen.
"Let's make a circle round the fire and sing the old year out," suggested
Rose gaily. "Myrna, get the banjo and the guitar. Shall I play on the
piano, Papa Claude, or will you?"
Mr. Martel, expressing the noble sentiment that age should always be
an accompaniment to youth, took his place at the piano and, with a
pose worthy of Rubinstein, struck a few preliminary chords, while the
group about the fire noisily settled itself for the evening.
"You can put your head against my knees, if you like," Rose said to

Quin, who was sprawling on the floor at her feet. "There, is that
comfy?"
"I'll say it's all right!" said Quin with heartfelt satisfaction.
There was something free and easy and gipsy-like about the evening, a
sort of fireside picnic that brought June dreams in January. As the
hours wore on, the singing, which had been noisy and rollicking,
gradually mellowed into sentiment, a sentiment that found vent in
dreamy eyes and long-drawn-out choruses, with a languorous
over-accentuation of the sentimental passages. One by one, the singers
fell under the spell of the music and the firelight. Cass and Fan Loomis
sat shoulder to shoulder on the broken-springed couch and gazed with
blissful oblivion into the red embers on the hearth. Rose, whose voice
led all the rest, surreptitiously wiped her eyes when no one was looking;
Edwin and Myrna, solemnly plucking their banjo and guitar, were lost
in