It was Archibald Calvert, last met during the night-halt in Rosario, Luzon, the correspondent who had ridden with Reever Kennard, and who had lost Mio Amigo. He had always thought rather pleasantly of Archibald Calvert when he thought at all.
“Say—what are you getting set for out here?”
“It’s better and cheaper than a hall-bedroom,” Morning answered.
“That sounds good.... Well, I spent all day yesterday looking for you—first clue, Boabdil—second at Markheim’s from a little red-haired girl.... The rural man picked me up——”
“I’ve got some cold buttermilk——”
“Pure asceticism—also a pearl of an idea——”
They sat down together.
“So you made ten thousand dollars out of Liaoyang after you came back.... I looked up the story. It was—say, it was a bride, Morning!”
“Thanks. Duke Fallows did a better one in one-tenth the space. The pay-end didn’t mean much. I’m not a good bed for money culture. Tell me where you’ve been, Mr. Calvert.”
“Oh, I’ve been around. Didn’t get up to the Russ-Jap stuff. I was down among the Pacific Islands. You know I’m a better tramp than writer. It’s five years since I hit New York.... They say old Reever Kennard is doing politics. He’ll be back from Washington to-night——”