I could not tell you to-day if she were plain or pretty; but she had behaved with so much good sense, and I had cut so poor a figure in her presence, that I became instantly fired with the desire to display myself in a more favorable light.  The young man besides was possibly her brother; brothers are apt to be hasty, theirs being a part in which it is possible, at a comparatively early age, to assume the dignity of manhood; and it occurred to me it might be wise to forestall all possible complications by an apology.

On this reasoning I drew near to the gallery door, and had hardly got in position before the young man came out.  Thus it was that I came face to face with my third destiny; for my career has been entirely shaped by these three elements,—­my father, the capitol of Muskegon, and my friend, Jim Pinkerton.  As for the young lady with whom my mind was at the moment chiefly occupied, I was never to hear more of her from that day forward:  an excellent example of the Blind Man’s Buff that we call life.

CHAPTER III.  TO INTRODUCE MR. PINKERTON.

The stranger, I have said, was some years older than myself:  a man of a good stature, a very lively face, cordial, agitated manners, and a gray eye as active as a fowl’s.

“May I have a word with you?” said I.

“My dear sir,” he replied, “I don’t know what it can be about, but you may have a hundred if you like.”

“You have just left the side of a young lady,” I continued, “towards whom I was led (very unintentionally) into the appearance of an offence.  To speak to herself would be only to renew her embarrassment, and I seize the occasion of making my apology, and declaring my respect, to one of my own sex who is her friend, and perhaps,” I added, with a bow, “her natural protector.”

“You are a countryman of mine; I know it!” he cried:  “I am sure of it by your delicacy to a lady.  You do her no more than justice.  I was introduced to her the other night at tea, in the apartment of some people, friends of mine; and meeting her again this morning, I could not do less than carry her easel for her.  My dear sir, what is your name?”

I was disappointed to find he had so little bond with my young lady; and but that it was I who had sought the acquaintance, might have been tempted to retreat.  At the same time, something in the stranger’s eye engaged me.

“My name,” said I, “is Loudon Dodd; I am a student of sculpture here from Muskegon.”

“Of sculpture?” he cried, as though that would have been his last conjecture.  “Mine is James Pinkerton; I am delighted to have the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

“Pinkerton!” it was now my turn to exclaim.  “Are you Broken-Stool Pinkerton?”

He admitted his identity with a laugh of boyish delight; and indeed any young man in the quarter might have been proud to own a sobriquet thus gallantly acquired.