was engaged in any business, for, perched on the front counter, telling in a strangely resonant voice a very funny story, sat Eugene Field.  He was a striking figure, tall, gaunt, almost bald (though little more than twenty years of age), smooth shaven, and with a remarkable face, which lent itself to every variety of emotion.  In five minutes after our introduction I knew him.  There was no reserve about him.  He was of the free, whole-souled western type—­that type which invites your confidence in return for absolute and unstinted frankness.”

Instead of broaching his purpose by letter, Mr. Stone slipped off to Denver for a personal interview with his intended victim, and, as I have already intimated, he arrived just in the nick of time to find Field ready for any move that would take him away from the killing kindness and exhilarating atmosphere of the Colorado capital.  “The engagement,” says Mr. Stone, “was in itself characteristic.  Field wanted to join me.  He was tired of Denver and mistrustful of the limitations upon him there.  But if he was to make a change, he must be assured that it was to be for his permanent good.  He was a newspaper man not from choice, but because in that field he could earn his daily bread.  Behind all he was conscious of great capability—­not vain or by any means self-sufficient, but certain that by study and endeavor he could take high rank in the literary world and could win a place of lasting distinction.  So he stipulated that he should be given a column of his own, that he might stand or fall by the excellence of his own work.  Salary was less an object than opportunity.”

Mr. Stone gave the necessary assurances, both as to salary—­by no means princely—­and opportunity as large as Field had the genius to fill.  As quickly as he could, Field closed up his Denver connections and prepared for the last move in his newspaper life.  How he survived the round of farewell luncheons, dinners, and midnight suppers given for and by him was a source of mingled pride and amusement to the chief sufferer.  It was with feelings of genuine regret that he turned his back on Denver and gave up the jovial and congenial association with the Tribune and its staff.  Although its chief editorial writer, O.H.  Rothacker, had a national reputation, Field was the star of the company that gave to the Tribune its unique reputation among the journals of the West, and all classes of citizens felt that something picturesquely characteristic of the liberty and good-fellowship of their bustling town was being taken from them.  Field’s departure meant the closing of the hobble-de-hoy period in the life of Denver as well as in his own.  His life there had been exactly suited to his temperament, to the times, and to the environment.  It is doubtful if it would have been possible to repeat such an experience in Denver five years later, and it is certain that in five years Field had developed whole leagues of character beyond its repetition.