“Painless Porter!” he cried aloud.

The man looked up at the mention of his name.

“That’s my name,” said he.  “What can I do for you?”

“I just remembered where I’d seen you,” explained Bob.

“I’m fairly well known.”

Bob approached eagerly.  The discourse, hollow, insincere, half-blasphemous, a buncombe bit of advertising as it was, nevertheless contained the germ of an essential truth for which Bob had been searching.  He wanted to know how, through what experience, the man had come to this insight.

But his attempts at conversation met with a cold reception.  Painless Porter was too old a bird ever to lower his guard.  He met the youth on the high plane of professionalism, refused to utter other than the platitudinous counters demanded by the occasion.  He held the young man at spear’s length, and showed plainly by the ominous glitter of his eye that he did not intend to be trifled with.

Then Baker’s jolly voice broke in.

“Well! well! well!” he cried.  “If here aren’t my old friends, Painless Porter and the Wiz!  Simple life for yours, eh?  Back to beans!  What’s the general outline of this graft?”

“We have come camping for a complete rest,” stated Waller gravely, his comical face cast in lines of reprobation and warning.

“Whatever it is, you’ll get it,” jibed Baker.  “But I’ll bet you a toothpick it isn’t a rest.  What’s exhausted you fellows, anyway?  Counting the easy money?”

“Our professional labours have been very heavy lately,” spoke up the painless one.

“What’s biting you fellows?” demanded Baker.  “There’s nobody here.”

Waller indicated Bob by a barely perceptible jerk of the head.  Baker threw back his head and laughed.

“Thought you knew him,” said he.  “You were all having such a love feast gab-fest when I blew in.  This is Mr. Orde, who bosses this place—­and most of the country around here.  If you want to do good to humanity on this meadow you’d better begin by being good to him.  He controls it.  He’s humanity with a capital H.”

Ten minutes later the four men, cigars alight, a bottle within reach, were sprawling about the interior of one of the larger tents.  Bob was enjoying himself hugely.  It was the first time he had ever been behind the scenes at this sort of game.

“But that was a good talk, just the same,” he interrupted a cynical bit of bragging.

“Say, wasn’t it!” cried Porter.  “I got that out of a shoutin’ evangelist.  The minute I heard it I saw where it was hot stuff for my spiel.  I’m that way:  I got that kind of good eye.  I’ll be going along the street and some little thing’ll happen that won’t amount to nothin’ at all really.  Another man wouldn’t think twice about it.  But like a flash it comes to me how it would fit in to a spiel.  It’s like an artist that way finding things to put in a picture.  You’d never spot a dago apple peddler as good for nothing