“There will be cocoanut-pudding for dinner, Tommy, boy,” said Chloe, gayly, “and you must come.  I must go in for a little while.”

She vanished in a delightful flutter.

Dr. Stamford tramped up hurriedly.  He seized my pulse as though it were his own property that I had escaped with.

“You are the biggest fool outside of any asylum!” he said, angrily.  “Why did you leave your bed?  And the idiotic things you’ve been doing!—­and no wonder, with your pulse going like a sledge-hammer.”

“Name some of them,” said I.

“Devoe sent for me,” said Stamford.  “He saw you from his window go to old Campos’ store, chase him up the hill with his own yardstick, and then come back and make off with his biggest cocoanut.”

“It’s the little things that count, after all,” said I.

“It’s your little bed that counts with you just now,” said the doctor.  “You come with me at once, or I’ll throw up the case.  ’You’re as loony as a loon.”

So I got no cocoanut-pudding that evening, but I conceived a distrust as to the value of the method of the head-hunters.  Perhaps for many centuries the maidens of the villages may have been looking wistfully at the heads in the baskets at the doorways, longing for other and lesser trophies.

NO STORY

To avoid having this book hurled into corner of the room by the suspicious reader, I will assert in time that this is not a newspaper story.  You will encounter no shirt-sleeved, omniscient city editor, no prodigy “cub” reporter just off the farm, no scoop, no story—­no anything.

But if you will concede me the setting of the first scene in the reporters’ room of the Morning Beacon, I will repay the favor by keeping strictly my promises set forth above.

I was doing space-work on the Beacon, hoping to be put on a salary.  Some one had cleared with a rake or a shovel a small space for me at the end of a long table piled high with exchanges, Congressional Records, and old files.  There I did my work.  I wrote whatever the city whispered or roared or chuckled to me on my diligent wanderings about its streets.  My income was not regular.

One day Tripp came in and leaned on my table.  Tripp was something in the mechanical department—­I think he had something to do with the pictures, for he smelled of photographers’ supplies, and his hands were always stained and cut up with acids.  He was about twenty-five and looked forty.  Half of his face was covered with short, curly red whiskers that looked like a door-mat with the “welcome” left off.  He was pale and unhealthy and miserable and fawning, and an assiduous borrower of sums ranging from twenty-five cents to a dollar.  One dollar was his limit.  He knew the extent of his credit as well as the Chemical National Bank knows the amount of H2O that collateral will show on analysis.  When he sat on my table he held one hand with the other to keep both from shaking.  Whiskey.  He had a spurious air of lightness and bravado about him that deceived no one, but was useful in his borrowing because it was so pitifully and perceptibly assumed.