“In case,” said our friend, “you would like to meet some of our Bowery young men I would be pleased to have you visit the quarters of our East Side Kappa Delta Phi Society, only two blocks east of here.”

“Awfully sorry,” said Rivington, “but my friend’s got me on the jump to-night.  He’s a terror when he’s out after local colour.  Now, there’s nothing I would like better than to drop in at the Kappa Delta Phi, but—­some other time!”

We said our farewells and boarded a home-bound car.  We had a rabbit on upper Broadway, and then I parted with Rivington on a street corner.

“Well, anyhow,” said he, braced and recovered, “it couldn’t have happened anywhere but in little old New York.”

Which to say the least, was typical of Rivington.

XXII

GEORGIA’S RULING

If you should chance to visit the General Land Office, step into the draughtsmen’s room and ask to be shown the map of Salado County.  A leisurely German—­possibly old Kampfer himself—­will bring it to you.  It will be four feet square, on heavy drawing-cloth.  The lettering and the figures will be beautifully clear and distinct.  The title will be in splendid, undecipherable German text, ornamented with classic Teutonic designs—­very likely Ceres or Pomona leaning against the initial letters with cornucopias venting grapes and wieners.  You must tell him that this is not the map you wish to see; that he will kindly bring you its official predecessor.  He will then say, “Ach, so!” and bring out a map half the size of the first, dim, old, tattered, and faded.

By looking carefully near its northwest corner you will presently come upon the worn contours of Chiquito River, and, maybe, if your eyes are good, discern the silent witness to this story.

The Commissioner of the Land Office was of the old style; his antique courtesy was too formal for his day.  He dressed in fine black, and there was a suggestion of Roman drapery in his long coat-skirts.  His collars were “undetached” (blame haberdashery for the word); his tie was a narrow, funereal strip, tied in the same knot as were his shoe-strings.  His gray hair was a trifle too long behind, but he kept it smooth and orderly.  His face was clean-shaven, like the old statesmen’s.  Most people thought it a stern face, but when its official expression was off, a few had seen altogether a different countenance.  Especially tender and gentle it had appeared to those who were about him during the last illness of his only child.

The Commissioner had been a widower for years, and his life, outside his official duties, had been so devoted to little Georgia that people spoke of it as a touching and admirable thing.  He was a reserved man, and dignified almost to austerity, but the child had come below it all and rested upon his very heart, so that she scarcely missed the mother’s love that had been taken away.  There was a wonderful companionship between them, for she had many of his own ways, being thoughtful and serious beyond her years.