“Glad to see you, old man,” said Eyres, somewhat awkwardly.  “Wasn’t expecting to find you up here.  Not a bad idea though, after all.  Society’s an awful sham.  Must be a relief to shake the giddy whirl and retire to—­er—­contemplation and—­er—­prayer and hymns, and those things.

“Oh, cut that, Tommy,” said Bellchambers, cheerfully.  “Don’t be afraid that I’ll pass around the plate.  I go through these thing-um-bobs with the rest of these old boys because they are the rules.  I’m Brother Ambrose here, you know.  I’m given just ten minutes to talk to you fellows.  That’s rather a new design in waistcoats you have on, isn’t it, Gilliam?  Are they wearing those things on Broadway now?”

“It’s the same old Johnny,” said Gilliam, joyfully.  “What the devil—­I mean why—­ Oh, confound it! what did you do it for, old man?”

“Peel the bathrobe,” pleaded Eyres, almost tearfully, “and go back with us.  The old crowd’ll go wild to see you.  This isn’t in your line, Bell.  I know half a dozen girls that wore the willow on the quiet when you shook us in that unaccountable way.  Hand in your resignation, or get a dispensation, or whatever you have to do to get a release from this ice factory.  You’ll get catarrh here, Johnny—­and—­ My God! you haven’t any socks on!”

Bellchambers looked down at his sandaled feet and smiled.

“You fellows don’t understand,” he said, soothingly.  “It’s nice of you to want me to go back, but the old life will never know me again.  I have reached here the goal of all my ambitions.  I am entirely happy and contented.  Here I shall remain for the remainder of my days.  You see this robe that I wear?” Bellchambers caressingly touched the straight-hanging garment:  “At last I have found something that will not bag at the knees.  I have attained—­”

At that moment the deep boom of the great brass bell reverberated through the monastery.  It must have been a summons to immediate devotions, for Brother Ambrose bowed his head, turned and left the chamber without another word.  A slight wave of his hand as he passed through the stone doorway seemed to say a farewell to his old friends.  They left the monastery without seeing him again.

And this is the story that Tommy Eyres and Lancelot Gilliam brought back with them from their latest European tour.

VIII

THE GIRL AND THE GRAFT

The other day I ran across my old friend Ferguson Pogue.  Pogue is a conscientious grafter of the highest type.  His headquarters is the Western Hemisphere, and his line of business is anything from speculating in town lots on the Great Staked Plains to selling wooden toys in Connecticut, made by hydraulic pressure from nutmegs ground to a pulp.

Now and then when Pogue has made a good haul he comes to New York for a rest.  He says the jug of wine and loaf of bread and Thou in the wilderness business is about as much rest and pleasure to him as sliding down the bumps at Coney would be to President Taft.  “Give me,” says Pogue, “a big city for my vacation.  Especially New York.  I’m not much fond of New Yorkers, and Manhattan is about the only place on the globe where I don’t find any.”