before the ladder arrived that was to succor him, he became the sworn ally of Melons, and, I regret to say, incited by the same audacious boy, “chaffed” his own flesh and blood below him.  He was eventually taken, though, of course, Melons escaped.  But Tommy was restricted to the window after that, and the companionship was limited to “Hi, Melons!” and “You, Tommy!” and Melons, to all practical purposes, lost him forever.  I looked afterward to see some signs of sorrow on Melons’s part, but in vain; he buried his grief, if he had any, somewhere in his one voluminous garment.

At about this time my opportunities of knowing Melons became more extended.  I was engaged in filling a void in the Literature of the Pacific Coast.  As this void was a pretty large one, and as I was informed that the Pacific Coast languished under it, I set apart two hours each day to this work of filling in.  It was necessary that I should adopt a methodical system, so I retired from the world and locked myself in my room at a certain hour each day, after coming from my office.  I then carefully drew out my portfolio and read what I had written the day before.  This would suggest some alteration, and I would carefully rewrite it.  During this operation I would turn to consult a book of reference, which invariably proved extremely interesting and attractive.  It would generally suggest another and better method of “filling in.”  Turning this method over reflectively in my mind, I would finally commence the new method which I eventually abandoned for the original plan.  At this time I would become convinced that my exhausted faculties demanded a cigar.  The operation of lighting a cigar usually suggested that a little quiet reflection and meditation would be of service to me, and I always allowed myself to be guided by prudential instincts.  Eventually, seated by my window, as before stated, Melons asserted himself, though our conversation rarely went further than “Hello, Mister!” and “Ah, Melons!” a vagabond instinct we felt in common implied a communion deeper than words.  In this spiritual commingling the time passed, often beguiled by gymnastics on the fence or line (always with an eye to my window) until dinner was announced and I found a more practical void required my attention.  An unlooked for incident drew us in closer relation.

A sea-faring friend just from a tropical voyage had presented me with a bunch of bananas.  They were not quite ripe, and I hung them before my window to mature in the sun of McGinnis’s Court, whose forcing qualities were remarkable.  In the mysteriously mingled odors of ship and shore which they diffused throughout my room, there was a lingering reminiscence of low latitudes.  But even that joy was fleeting and evanescent:  they never reached maturity.

Coming home one day, as I turned the corner of that fashionable thoroughfare before alluded to, I met a small boy eating a banana.  There was nothing remarkable in that, but as I neared McGinnis’s Court I presently met another small boy, also eating a banana.  A third small boy engaged in a like occupation obtruded a painful coincidence upon my mind.  I leave the psychological reader to determine the exact co-relation between this circumstance and the sickening sense of loss that overcame me on witnessing it.  I reached my room—­and found the bunch of bananas was gone.