other motive than politeness.  And indeed we gradually drifted into a quasi-friendship.  It became his habit, as he went out in the morning, to drop into my room for a match, and I returned the compliment by borrowing his coal oil when mine was out.  At such times we would sit, or more frequently stand, discussing the affairs of the town and of the nation, for politics was an easy and attractive subject to us both.  It was only in a general way that we touched upon each other’s concerns, this being dangerous ground with Farrar, who was ever ready to close up at anything resembling a confidence.  As for me, I hope I am not curious, but I own to having had a curiosity about Farrar’s Philadelphia patron, to whom Farrar made but slight allusions.  His very name—­Farquhar Fenelon Cooke—­had an odd sound which somehow betokened an odd man, and there was more than one bit of gossip afloat in the town of which he was the subject, notwithstanding the fact that he had never honored it with a visit.  The gossip was the natural result of Mr. Cooke’s large properties in the vicinity.  It has never been my habit, however, to press a friend on such matters, and I could easily understand and respect Farrar’s reluctance to talk of one from whom he received an income.

I had occasion, in the May of that year, to make a somewhat long business trip to Chicago, and on my return, much to my surprise, I found Farrar awaiting me in the railroad station.  He smiled his wonted fraction by way of greeting, stopped to buy a newspaper, and finally leading me to his buggy, turned and drove out of town.  I was completely mystified at such an unusual proceeding.

“What’s this for?” I asked.

“I shan’t bother you long,” he said; “I simply wanted the chance to talk to you before you got to your office.  I have a Philadelphia client, a Mr. Cooke, of whom you may have heard me speak.  Since you have been away the railroad has brought suit against him.  The row is about the lands west of the Washita, on Copper Rise.  It’s the devil if he loses, for the ground is worth the dollar bills to cover it.  I telegraphed, and he got here yesterday.  He wants a lawyer, and I mentioned you.”

There came over me then in a flash a comprehension of Farrar which I had failed to grasp before.  But I was quite overcome at his suggestion.

“Isn’t it rather a big deal to risk me on?” I said.  “Better go to Chicago and get Parks.  He’s an expert in that sort of thing.”  I am afraid my expostulation was weak.

“I merely spoke of you,” replied Farrar, coolly,—­“and he has gone around to your office.  He knows about Parks, and if he wants him he’ll probably take him.  It all depends upon how you strike Cooke whether you get the case or not.  I have never told you about him,” he added with some hesitation; “he’s a trifle queer, but a good fellow at the bottom.  I should hate to see him lose his land.”

“How is the railroad mixed up in it?” I asked.