at Mouquin’s,” he replied. “Closed up, now, I hear. Gone—like all the other old landmarks—the happy stations on the five o’clock cocktail route. You know, I wonder sometimes if I’d like New York today—”
He talked on of the old Manhattan he had known. In what seemed to Bob Eden no time at all, the dinner hour had passed. As they were standing at the cashier’s desk, the boy noted for the first time a stranger lighting a cigar near by. He was, from his dress, no native—a small, studious-looking man with piercing eyes.
“Good evening, neighbor,” Holley said.
“How are you,” answered the stranger.
“Come down to look us over?” the editor asked, thinking of his next issue.
“Dropped in for a call on the kangaroo-rat,” replied the man. “I understand there’s a local variety whose tail measures three millimeters longer than any hitherto recorded.”
“Oh,” returned Holley. “One of those fellows, eh? We get them all—beetle men and butterfly men, mouse and gopher men. Drop round to the office of the Times some day and we’ll have a chat.”
“Delighted,” said the little naturalist.
“Well, look who’s here,” cried Holley suddenly. Bob Eden turned, and saw entering the door of the Oasis a thin little Chinese who seemed as old as the desert. His face was the color of a beloved meerschaum pipe, his eyes beady and bright. “Louie Wong,” Holley explained. “Back from San Francisco, eh, Louie?”
“Hello, boss,” said Louie, in a high shrill voice. “My come back.”
“Didn’t you like it up there?” Holley persisted.
