II

On a morning in late July Mr. Pinkham found himself once more in his office, which was the fourth door down a private corridor on the seventeenth floor of the Engineering Building, New York City. Mr. Pinkham's office was as large and homey as a stateroom on a Boston night-boat. There was no name on the door, but the legend that decorated the entrance from the public hall was 'Connors, Cowdrey, and Calkins' which goes to show that blood is much thicker than water, and that Mrs. Connors's influence penetrated to the seventeenth floor of the Engineering Building, New York City.

Mr. Pinkham attended to accumulated mail, and before sinking back from vacation into clerical work, was gazing contemplatively at the distant Goddess of Liberty, faintly visible over chimney pots far down the harbor, when the door was opened.

It is a definition of appearance to say that a man has a heavy head of hair. In this instance the person was a tall elderly man with a thick face of whiskers.

'Mr. Pinkham, I believe?' he said. Mr. Pinkham looked doubtfully at the stranger, vaguely wondering where in the dim past those whiskers had fluttered upon his vision.

'Yes sir.'

'Assistant-Secretary of the American Association for the Advancement of Invention?' 'Yes sir.'

'I am D. Pringle Whitehouse. You may recall that early this month at Bretton Woods I entrusted to your care a valuable family umbrella, which you agreed to bring back to New York for me, as I was not returning directly to the city. I have called to obtain it.' Major Whitehouse ceased, significantly, and looked at each of the four corners

of the small room as though expecting to see his property awaiting redemption.

Mr. Pinkham possessed a hit-ormiss temperament. Having started the ivory grapes and cupids toward New York, he had given no further thought to method, place, or time of arrival — and here was the reckoning. 'Holy Timotheus,' he thought, 'where is the umbrella? Something must be done at once.'

'I'm delighted to see you, Major,' said the Assistant-Secretary, most cordially wringing his visitor's rather tepid hand. 'Just back from Canada, I take it?'

'Yes, arrived here yesterday.'

'Well, the fact is, I'm just back myself. I went over to Canada also. Met some friends just after I saw you, and went up to Montreal and back by the Adirondack route.'

'Where's the umbrella?' asked the Major apprehensively.

'You see, like yourself, I was n't returning directly, so I asked Mr. Walter Randall to bring it back, and I haven't had a chance yet to see him.'

The Major stroked the hairy undulations on his waistcoat, and looked decidedly annoyed.

'Randall,' he remarked. 'I know him. A flighty, sporty creature. The last man in our Association to whose care I should have entrusted that valuable piece of property. That umbrella, Mr. Pinkham, belonged to my great uncle. It is more than fifty years old.'

Mr. Pinkham needed no prodding. He was terrorized, though outwardly calm.

'Don't worry,' he said assuringly; 'I'll see Mr. Randall to-morrow. Where can I reach you?'

'I shall call next Monday.' Whereupon Major Whitehouse abruptly departed.

The second day brought this reply:DEAR MR. PINKHAM,

I have n't the Whitehouse umbrella. After you left, several of us in the grill at Bretton Woods had a good deal of sport over that heirloom and tossed up to see who would be the goat. For the life of me I can't recall who lost. I was out first round, so I didn't worry. Try Cobb-I think he was one of the bunch-Thomas Porter Cobb, something Broadway, Pittsburgh. He's in the address list. I'm sorry you are bothered.

Yours sincerely,

W. K. RANDALL.

Mr. Pinkham's concern grew apace as he read this careless response. The Major's opinion seemed verified. What would the Major say? Again he

wrote:

DEAR MR. COBB,·

I promised Major Whitehouse to carry back for him to New York from Bretton Woods a fine old family umbrella-large, black silk, ivory handle carved to represent a bunch of grapes and two cupids. At the last moment I decided to take a motor trip and Mr. Walter Randall agreed to take charge

'Holy Smoke!' groaned Mr. Pinkham. 'There are 1634 members in the Association, not including eleven in England, four in France, and three in Italy. Three hundred and eighteen of them attended the Bretton Woods meeting. Have I got to circularize all of them? And if I must can I live through the assaults of Major Whitehouse?'

Mr. Pinkham paused and looked out of the window. 'Major Whitehouse,' he repeated slowly to himself, 'is about the only person who does n't laugh. He does n't even smile.' It was not a comforting thought.

Again Mr. Pinkham wrote:-
DEAR MR. HOTCHKISS,

-

Did you bring back from our Association meeting at Bretton Woods a large, old-fashioned silk umbrella with a carved ivory handle, bunch of grapes and two cupids?

I promised Major Whitehouse of

Jersey City to bring the umbrella back for him, but did not return direct. Mr. Walter Randall offered to help me out. The Major values his umbrella very highly, and now he wants it. Mr. Randall said he had the umbrella when with a crowd of our members and persuaded one of them to take charge of it for him. He thought it was Mr. Cobb of Pittsburgh. Mr. Cobb writes it was n't he, but thinks it was you.

Please help me out. Have you got the umbrella? Wire if you have. If you have n't it, do you know who has it? I am much troubled.

Yours truly,

E. W. PINKHAM,
Assistant-Secretary.

The Assistant-Secretary of the A.A.A.I. may have deserved to spend a troubled week-end. Whether he deserved to do so or not, that was the kind of a week-end he spent.

Monday forenoon the door of Mr. Pinkham's office opened and Major D. Pringle Whitehouse-again unannounced entered. The Major was reserved. Mr. Pinkham was cordial with a suggestion of embarrassment.

'Did you see Randall?' asked the Major abruptly.

'No, I wrote him and am expecting to get some word in a day or so.'

The Major's face darkened. 'Mr. Pinkham, I feel you have sadly neglected one of the duties of your position.'

'I was not elected to carry umbrellas,' replied the desperate Pinkham. 'You were elected by the Association to be of use to the members, sir.'

Anger got the best of the Pinkham discretion, never particularly prominent.

'I am tired and sick of this umbrella business,' he snapped.

'So am I.'

'Let me get you a new umbrella.' 'I don't want it.'

'Silver head.'

'I don't want it.' 'Gold head.'

'Don't want it.'

'I'll give you an umbrella annuity, one every year.'

'I don't want it!' shouted the Major. 'I am amply able to buy umbrellas by the gross. I want the one I entrusted to you. I value that umbrella very highly. It came to me by inheritance from a great uncle. I have carried it for thirty years. I must have it, even if you are obliged to call personally on every member of the Association who attended the meeting. I will give you one week to show progress.'

The door closed upon the departing Whitehouse, and Mr. Pinkham sank back exhausted. A few days later the Hotchkiss reply arrived:

Sorry to say I cannot send you Whitehouse's umbrella with ivory grapes and cupids. I was with Randall before he left Bretton Woods and I think he turned that relic over to Penfield, not A. M. but O. Penfield, of Baltimore. Don't write Penfield. Get a requisition from the Governor and go there yourself. That is the only chance with O. P.

It's a special Providence for Whitehouse that I am not the custodian of his octogenarian 'brell. I am looking for an umbrella big enough to protect more than my hat.

Cobb denies responsibility and thought
it was Hotchkiss. He says he has n't
it, but is confident you are the custo-
dian. I am in great distress. Major
Whitehouse is making me considerable
trouble. Please telegraph at my
expense all you know about this affair.
I shall be grateful for your help.
Yours truly,

E. W. PINKHAM,
Assistant-Secretary.

Again Mr. Pinkham looked off at the Goddess of Liberty. It all seemed so hopeless. The joy had mostly gone out of life. In three days more the towering form from Jersey City would again appear in his office, coldly stroking that avenging beard. Mr. Pinkham was really all in. He had had a chance to win the favor and confidence of the A.A.A.I. and here he was circularizing the members that he was untrustworthy!

The Assistant-Secretary was sitting with his head in his hands, the picture of rather volatile despair, when Mr. Connors breezed in.

'What's the matter, Eddie?' 'I've lost Whitehouse's umbrella.' 'Glad of it. Anybody who makes D. Pringle lose anything — yea, verily, even one hair of his whiskers - is a star. Credit and fame are yours.'

Mr. Pinkham smiled feebly. 'It was a professional trust,' he said. 'Because I was an officer of our Association, the Major trusted his valuable umbrella heirloom, big black silk affair with handle carved like grapes and cupids to me to bring home from Bretton Woods. I shirked it and went on a motor trip. Randall was to bring it back. He flipped up with a bunch to see who'd get stuck, and can't recall now who was the goat. He guessed Cobb. Cobb guesses Hotchkiss. Hotchkiss guesses Penfield. Lord only knows who Penfield will guess. There are three hundred and twelve shots

left. It's awful. I can't sleep, I can't work. Monday old Whitehouse is due in this office again. What'll I do?'

Obviously Mr. Pinkham was in earnest, a most unusual phenomenon. His employer seemed concerned.

'Cut it all out, Eddie,' he said kindly. 'You can't work in this shape. Beat it, be elsewhere when the enemy arrives. There's the Twohig matter in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Go up there for a few days, see Twohig, and get out circulars to the A.A.A.I.'

It was a hot late-July day. The sultry haze obscured the wide outlook over the harbor. It did not take long to approve of the chief's suggestion.

III

In Boston, where Mr. Pinkham spent the following night, it continued to be impossible to escape from the depressing influence of the umbrella mystery. At breakfast Mr. Pinkham heard himself being paged. He responded apprehensively, only to receive this telegram:

NEVER HAD UMBRELLA TRY GRA-
HAM WILLIAMSTOWN

O. PENFIELD

'Charley Ross, Dorothy Arnold, the Whitehouse cupids,' groaned Mr. Pinkham. 'One thing is certain,' he mused, 'for a while I am out of reach of the still small voice of D. Pringle Whitehouse. I'll wait until to-morrow to write Graham, Williamstown.' Whereupon, having squeezed a final half cup of coffee from the reluctant pot, he paid his bill and took a taxi to the North Station, where he picked up a ticket and a chair for Portsmouth on the Portland-Bangor Express.

Once on the train, increasing distance from the office and a natural tendency to scatter made it easy for Mr. Pinkham to forget his troubles. He settled

down to a magazine, but not without noticing, after the manner of his kind, that the passenger opposite him was a very attractive girl. She could n't have outstripped twenty-one or two. She had brown hair and a wonderful complexion, wore a very smart blue suit and a close hat of straw decorated with a very assertive blue bow. Mr. Pinkham also furtively observed gray silk stockings and gray suède shoes, which added considerably to the highly favorable impression. This opposite neighbor was far and away the most agreeable outlook from Mr. Pinkham's seat. From the car window the purlieus of Salem which soon succeeded those of Lynn offered little competition to the pleasant prospect across the aisle. The Assistant-Secretary sighed a little. It would be wonderful, but was so impossible. He resigned himself to mere reading, but first swept the car with a detached, impersonal glance. The opposite neighbor's suitcase reposed in the unoccupied chair ahead; her gray sport coat was flung carelessly in the rack above, partly covering a rather long black umbrella with a white

Mr. Pinkham's glance stopped suddenly at the rack. He almost stopped breathing. It was a long black silk umbrella. That much was clear of the coat. The handle was mostly concealed. It was ivory white. There was something on it that looked like a small curly human head.

'Holy Moses!' ejaculated the horrified Mr. Pinkham, 'am I so far gone that common objects of daily life look to me like big umbrellas and ivory cupids?'

Nervously he again tried to read. Vain. Again he studied the rack. This time boldly. Any man can look at a Pullman baggage rack without giving offense.

'Good Lord!' exclaimed Mr. Pinkham to himself. 'What am I to do?'

It's a big black silk umbrella unless I am batty. It's got an ivory handle. I actually believe that's a cupid. There can't be two such curios on earth. I've written to New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Connecticut, and Maryland, and now suppose that blamed umbrella is there, across the aisle, actually headed for Maine or Canada and getting away from me forever. Something must be done right off. It really must,' he added desperately.

The attention of the young woman was vaguely attracted by the queer attitude of the opposite passenger. She looked furtively across at him from her book. The passing thought that actuated her glance was something like this: 'Queer-acting fellow opposite. Rather good looking. Well dressed. Looks like a New Yorker. He acts fussed. Somehow he 's awfully funny. I wish — '

Mr. Pinkham fidgeted more than ever and shut up his magazine. "Something has got to be done,' he repeated. If that is Whitehouse's great uncle's umbrella before my eyes, can I get off this train and write a letter to Graham asking where it is? I'm a fool already. What shall I be then?' The logic of this query was appalling.

Mr. Pinkham had his failings, but he possessed that aplomb with the other sex which characterizes the present younger generation as compared with the generation which ripened before the Spanish War. He arose and bowed as gracefully as 'the rolling rail' permitted.

'Pardon me,' said Mr. Pinkham most politely. 'I notice you have a rather remarkable umbrella. Do you suppose you could let me look at it?'

The girl looked astonished. 'My umbrella?' she repeated vaguely.

'Yes. I'd awfully like to look at the handle.'

An expression of intense amuse