The first member of the staff of _Peaceful Moments_ to arrive at the office on the following morning was Master Maloney. This sounds like the beginning of a "Plod and Punctuality," or "How Great Fortunes have been Made" story, but, as a matter of fact, Master Maloney, like Mr. Bat Jarvis, was no early bird. Larks who rose in his neighborhood, rose alone. He did not get up with them. He was supposed to be at the office at nine o'clock. It was a point of honor with him, a sort of daily declaration of independence, never to put in an appearance before nine-thirty. On this particular morning he was punctual to the minute, or half an hour late, whichever way you choose to look at it.

He had only whistled a few bars of "My Little Irish Rose," and had barely got into the first page of his story of life on the prairie, when Kid Brady appeared. The Kid had come to pay a farewell visit. He had not yet begun training, and he was making the best of the short time before such comforts should be forbidden by smoking a big black cigar. Master Maloney eyed him admiringly. The Kid, unknown to that gentleman himself, was Pugsy's ideal. He came from the Plains, and had, indeed, once actually been a cowboy; he was a coming champion; and he could smoke big black cigars. There was no trace of his official well-what-is-it-now? air about Pugsy as he laid down his book and prepared to converse.

"Say, Mr. Smith around anywhere, Pugsy?" asked the Kid.

"Naw, Mr. Brady. He ain't came yet," replied Master Maloney respectfully.

"Late, ain't he?"

"Sure! He generally blows in before I do."

"Wonder what's keepin' him?"

As he spoke, John appeared. "Hello, Kid," he said. "Come to say good-by?"

"Yep," said the Kid. "Seen Mr. Smith around anywhere, Mr. Maude?"

"Hasn't he come yet? I guess he'll be here soon. Hello, who's this?"

A small boy was standing at the door, holding a note.

"Mr. Maude?" he said. "Cop at Jefferson Market give me dis fer you."

"What!" He took the letter, and gave the boy a dime. "Why, it's from Smith. Great Scott!"

It was apparent that the Kid was politely endeavoring to veil his curiosity. Master Maloney had no such delicacy.

"What's in de letter, boss?" he enquired.

"The letter," said John slowly, "is from Mr. Smith. And it says that he was sentenced this morning to thirty days on the Island for resisting the police."

"He's de guy!" admitted Master Maloney approvingly.

"What's that?" said the Kid. "Mr. Smith been slugging cops! What's he been doin' that for?"

"I must go and find out at once. It beats me."

It did not take John long to reach Jefferson Market, and by the judicious expenditure of a few dollars he was enabled to obtain an interview with Smith in a back room.

The editor of _Peaceful Moments_ was seated on a bench, looking remarkably disheveled. There was a bruise on his forehead, just where the hair began. He was, however, cheerful.

"Ah, John," he said. "You got my note all right, then?" John looked at him, concerned.

"What on earth does it all mean?"

Smith heaved a regretful sigh.

"I fear," he said, "I have made precisely the blamed fool of myself that Comrade Parker hoped I would."

"Parker!"

Smith nodded.

"I may be misjudging him, but I seem to see the hand of Comrade Parker in this. We had a raid at my house last night, John. We were pulled."

"What on earth--?"

"Somebody--if it was not Comrade Parker it was some other citizen dripping with public spirit--tipped the police off that certain sports were running a pool-room in the house where I live."

On his departure from the _News_, Smith, from motives of economy, had moved from his hotel in Washington Square and taken a furnished room on Fourteenth Street.

"There actually was a pool-room there," he went on, "so possibly I am wronging Comrade Parker in thinking that this was a scheme of his for getting me out of the way. At any rate, somebody gave the tip, and at about three o'clock this morning I was aroused from a dreamless slumber by quite a considerable hammering at my door. There, standing on the mat, were two policemen. Very cordially the honest fellows invited me to go with them. A conveyance, it seemed, waited in the street without. I disclaimed all connection with the bad gambling persons below, but they replied that they were cleaning up the house, and, if I wished to make any remarks, I had better make them to the magistrate. This seemed reasonable. I said I would put on some clothes and come along. They demurred. They said they couldn't wait about while I put on clothes. I pointed out that sky-blue pajamas with old-rose frogs were not the costume in which the editor of a great New York weekly paper should be seen abroad in one of the world's greatest cities, but they assured me--more by their manner than their words--that my misgivings were groundless, so I yielded. These men, I told myself, have............