dazzling in the extreme, and yet it was only for a moment that the picture kindled. In the next it was dead and sparkless as burned-out fireworks.
"You have a strong vein of traffic in your blood," the General Freight Agent began adroitly, but John broke in upon him.
"Mr. Mitchell," he said, and his utterance was grave, "I am sorry to disappoint you, but it comes too late. A year ago such a hint would have thrown me into ecstasies. To-day it leaves me cold. I have had another vision."
The face of Mitchell shaded from seriousness almost to sadness, but he was too wise to increase by argument an ardor about which, to the railroad man, there was something not easy to be understood, something, indeed, almost fanatical. Instead Mitchell asked with sober, interested friendliness:
"What is your plan, John?"
"To resign July first," John answered, for the first time definitely crossing the bridge, "to come to San Francisco and seek an engagement with some of the stock companies playing permanently here, even though I begin the search for an opening without money enough to last more than a week or two."
"Without money!" exclaimed Mr. Mitchell, in surprise.
"Yes," confessed Hampstead, flushing a little. "My salary was not very munificent, you know, and I have usually contrived to get rid of it, frequently before I got the pay check in my hands."
Mr. Mitchell's small, prudent eyes looked disfavor at a spendthrift.
"However," he suggested, "you have only yourself to think of."
"That's another point against me," confessed Hampstead. "I have some one else to look out for. My
