THE God of Coincidence is fortunate in possessing innumerable press agents. They have made the length of his arm a proverb. How at exactly the right moment he extends it across continents and drags two and two together, thus causing four to result where but for him sixes and sevens would have obtained, they have made known to the readers of all of our best magazines. For instance, Holworthy is leaving for the Congo to find a cure for the sleeping sickness, and for himself any sickness from which one is warranted never to wake up. This is his condition because the beautiful millionheiress who is wintering at the Alexander Young Hotel in Honolulu has refused to answer his letters, cables, and appeals.
He is leaning upon the rail taking his last neck-breaking look at the Woolworth Building. The going-ashore bugle has sounded, pockethandkerchiefs are waving; and Joe Hutton, the last visitor to leave the ship, is at the gangway.
"Good-by, Holworthy!" he calls. "Where do you keep yourself? Haven't seen you at the club in a year!"