Further, he is averse to light conversation, being always morosely absorbed--yet with an eye ever alert for intrusive outlanders--in his evening paper.

He never reads a morning paper, but has some means of obtaining at an early hour each morning a pink or green evening paper that shrieks with crimson headlines.

Such has been his reading through all time, and this may have been an element in shaping his now inveterate hostility toward those who would engage him in meaningless talk.

Even in accepting the gift of an excellent cigar he betrays only a bored condescension.

There is no relenting of countenance, no genial relaxing of an ingrained suspicion toward all who approach him, no cordiality, in short, such as would lead you to believe that he might be glad to look over a bunch of stills taken by the most artistic photographer in all Simsbury, Illinois.