kraft

The painter was a young scrub out of the West named Kraft, who had a favourite food and a pet theory.

Three years ago Kraft, Bill Judkins (a poet), and I took our meals at Cypher's, on Eighth Avenue.

She was a grand example of Kraft's theory of the artistic adjustment of nature.

It was Kraft who first voiced the fear that each of us must have held latently.

"There is a certain fate hanging over Milly," said Kraft, "and if it overtakes her she is lost to Cypher's and to us."

"It is this," said Kraft, punctuating in a puddle of spilled coffee with a stiff forefinger.

"One day," concluded Kraft, solemnly, "there will come to Cypher's for a plate of beans a millionaire lumberman from Wisconsin, and he will marry Milly."

"You'll take another whiskey and milk now," Kraft persuaded, with Satan's smile.

Kraft spent his puny store of coin at the bar and then gave Judkins and me such an appealing look that we went down to the last dime we had in toasting our guest.

Then, when our ammunition was gone and the Klondiker, still somewhat sober, began to babble again of Milly, Kraft whispered into his ear such a polite, barbed insult relating to people who were miserly with their funds, that the miner crashed down handful after handful of silver and notes, calling for all the fluids in the world to drown the imputation.

"He will never find Cypher's again," said Kraft. "He will propose to the first white apron he sees in a dairy restaurant to-morrow.

Our paths separated, and I saw Kraft no more and Judkins seldom.