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“And what about these min?” he inquired, gazing upon the dauntless six.

“Dangerous suspects, Yeronner,” said Terry the Cop.

“They look mild as goat’s milk to me,” returned the Magistrate, “though now I get me eye on the rid-hidded wan [with a friendly wink at the Little Red Doctor] I reckonize him as a desprit charackter that’d save your life as soon as look at ye. What way are they dang’rous?”

“When apprehended,” replied Terry, looking covertly about to see that the reporters were within hearing distance, “their noses were painted green.”

“Is this true?” asked the Magistrate of the six.

“It is, your Honor,” they replied.

“An’, why not!” demanded the Human Judge hotly. “‘Tis a glorious color! Erin go bragh! Off’cer, ye’ve exceeded yer jooty. D’ ye think this is downtrodden an’ sufferin’ Oireland an’ yerself the tyrant Gineral French? Let ’em paint their noses anny color they loike; but green for preference. I’m tellin’ ye, this is the land of freedom an’ equality, an’ ivery citizen thereof is entitled to life, liberty, and the purshoot of happiness, an’ a man’s nose is his castle, an’ don’t ye fergit it. Dis-charrrrged! Go an’ sin no more. I mane, let the good worruk go awn!”

“Now watch for the evening papers,” said young Phil Stacey exultantly. “The Wrightery will get some free advertising that’ll crowd it for months.”

Alas for youth’s golden hopes! The evening papers ignored the carefully prepared event. One morning paper published a paragraph, attributing the green noses to a masquerade party. The conspirators, gathered at the cellar with their war-paints on (in case of reporters), discussed the fiasco in embittered tones. Young Stacey raged against a stupid and corrupt press. MacLachan expressed the acidulous hope that thereafter Cyrus the Gaunt would be content with making a fool of himself without implicating innocent and confiding friends. The Bonnie Lassie was not present, but sent word (characteristically) that they must have done it all wrong; men had no sense, anyway. The party then sent out for turpentine and broke up to reassemble no more. Only Phil Stacey, inventor of the great idea, was still faithful to and hopeful of it. Each evening he conscientiously greened himself and went to eat with Barbran.

Time justified his faith. One evening there dropped in a plump man who exhaled a mild and comforting benevolence, like a gentle country parson. He smiled sweetly at Phil, and introduced himself as a reporter for the “Sunday World Magazine”–and where was the rest of the circle? In a flurry of excitement, the pair sent for Cyrus the Gaunt to do the talking. Cyrus arrived, breathless and a trifle off color (the Bonnie Lassie had unfortunately got a touch of bronze scenic paint mixed with the green, so that he smelled like an over-ripe banana), and proceeded to exposition.

“This,” he explained, “is a new cult. It is based on the back-to-the-spring idea. The well-spring of life, you know. The–er–spring of eternal youth, and–and so forth. You understand?”

“I hope to,” said the reporter politely. “Why on the nose?”

“I will explain that,” returned Cyrus, getting his second wind; “but first let me get the central idea in your mind. It’s a nature movement; a readjustment of art to nature. All nature is green. Look about you.” Here he paused for effect, which was unfortunate.

“Quite so,” agreed the reporter. “The cable-car, for instance, and the dollar bill, not to mention the croton bug and the polar bear. But, pardon me, I interrupt the flow of your eloquence.”

“You do,” said Cyrus severely. “Inanimate nature I speak of. All inanimate nature is green. But we poor fellow creatures have gotten away from the universal mother-color. We must get back to it. We must learn to think greenly. But first we must learn to see greenly. How shall we accomplish this? Put green in our eyes? Impossible, unfortunately. But, our noses–there is the solution. In direct proximity to the eye, the color, properly applied, tints one’s vision of all things. Green shadows in a green world,” mooned Cyrus the Gaunt poetically. “As the bard puts it: