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R. MYRON ADDICKS returned home rather later than usual that afternoon. Although he had knocked about the world a good deal during his twenty-seven years, and had put up with a good many discomforts, he had been telling himself of late that his present domicile was about as dreary and unsatisfactory as any he had ever endured. The best thing he could say of it was that the rent was cheap, cheaper than that of any other room he had been able to find in Clearfield. But there was little else to be said in its favor. There was no view to be enjoyed, the building was silent and lonely after dark—save in the basement, from whence a strong odor of baking arose every night—and a bath was almost an impossibility. Unfortunately, until his income had at least doubled itself, he could not afford to pay more, and this afternoon, tramping along a country road outside of town, he had reached the conclusion that