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bit and learned the trade. Then I went into domestic service and became a ‘gentleman’s gentleman.’ ” He had accompanied his gentleman to this country and finally was engaged as Mr. Forrester’s valet. He told me about his Edweena, absent as lady’s maid to a group of ladies on a famous yacht. He showed me some bright postcards he had received from Jamaica and Trinidad and the Bahamas—meager consolations.
    In turn I told him the story of my life—Wisconsin, China, California, schools and jobs, Europe, the War, ending up with my reasons for being in Newport. When I concluded my story we struck our glasses together and it was understood that we were friends. This was the first of many pool games and conversations. At the second or third of these I asked him why the players were so slow to invite me to join the game. Was it because I was a newcomer?
    â€œCully, there’s a lot of suspicion of newcomers in Newport. Distrust, do you see what I mean? There are a number of types we don’t want around here. Let’s pretend that I didn’t know that you’re all right. See? I’ll ask you some questions. Mr. North, were you planted in Newport?”
    â€œHow do you mean?”
    â€œDo you belong to any organization? Were you sent here on a job?”
    â€œI told you why I came here.”
    â€œI’m asking you these questions, like it was a game. Are you a flicker?”
    â€œA what?”
    â€œAre you a detective?”
    I take pleasure in the modifications that words undergo as they pass from country to country and descend from century to century. “Flicker” was a bird and in 1926 it was a motion-picture. But in France a “flic” is a police detective; the word must have crossed the Channel, entered the slang of the English underworld, and had probably been imported to Newport by Henry himself. I raised my hand as though I were taking an oath. “I swear to God, Henry, I’ve never had anything to do with such things.”
    â€œWhen I saw in the newspaper that you were ready to teach Latin—that did it. There’s no flicker ever been known that can handle Latin.—It’s this way: there’s nothing wrong with the job; there’s lots of ways of earning a living. Once the season’s begun there’ll be scores of them here. Some weeks there’s a big ball every night. For visiting celebrities and consumptive children, like that. Diamond necklaces. Insurance companies send up their men. Dress them up as waiters. Some hostesses even invite them as guests. Keep their eyes glued on the sparklers. Some families are so nervous, they have a flicker stay up all night sitting by the safe. Some jealous husbands have flickers watching their wives. A man like you comes to town—doesn’t know anybody—no serious reason for being here. Maybe he’s a flicker—or a thief. The first thing a regular flicker does is to call on the Chief of Police and get it straight with him. But many don’t; they like to be very secret. You can be certain that you weren’t three days in town before the Chief was fixing his eyes on you. It’s a good thing you went to the Casino and found that old record about yourself—”
    â€œIt was about my brother, really.”
    â€œProbably Bill Wentworth called up the Chief and told him he had confidence in you.”
    â€œThanks for telling me, Henry. But it’s your confidence in me that’s made all the difference here at Herman’s.”
    â€œThere are some flickers in the crowd at Herman’s, but what we can’t have there is a flicker who pretends he isn’t. Time after time flickers have been known to steal the emeralds.”
    â€œWhat are some of the other types I was suspected of being?”
    â€œI’ll tell you about them, gradual. You talk for a while.”
    I told about what I had found out and “put together”