the habit of using him as a sort of nursemaid. It gave
her many hours of unearned freedom for gadding and gossiping.

"Pa, will you look after Pearlie for a little while this morning? I got
to run downtown to match something and she gets so tired and mean-acting
if I take her along. Ma's goin' with me."

He loved the feel of Pearlie's, small, velvet-soft hand in his big fist.
He called her "little feller," and fed her forbidden dainties. His big
brown fingers were miraculously deft at buttoning and unbuttoning her
tiny garments, and wiping her soft lips, and performing a hundred tender
offices. I think that he was playing a sort of game with himself, and
that he pretended this was Dike become a baby again. Once the pair
managed to get over to Lincoln Park, where they spent a glorious day
looking at the animals, eating popcorn, and riding on the miniature
railway.

They returned, tired, dusty, and happy, to a double tirade.

* * * * *

Bella engaged in a great deal of what she called worrying about Dike.
Ben spoke of him seldom, but the boy was always present in his thoughts.
They had written him of their move, but he had not seemed to get the
impression of its permanence. His letters indicated that he thought they
were visiting Minnie, or taking a vacation in the city. Dike's letters
were few. Ben treasured them, and read and reread them. When the
armistice news came, and with it the possibility of Dike's return, Ben
tried to fancy him fitting into the life of the city. And his whole
being revolted at the thought.

He saw the pimply-faced, sallow youths in their one-button suits and
striped shirts standing at the corner of Halsted and Sixty-Third,
spitting languidly and handling their limp cigarettes with an amazing
labial dexterity. Their conversation was low-voiced, sinister, and
terse, and their eyes narrowed as they watched the over-dressed,
scarlet-lipped girls go by. A great fear clutched at Ben Westerveld's
heart.

The lack of exercise and manual labour began to tell on Ben. He did not
grow fat from idleness. Instead his skin seemed to sag and hang on his
frame, like a garment grown too large for him. He walked a great deal.
Perhaps that had something to do with it. He tramped miles of city
pavements. He was a very lonely man. And then, one day, quite by
accident, he came upon South Water Street. Came upon it, stared at it as
a water-crazed traveller in a desert gazes upon t