s of work in me. We're going back to the farm."

Bella turned on him, a wildcat. "We ain't! Not me! We ain't! I'm not
agoin' back to the farm."

But Ben Westerveld was master again in his own house. "You're goin'
back, Bella," he said, quietly. "An' things are goin' to be different.
You're goin' to run the house the way I say, or I'll know why. If you
can't do it, I'll get them in that can. An' me and Dike, we're goin'
back to our wheat and our apples and our hogs. Yessir! There ain't a
bigger man-size job in the world."

THE DANCING GIRLS

When, on opening a magazine, you see a picture of a young man in uniform
with a background of assorted star-shells in full flower; a young man in
uniform gazing into the eyes of a young lady (in uniform); a young man
in uniform crouching in a trench, dugout, or shell-hole, this happens:

You skip lightly past the story of the young man in uniform; you jump
hurriedly over the picture; and you plunge into the next story, noting
that it is called "The Crimson Emerald" and that, judging from the
pictures, all the characters in it wear evening clothes all the time.

Chug Scaritt took his dose of war with the best of them, but this is of
Chug before and after taking. If, inadvertently, there should sound a
faintly martial note it shall be stifled at once with a series of those
stylish dots ... indicative of what the early Victorian writers
conveniently called a drawn veil.

Nothing could be fairer than that.

Chug Scaritt was (and is) the proprietor and sole owner of the Elite
Garage, and he pronounced it with a long i. Automobile parties, touring
Wisconsin, used to mistake him for a handy man about the place and would
call to him, "Heh, boy! Come here and take a look at this engine. She
ain't hitting." When Chug finished with her she was hitting, all right.
A medium-sized young fellow in the early twenties with a serious mouth,
laughing eyes, and a muscular grace pretty well concealed by the
grease-grimed grotesquerie of overalls. Out of the overalls and in his
tight-fitting, belted green suit and long-visored green cap and flat
russet shoes he looked too young and insouciant to be the sole
owner--much less the proprietor--of anything so successful and
established as the Elite Garage.

In a town like Chippewa, Wisconsin--or in any other sort of town, for
that matter--a prosperous garage knows more about the scandals of the
community than does a barber-shop, a dressmaker-