you like boys?" he asked gravely of Hilda.

"Adore them!" she cried.

"All right, I don't care," he answered his sister in triumph.

The air brakes began to make themselves felt, and shortly the train came
to a grinding stop.

"What station is this?" Thorpe asked the colored porter.

"Shingleville, sah," the latter replied.

"I thought so. Wallace, when did their mill burn, anyway? I haven't
heard about it."

"Last spring, about the time you went down."

"Is THAT so? How did it happen?"

"They claim incendiarism," parried Wallace cautiously.

Thorpe pondered a moment, then laughed. "I am in the mixed attitude of
the small boy," he observed, "who isn't mean enough to wish anybody's
property destroyed, but who wishes that if there is a fire, to be where
he can see it. I am sorry those fellows had to lose their mill, but it
was a good thing for us. The man who set that fire did us a good turn.
If it hadn't been for the burning of their mill, they would have made a
stronger fight against us in the stock market."

Wallace and Hilda exchanged glances. The girl was long since aware of
the inside history of those days.

"You'll have to tell them that," she whispered over the back of her
seat. "It will please them."

"Our station is next!" cried Thorpe, "and it's only a little ways. Come,
get ready!"

They all crowded into the narrow passage-way near the door, for the
train barely paused.

"All right, sah," said the porter, swinging down his little step.

Thorpe ran down to help the ladies. He was nearly taken from his feet
by a wild-cat yell, and a moment later that result was actually
accomplished by a rush of men that tossed him bodily onto its shoulders.
At the same moment, the mill and tug whistles began to screech,
miscellaneous fire-arms exploded. Even the locomotive engineer, in the
spirit of the occasion, leaned down heartily on his whistle rope. The
saw-dust street was filled with screaming, jostling men. The homes of
the town were brilliantly draped with cheesecloth, flags and bunting.

For a moment Thorpe could not make out what had happened. This turmoil
was so different from the dead quiet of desertion he had expected, that
he was unable to gather his faculties. All about him were familiar faces
upturned to his own. He distinguished the broad, square shoulders of
Scotty Parsons, Jack Hyland, Kerlie, Bryan Moloney; Ellis grinned at
him from the press; Billy Camp, the fat and shiny drive cook; Ma