f a lot of use, aren't
you? Two and two are four and three are seven--take off the discount.
That's right. It's a man's work, isn't it?"

"Somebody's got to do this sort of thing," protested the small part of
his brain that earned the two-fifty per working day. "And it's a great
anaesthetic. He can't think when he's doing it. There's something
practical about figures, and--rational."

He dressed quickly, ascertaining that he had enough money to buy a
five-dollar ticket at Mrs. McKee's; and, having given up the love of
woman with other things, he was careful not to look about for Sidney on
his way.

He breakfasted at Mrs. McKee's, and was initiated into the mystery of
the ticket punch. The food was rather good, certainly plentiful;
and even his squeamish morning appetite could find no fault with the
self-respecting tidiness of the place. Tillie proved to be neat and
austere. He fancied it would not be pleasant to be very late for one's
meals--in fact, Sidney had hinted as much. Some of the "mealers"--the
Street's name for them--ventured on various small familiarities of
speech with Tillie. K. Le Moyne himself was scrupulously polite, but
reserved. He was determined not to let the Street encroach on his
wretchedness. Because he had come to live there was no reason why it
should adopt him. But he was very polite. When the deaf-and-dumb book
agent wrote something on a pencil pad and pushed it toward him, he
replied in kind.

"We are very glad to welcome you to the McKee family," was what was
written on the pad.

"Very happy, indeed, to be with you," wrote back Le Moyne--and realized
with a sort of shock that he meant it.

The kindly greeting had touched him. The greeting and the breakfast
cheered him; also, he had evidently made some headway with Tillie.

"Don't you want a toothpick?" she asked, as he went out.

In K.'s previous walk of life there had been no toothpicks; or, if there
were any, they were kept, along with the family scandals, in a closet.
But nearly a year of buffeting about had taught him many things. He took
one, and placed it nonchalantly in his waistcoat pocket, as he had seen
the others do.

Tillie, her rush hour over, wandered back into the kitchen and poured
herself a cup of coffee. Mrs. McKee was reweighing the meat order.

"Kind of a nice fellow," Tillie said, cup to lips--"the new man."

"Week or meal?"

"Week. He'd be handsome if he wasn't so grouchy-looking. Lit up some
when Mr. Wa