but even Nellie might be
persuaded to throw herself on his neck and beg for reinstatement in
his good graces. With men like Harvey the ill wind never blows long or
steadily; it blows the hardest under cover of night. The sunshine
takes the keen, bitter edge off it, and it becomes a balmy zephyr.

Already he was planning the readjustment of his fortunes.

At length the van was loaded. His suitcase sat on the front porch,
puny and pathetic. The owner of the house was there, superintending
the boarding up of the windows and doors. Harvey stood in the middle
of the walk, looking on with a strange yearning in his heart. All of
his worldly possessions reposed in that humble bag, save the cotton
umbrella that he carried in his hand. A cotton umbrella, with the
mercury down to zero!

"Well, I'm sorry you're leaving," said the owner, pocketing the keys
as he came up to the little man. "Can I give you a lift in my cutter
down to the station?"

"If it isn't too much bother," said Harvey, blinking his eyes very
rapidly.

"You're going to the city, I suppose."

"The city?"

"New York."

"Oh," said Harvey, wide-eyed and thoughtful, "I--I thought you meant
Blakeville. I'm going out there for a visit with my Uncle Peter. He's
the leading photographer in Blakeville. My mother's brother. No, I'm
not going to New York. Not on your life!"

All the way to the station he was figuring on how far the twenty
dollars would go toward paying his fare to Blakeville. How far could
he ride on the cars, and how far would he have to walk? And what would
his crabbed old uncle say to an extended visit in case he got to
Blakeville without accident?

He bought some cigarettes at the newsstand and sat down to wait for
the first train to turn up, westward bound.

CHAPTER VIII

BLAKEVILLE

If by any chance you should happen to stop off in the sleepy town of
Blakeville, somewhere west of Chicago, you would be directed at once
to the St. Nicholas Hotel, not only the leading hostelry of the city,
but--to quote the advertisement in the local newspaper--the principal
hotel in that Congressional district. After you had been conducted to
the room with a bath--for I am sure you would insist on having it if
it were not already occupied, which wouldn't be likely--you would
cross over to the window and look out upon Main Street. Directly
across the way you would observe a show window in which huge bottles
filled with red, yellow, and blue flu