rd day he had been at work when John was given
his first assignment. He saw P. Q. rise from his chair and look over the
reporters at their desks and he heard him call his name.

"Here, Gallant, I want you to do something," the city editor said. "Lawn
fete--charity stuff--out at palatial home of the Barton Randolphs.
Society affair. Must have representative there. No story. Society editor
takes care of that. Just get list of names and how much money they take
in. Here's admission card. Beat it."

John was disappointed. He had hoped for something with a touch of
adventure. Not until he left the office did he fully realize where he
was going. Society lawn fete! He looked down at his well worn suit and
remembered the patch on his trousers beneath his coat tail.

CHAPTER III

The home of the Barton Randolphs, in West Adams street, was one of the
old mansions of that exclusive colony toward which the business district
of Los Angeles was advancing, block by block. Set back from the street,
its immaculate lawn dotted with shade-giving sycamore trees, it was
reminiscent of one of the "stately homes of England." An iron fence
topped with spear heads gave it a finishing touch of haughtiness.

John liked to think of homes and of trees as people. A stiffly built,
sharply roofed house with "gingerbread" trimmings reminded him of a prim
old maid. He imagined that he knew what sort of person owned a
particular house simply by studying it. Houses, especially old homes,
fascinated him and he worshiped trees with the fervor that inspired
Joyce Kilmer.

The Barton Randolph home made John think of a fine old aristocrat,
holding aloof from the world, conservative and with a love for old
fashions and old friends, a contempt for things that are modern. As he
stood at the gate he thought that the mansion was glaring at him with an
upturned nose and this imaginative quirk caused him to hesitate to
enter.

Before him on the cool green lawn moved groups of men and women, the
women in snowy white. At intervals there were tea tables around which
were couples, chatting languidly. Servants moved with quiet efficiency
from the tables to the house and back again. The shade spread by the
sycamore trees was pierced with shafts of sunlight that gave the lawn a
mottled look. It seemed a place removed from all the world.

Once more John looked at his shabby suit, his dusty, worn shoes.
Unconsciously he tugged at his coat tail because of an i