e," she cried again, having taken
a second view of him from still another angle, and in another light,
"that khaki's almost the color of your hair!"--which partly took the joy
out of things!

Yet, under the circumstances, no pang of any sort could endure very
long. Particularly as--following the proper signal--Johnnie went to Mrs.
Kukor's, Cis at his brown heels. Arrived, he saluted an astonished lady
who did not at first recognize him; then he took off the new hat to her.
She was quite stunned (naturally), and could only sink into a rocker,
hands waving, round head wagging. But next, a very torrent of
exclamations, all in Yiddish. After that, "Soch stylish!" she gasped
rapturously. "Pos-i-tivvle!"

Back in the flat again, Johnnie took off the uniform. That called for
will power; but he dared not longer risk his prized possession. Late
that night, when Big Tom had eaten to repletion of the watermelon, and
smoked himself to sleep on one of One-Eye's cigars, Johnnie reached in
around the jamb of Cis's door and cautiously drew that big suit box to
him. In the morning it would have to join the books upstairs. However,
for a happy, dark hour or two he could enjoy the outfit. How crisp and
clean and strong it felt! Blushing at his own foolishness, he lifted the
cowboy's gift to his lips and kissed it.

CHAPTER XXVIII

ANOTHER STORY

THE first Sunday in September was a day that Johnnie was never to
forget. Big Tom, Grandpa, Cis, and he--all were gathered about the
kitchen table for the noon meal when Father Pat and One-Eye came in, the
Father without his usual cheery greeting, though there was nothing
downcast in his look or manner. On the contrary, something of pride was
in his step, slow as that step was, and also in his glance, which
instantly sought out Johnnie. The face of the cowboy, however, was
stern, and that single eye, greener than either--or both--of the
Father's, was iron-hard and coldly averted.

As the hall door shut at their backs, the priest raised his right hand
in a gesture which was partly a salutation, partly a blessing. "Barber,"
he began solemnly (the longshoreman, having given the visitors a swift
and surly look, had gone on busily with his eating), "we've come this
mornin' about the Blake matter."

Startled, Big Tom threw down his knife and rose, instantly on the
defensive; and Johnnie and Cis, watching, understood at once that "the
Blake matter" was one known to the longshoreman, not