the outward disapproval there was a secret admiration of the
superb nerve of the man. And there was little reluctance to help him in
the wild career he had chosen. It was so easy to go with him to the
edge of the precipice and let him take the plunge alone. Only the echo
of the criticism reached Brewster, for he had silenced Harrison with
work and Pettingill with opportunities. It troubled him little, as he
was engaged in jotting down items that swelled the profit side of his
ledger account enormously. The ball was bound to give him a good lead
in the race once more, despite the heavy handicap the Stock Exchange
had imposed. The "Little Sons" took off their coats and helped
Pettingill in the work of preparation. He found them quite superfluous,
for their ideas never agreed and each man had a way of preferring his
own suggestion. To Brewster's chagrin they were united in the effort to
curb his extravagance.

"He'll be giving automobiles and ropes of pearls for favors if we don't
stop him," said "Subway" Smith, after Monty had ordered a vintage
champagne to be served during the entire evening. "Give them two
glasses first, if you like, and then they won't mind if they have cider
the rest of the night."

"Monty is plain dotty," chimed Bragdon, "and the pace is beginning to
tell on him."

As a matter of fact the pace was beginning to tell on Brewster. Work
and worry were plainly having an effect on his health. His color was
bad, his eyes were losing their lustre, and there was a listlessness in
his actions that even determined effort could not conceal from his
friends. Little fits of fever annoyed him occasionally and he admitted
that he did not feel quite right.

"Something is wrong somewhere," he said, ruefully, "and my whole system
seems ready to stop work through sympathy."

Suddenly there was a mighty check to the preparations. Two days before
the date set for the ball everything came to a standstill and the
managers sank back in perplexity and consternation. Monty Brewster was
critically ill.

Appendicitis, the doctors called it, and an operation was imperative.

"Thank heaven it's fashionable," laughed Monty, who showed no fear of
the prospect. "How ridiculous if it had been the mumps, or if the
newspapers had said, 'On account of the whooping-cough, Mr. Brewster
did not attend his ball.'"

"You don't mean to say--the ball is off, of course," and Harrison was
really alarmed.

"Not a bit of it, Nopper," s