the insurance companies would have inquired curiously into any arrangement
for heating that gloomy space on the tops of the bins, the plan had to be
given up.

As soon as the last of the grain was in, on the thirty-first, Max took a
north-bound car and scoured South Chicago for a hall that was big enough.
Before the afternoon was gone he had found it, and had arranged with
a restaurant keeper to supply the dinner. Early the next morning the
three set to work, making long tables and benches by resting planks on
boxes, and covering the tables with pink and blue and white scalloped
shelf-paper.

It was nearly ten o'clock when Max, after draping a twenty-four-foot flag
in a dozen different ways, let it slide down the ladder to the floor and
sat down on the upper round, looking out over the gridiron of tables with
a disgusted expression. Peterson, aided by a man from the restaurant, was
bringing in load after load of thick white plates, stacking them waist
high near the door. Max was on the point of calling to him, but he
recollected that Pete's eye, though quick with timbers, would not help
much in questions of art. Just then Bannon came through the doorway with
another flag rolled under his arm.

"They're here already, a couple of dozen of 'em," he said, as he dropped
the flag at the foot of the ladder. "I've left James on the stairs to keep
'em out until we're ready. Better have an eye on the fire escape, too--
they're feeling pretty lively."

"Say," Max said abruptly, "I can't make this thing look anyhow. I guess
it's up to you."

Bannon stepped back and looked up at the wall.

"Why don't you just hang them from the ceiling and then catch them up from
pretty near the bottom--so they'll drape down on both sides of the
windows?"

"I know," said Max, "but there's ways of making 'em look just right--if
Hilda was here; she'd know--" He paused and looked down at the red, white,
and blue heap on the floor.

During the last week they had not spoken of Hilda, and Bannon did not know
whether she had told Max. He glanced at him, but got no sign, for Max was
gazing moodily downward.

"Do you think," Bannon said, "do you think she'd care to come around?"

He tried to speak easily, as he might have spoken of her at any time
before Christmas Day, but he could not check a second glance at Max. At
that moment Max looked up, and as their eyes met, with an awkward pause,
Bannon knew that he understood; and for a moment the imp