y swing round the glorious ten minutes that they spent together in the
twilight.

"Yes, I like you all right," he said, twisting his big, grease-stained
hands in embarrassment. "You're the onliest girl I ever could care
about. Besides, I couldn't go with no other girl if I wanted to, 'cause
I don't know none."

Is it small wonder that Ben Schenk's glib protestations, reinforced by
Mrs. Beaver's own zealous approval, should have in time outclassed the
humble Joe? The blow fell just when the second term of night school was
over, and Joe was looking forward to long summer evenings of unlimited
joy.

He had bought two tickets for a river excursion, and was hurrying into
the Beavers' when he encountered a stolid bulwark in the form of Mrs.
Beaver, whose portly person seemed permanently wedged into the narrow
aperture of the front door. She sat in silent majesty, her hands just
succeeding in clasping each other around her ample waist. Had she closed
her eyes, she might have passed for a placid, amiable person, whose
angles of disposition had also become curves. But Mrs. Beaver did not
close her eyes. She opened them as widely as the geography of her face
would permit, and coldly surveyed Joe Ridder.

Mrs. Beaver was a born manager; she had managed her husband into an
untimely grave, she had managed her daughter from the hour she was
born, she had dismissed three preachers, induced two women to leave
their husbands, and now dogmatically announced herself arbiter of
fashions and conduct in Rear Ninth Street.

"No, she can't see you," she said firmly in reply to Joe's question.
"She's going out to a dance party with Mr. Schenk."

"Where at?" demanded Joe, who still trembled in her presence.

"Somewheres down town," said Mrs. Beaver, "to a real swell party."

"He oughtn't to take her to no down-town dance," said Joe, his
indignation getting the better of his shyness. "I don't want her to go,
and I'm going to tell her so."

"In-deed!" said Mrs. Beaver in scorn. "And what have you got to say
about it? I guess Mr. Schenk's got the right to take her anywhere he
wants to!"

"What right?" demanded Joe, getting suddenly a bit dizzy.

"'Cause he's got engaged to her. He's going to give her a real handsome
turquoise ring, fourteen-carat gold."

"Didn't Mittie send me no word?" faltered Joe.

"No," said Mrs. Beaver unhesitatingly, though she had in her pocket a
note for him from the unhappy Mittie.

Joe fumbled for his ha