s impatient of the fact that she could not
appreciate. Now the fat was in the fire again. He felt that. Under
other circumstances he would have said that it was much more trouble
than it was worth to keep in the good graces of a girl, but under the
present circumstances--well, his heart had sunk down about a foot out
of place, and he had a sort of faint feeling in the region of his
stomach. He was just about sick. He followed her in, just in time to
see the flutter of her skirts at the top of the stairway, but he could
not call without making himself and her ridiculous. Confound things in
general!

Mr. Stevens joined him while he was still looking into that blank hole
in the world.

"Glad I happened to be here, Sam," said Stevens. "Jo tells me that
your brother and Mr. Creamer have arrived and that you want to form
that company right away."

"Yes," admitted Sam. "Was she sarcastic about it?"

Mr. Stevens closed his eyes and laughed.

"Not exactly sarcastic," he stated; "but she did allude to your
proposed corporation as 'that old company!'"

"I was afraid so," said Sam ruefully.

Stevens surveyed him in amusement for a moment, and then in pity.

"Never mind, my boy," he said kindly. "You'll get used to these things
by and by. It took me the first five years of my married life to
convince Mrs. Stevens that business was not a rival to her affections,
when, if I'd only have known the recipe, I could have convinced her at
the start."

"How did you finally do it?" asked Sam, vitally interested.

"Made her my confidante and adviser," stated Stevens, smiling
reminiscently.

Sam shook his head.

"Was that safe?" he asked. "Didn't she sometimes let out your secrets?"

"Bosh!" exclaimed Stevens. "I'd rather trust a woman than a man, any
day, with a secret, business or personal. That goes for any woman;
mother, sister, sweetheart, wife, daughter, or stenographer. Just give
them a chance to get interested in your game, and they're with you
against the world."

"Thanks," said Sam, putting that bit of information aside for future
pondering. "By the way, Mr. Stevens, before we join the others I'd
like to ask you how much stock you're going to carry in the Marsh Pulp
Company."

"Well," returned Mr. Stevens slowly, "I did think that if the thing
looked good on final analysis, I might invest twenty-five thousand
dollars."

"Can't you stretch that to fifty?"

"Can't see it. But why? Don't you think