quor selling has done him harm?"

"Well," Marty said slowly, "Walky takes a drink now and then.
Sometimes the drummers he hauls trunks and sample-cases for give him a
drink. As long as he couldn't get it in town, Walky never bothered
with the stuff much. But he was a little elevated Saturday
night--that's right."

"Oh!" gasped Janice, for the town expressman was one of her oldest
friends in Polktown, and a man in whom she took a deep interest.

A slow grin dawned again on Marty's freckled countenance. "Ye ought to
hear him when he's had a drink or two. You called him 'Talkworthy'
Dexter; and he sure is some talky when he's been imbibing."

"Oh, Marty, that's dreadful!" and Janice sighed. "It's just wicked!
Polktown's been a sleepy place, but it's never been wicked before."

Her cousin looked at her admiringly. "Hi jinks, Janice! I bet you got
it in your mind to stir things up again. I can see it in your eyes.
You give Polktown its first clean-up day, and you've shook up the dry
bones in general all over the shop. There's going to be _something
doing_, I reckon, that'll make 'em all set up and take notice."

"You talk as though I were one of these awful female reformers the
funny papers tell about," Janice said, with a little laugh. "You see
nothing in my eyes, Marty, unless it's tears for poor little Sophie
Narnay."

The cousins arrived at the old Day house and entered the grass-grown
yard. It was an old-fashioned, homely place, a rambling farmhouse up
to which the village had climbed. There was plenty of shade, lush
grass beneath the trees, with crocuses and other Spring flowers peeping
from the beds about the front porch, and sweet peas already breaking
the soil at the side porch and pump-bench.

A smiling, cushiony woman met Janice at the door, while Marty went
whistling barnward, having the chores to do. Aunt 'Mira nowadays
usually had a smile for everybody, but for Janice always.

"Your uncle's home, Janice," she said, "and he brought the mail."

"Oh!" cried the girl, with a quick intake of breath. "A letter from
daddy?"

"Wal--I dunno," said the fleshy woman. "I reckon it must be. Yet it
don't look just like Brocky Day's hand of write. See--here 'tis. It's
from Mexico, anyway."

The girl seized the letter with a gasp. "It--it's the same stationery
he uses," she said, with a note of thankfulness. "I--I guess it's all
right. I'll run right up and read it."

She flew upstairs to h