son contracts. If for any reason we hang up the drive, or
fail to deliver promptly, we're going to get left the year following.
And then it's B-U-S-T, bust."

"Well, we'll just try not to hang her," replied Orde.

XVI

Orde's bank account, in spite of his laughing assertion to Newmark,
contained some eleven hundred dollars. After a brief but comprehensive
tour of inspection over all the works then forward, he drew a hundred
of this and announced to Newmark that business would take him away for
about two weeks.

"I have some private affairs to attend to before settling down to
business for keeps," he told Newmark vaguely.

At Redding, whither he went to pack his little sole-leather trunk, he
told Grandma Orde the same thing. She said nothing at the time, but
later, when Grandpa Orde's slender figure had departed, very courteous,
very erect, very dignified, with its old linen duster flapping around
it, she came and stood by the man leaning over the trunk.

"Speak to her, Jack," said she quietly. "She cares for you."

Orde looked up in astonishment, but he did not pretend to deny the
implied accusation as to his destination.

"Why, mother!" he cried. "She's only seen me three or four times! It's
absurd--yet."

"I know," nodded Grandma Orde, wisely. "I know. But you mark my words;
she cares for you."

She said nothing more, but stood looking while Orde folded and laid
away, his head bent low in thought. Then she placed her hand for
an instant on his shoulder and went away. The Ordes were not a
demonstrative people.

The journey to New York was at that time very long and disagreeable, but
Orde bore it with his accustomed stoicism. He had visited the metropolis
before, so it was not unfamiliar to him. He was very glad, however, to
get away from the dust and monotony of the railroad train. The September
twilight was just falling. Through its dusk the street lamps were
popping into illumination as the lamp-lighter made his rapid way. Orde
boarded a horse-car and jingled away down Fourth Avenue. He was pleased
at having arrived, and stretched his legs and filled his lungs twice
with so evident an enjoyment that several people smiled.

His comfort was soon disturbed, however, by an influx of people boarding
the car at Twenty-third Street. The seats were immediately filled, and
late comers found themselves obliged to stand in the aisle. Among these
were several women. The men nearest buried themselves in the