rate--"of all," (it is
needless to enumerate the name of the gods by which Tom swore) "yer
doing with them sapling pines?"

"Mind yer business," Billy returned, panting under the last load. "Put
'em on the train; that's you're lookout; and here's the money to pay for
their ticket down State." Billy had found the money in an envelope tied
to the trees.

"Well, I'll--be--blowed." Tom spelled out the address and took the
money.

"Where does these hail from?" he asked.

"From the bungalow," Billy replied with unlooked-for promptness.

Tom had nothing more to say. The bungalow people had the right of way on
the branch road. To and from the Junction the name of Drew was one to
conjure with.

"I guess," Tom spat wide and far, "I guess she's aiming to decorate the
hull blamed town, back there, with greens. She don't mind slashing, she
don't."

"Shut up!" Billy commanded. Tom turned to look at the boy, who in the
recent past had been his legitimate property, in common with others, to
kick and swear at.

"Well by--" But he neither kicked nor swore at Billy. He relieved
himself by expressing his feelings to inanimate objects.

Then Billy went up to the tavern. The dull pain was relaxing. The fine,
cold air was clearing his muddled wits, and he felt the milk of human
kindness reasserting itself in his new-born nature.

"Mr. Tate," he asked boldly, stepping behind the screen to the men's
side. "Any letters here for Joyce?"

Tate, bending over a cask of beer, raised himself, and gave Billy the
compliment of a long, hard stare.

"Your voice changing, Billy?" he asked blandly. "Gosh! you've growed up
terrible suddint. What you doing home in the middle of the season?"

"Got--sick," Billy muttered quite truthfully. "Any letters for Joyce?"

"I don't keep letters on _this_ side, son."

Tate felt compelled to cater to what he recognized in Billy. "And
whoever heard of Joyce having letters? If you mean Gaston's mail she's
sent for, then I reply straight and honest, and you can tell her--I know
_my_ business!

"When Gaston calls for his mail, he gets it. When he wants Joyce to have
it--he's got to send order for same. The Government down to Washington,
D.C., knowed who it was selecting when it chose Leon Tate for
Postmaster.

"Billy, you've changed more in a few months than any one I ever seed.
You--" he hesitated, and grinned foolishly--"you feel--like a drink o'
anything?"

The subtle compliment to his manhood thri