somehow to have pressing business whenever
they happened in his vicinity. The women ignored him. Mrs. Dankworth,
still dashing and still widowed, passed Ted one day and looked fixedly at
a point one inch above his head. In a town like ours the Haley House is
like a big, hospitable clubhouse. The men drop in there the first thing
in the morning, and the last thing at night, to hear the gossip and buy a
cigar and jolly the girl at the cigar counter. Ted spoke to them when
they spoke to him. He began to develop a certain grim line about the
mouth. Jo Haley watched him from afar, and the longer he watched the
kinder and more speculative grew the look in his eyes. And slowly and
surely there grew in the hearts of our townspeople a certain new respect
and admiration for this boy who was fighting his fight.

Ted got into the habit of taking his meals late, so that Birdie Callahan
could take the time to talk to him.

"Birdie," he said one day, when she brought his soup, "do you know that
you're the only decent woman who'll talk to me? Do you know what I mean
when I say that I'd give the rest of my life if I could just put my head
in my mother's lap and have her muss up my hair and call me foolish
names?"

Birdie Callahan cleared her throat and said abruptly: "I was noticin'
yesterday your gray pants needs pressin' bad. Bring 'em down tomorrow
mornin' and I'll give 'em th' elegant crease in the laundry."

So the first weeks went by, and the two months of Miss Wenzel's stay came
to an end. Ted thanked his God and tried hard not to wish that she was a
man so that he could punch her head.

The day before the time appointed for her departure she was closeted with
Jo Haley for a long, long time. When finally she emerged a bellboy
lounged up to Ted with a message.

"Wenzel says th' Old Man wants t' see you. 'S in his office. Say, Mr.
Terrill, do yuh think they can play to-day? It's pretty wet."

Jo Haley was sunk in the depths of his big leather chair. He did not
look up as Ted entered. "Sit down," he said. Ted sat down and waited,
puzzled.

"As a wizard at figures," mused Jo Haley at last, softly as though to
himself, "I'm a frost. A column of figures on paper makes my head swim.
But I can carry a whole regiment of 'em in my head. I know every time
the barkeeper draws one in the dark. I've been watchin' this thing for
the last two weeks hopin' you'd quit and come and tell me." He turned
suddenly and fa