sible. He had been
tricked, and tricked nicely, and he might as well go back.

When he was a block from the station the rain changed to a sudden fine
drizzle and halted. The umbrella business was ended for the afternoon.
Nevertheless, he had been fairly successful. If that old maid had paid
what was due him, the small change in his pocket would have totaled a
dollar and thirty cents. But ninety-five cents wasn't bad, as it was.

He sauntered in from the dark street a few minutes later and stacked the
dripping umbrellas in the rack in the hallway. Then he burst into the
kitchen to tell his mother the news.

"What will you do with all that money, son?"

He blinked a moment at the brilliancy of the gas-light, and guessed he'd
save most of it. At that Mrs. Fletcher smiled, and he grinned sheepishly
back. She had probably guessed the secret. Mothers had uncanny ways of
seeing right into fellows, and he might as well tell her now.

"Louise and I are going to be married when I'm twenty-one," he blurted.
"I'm starting to save now, and she's going to get her mother to teach
her how to cook beefsteaks and keep house."

Then he ducked from her amused kisses and ran up to his room. Down came
the pig bank from the resting place on the bureau, and out on the white
coverlet came the result of his work. Piece by piece the money
disappeared in the narrow slot, until not even a nickel was left for
lemon drops at the school store. Then he shook the porker with
satisfaction. It didn't sound so empty now, and the hungry look seemed
to have disappeared from the yellow china face. The eyes held an
expression of sleepy content, if an insensate bit of china could do such
a thing.

Ninety-six cents was a good start. But he'd have to hustle every minute
of Saturday morning. The advent of autumn had so discouraged the growth
of grass on the home street that he would have to invade Southern
Avenue. Surely he could find some sort of a job on that long,
well-groomed street.

After breakfast he sneaked off to drag the lawn-mower from its storage
place in the basement. The rattle and bang of the iron frame against the
area steps caught Mrs. Fletcher's alert ear. She raised the little
side-pantry window and looked out as he lifted the implement up on the
walk.

"John!"

"Yes, Mother?" A sheepish note crept into his voice. "Taking the mower
out of the basement; that's all."

"Where are you going with it?"

Oh, nowhere in particular. He ho