ped to turn up the trousers for her. Lottie
was his sister, and in the secret. To her was due the inveigling of his
mother into making a neighborhood call so that they could have the house
to themselves. They went down into the kitchen where Joe was waiting.
His face brightened as he came to meet her, love shining frankly forth.

"Now get up those skirts, Lottie," he commanded. "Haven't any time to
waste. There, that'll do. You see, you only want the bottoms of the
pants to show. The coat will cover the rest. Now let's see how it'll
fit.

"Borrowed it from Chris; he's a dead sporty sport--little, but oh, my!"
he went on, helping Genevieve into an overcoat which fell to her heels
and which fitted her as a tailor-made overcoat should fit the man for
whom it is made.

Joe put a cap on her head and turned up the collar, which was generous to
exaggeration, meeting the cap and completely hiding her hair. When he
buttoned the collar in front, its points served to cover the cheeks, chin
and mouth were buried in its depths, and a close scrutiny revealed only
shadowy eyes and a little less shadowy nose. She walked across the room,
the bottom of the trousers just showing as the bang of the coat was
disturbed by movement.

"A sport with a cold and afraid of catching more, all right all right,"
the boy laughed, proudly surveying his handiwork. "How much money you
got? I'm layin' ten to six. Will you take the short end?"

"Who's short?" she asked.

"Ponta, of course," Lottie blurted out her hurt, as though there could be
any question of it even for an instant.

"Of course," Genevieve said sweetly, "only I don't know much about such
things."

This time Lottie kept her lips together, but the new hurt showed on her
face. Joe looked at his watch and said it was time to go. His sister's
arms went about his neck, and she kissed him soundly on the lips. She
kissed Genevieve, too, and saw them to the gate, one arm of her brother
about her waist.

"What does ten to six mean?" Genevieve asked, the while their footfalls
rang out on the frosty air.

"That I'm the long end, the favorite," he answered. "That a man bets ten
dollars at the ring side that I win against six dollars another man is
betting that I lose."

"But if you're the favorite and everybody thinks you'll win, how does
anybody bet against you?"

"That's what makes prize-fighting--difference of opinion," he laughed.
"Besides, there's always the chance