hed Tommy's legs saw the
air he thought the doctor might be a little mite gentler with the boy
orator. But Doc was getting old and he was probably tired. These
first autumn days before the snap and sparkle and snowy gleam of real
winter sets in always told on the older folks. They sort of seemed
tired and worried and sad.

So Joe stood there, looking at the purple and green and magenta-pink
lights of Martin's drug store, the sleepily winking lights of the
little station and the mellow golden glow of Sophie Forbes' yellow
parlor lamp. Then he turned and looked straight down his own street,
past the post-office, the tin shop, the dry-goods store to the spot
where a faint light seeped through drawn curtains and faint rowdy
noises came from behind closed doors.

It was what he guessed was behind those closed doors that had brought
Joe out of his shop bareheaded and caused him to feel as Doc Mitchell
maybe felt--a little old and sad and tired and even a bit helpless.

Usually on this first night of autumn Joe's shop was crowded with noisy
feet and voices of all sizes that squeaked one minute in a shrill
soprano and in the next sank to a ragged bass. Joe's shades were never
drawn and all the world could see the boys playing Old Maid and Rummy,
shooting caroms or sitting on the counter, swinging their feet, eating
apples and cracking nuts for themselves and Joe who was questioning
them about the day's happenings.

But to-night--involuntarily Joe turned and looked back into the soft
darkness of his little shop where the firelight flickered softly,
tenderly through the gloom. His heart cramped. Then he looked again
to the place where heavy curtains were drawn over dirty windows. He
caught again that muffled rough noise of young voices. And his mind
was made up.

He stepped back into his shop, turned on all the lights, put the basket
of ruddy apples on the counter, straightened the pile of old magazines
and pulled out the carom board, the box of chess and checkers. He took
a last housewifely look around, then put on his hat and coat and
started out. There was pain and anger and a terrible determination in
his usually gentle face.

But as he stepped to the door it opened, admitting Mrs. Jerry Dustin.
That sweet-faced little woman looked about with anxious eyes, then
turned to the little shoemaker.

"Joe--I'm looking for Peter. Wasn't he here with you? He said he was
coming here to see the boys."

"He was he