s eyes wandering toward them. The name of Margaret Mueller
had reached his ears. But Fenn went on, lowering his voice: "I honestly
believe she could, if any one could." Fenn put his lean, tapering hand
upon Brotherton's broad fat paw, and smiled a quaint, appreciative
smile, frank and gentle. It was one of those smiles that carried
agreement with what had been said, and with everything that might be
said. Brotherton took up the hallelujah chorus for Margaret with: "Fine
girl--bright, keen--well say, did you know she's buying the books here
of me for the chautauqua course and is trying for a degree--something in
her head besides hairpins--well, say!"

He stopped in the middle of the sentence, and brought down his great
hand on his knee. "Well, say--observe me the prize idiot! Get the blue
ribbon and pin it on your Uncle George. Look here at me overlooking the
main bet. Well, say, Henry--here are the specifications of one large
juicy plan. Funeral to-morrow--old man Mauling; obliging party to die.
Uncle George and the angel choir to officiate with Uncle George doubling
in brass as pall-bearer. The new Mrs. Sands, our bell-voiced contralto,
is sick: also obliging party to be sick. Need new contralto: Mueller girl
has voice like morning star, or stars, as the case may be." Fenn flashed
on his electric smile, and rose, looking a question.

"That's the idea, Henry, that finally wormed its way into my master
mind," cried Brotherton, laughing his big laugh. "That's what I said
before I spoke. You are to drive into Prospect Township this
evening--Hey, Grant," called Brotherton to the boy on the bench in the
Amen corner, "Does that pretty school ma'am board with you people?" And
when Grant shook his head, Brotherton went on: "Yes--she's moved across
the district I remember now. Well, anyway, Henry, you're to drive into
Prospect Township this evening and produce one large, luscious brunette
contralto for choir practice at General Nesbit's piano at eight o'clock
sharp." He stood facing Fenn whose eyes were glowing. The lurking devil
seemed to slink away from him. Brotherton, seeing the change, again
burst into his laugh and bringing Fenn to the front of the store roared:
"Well, say--Hennery--are there any flies on your Uncle George's scheme?"

Grant began buttoning his coat. Fenn, free for the moment of his devil,
was happy, and Brotherton looked at the two and cried, "Now get out of
here--the both of you: you're spiling trade. An