ed into the slumbering tenements, the
father spoke: "Well, son, here it is--the two kinds of playing, and here
we have what they call the bad people playing. The Van Dorns and the
Satterthwaites will tell you that vice is the recreation of the poor.
And it's more or less true." The elder man scratched his beard and faced
the stars: "It's a devilish puzzle. Character makes happiness; I've got
that down fine. But what makes character? Why is vice the recreation of
the poor? Why do we recruit most of our bad boys and all of our wayward
girls from those neighborhoods in every city where the poor live? Why
does the clerk on $12 a week uptown crowd into Doctor Jim's wedding
party, and the glass blower at $4 a day down here crowd into 'Big Em's'
and 'Joe's Place' and the 'Crescent'? Is poverty caused by vice; or is
vice a symptom of poverty? And why does the clerk's wife move in 'our
best circles' and the miner's wife, with exactly the same money to
spend, live in outer social darkness?"

"I've asked myself that question lots of times," exclaimed the youth. "I
can't make it work out on any theory. But I tell you, father," the son
clinched the hand that was free from the lines, and shook it, "it's
wrong--some way, somehow, it's wrong, way down at the bottom of
things--I don't know how nor why--but as sure as I live, I'll try to
find out."

The clang of an engine bell in the South Harvey railroad yards drowned
the son's answer. The two were crossing the track and turning the corner
that led to the South Harvey station. The midnight train was about due.
As the buggy came near the little gray box of a station a voice called,
"Adams--Adams," and a woman's voice, "Oh, Grant."

"Why," exclaimed the father, "it's the happy couple." Grant stopped the
horse and climbed out over the sleeping body of little Kenyon. "In a
moment," replied Grant. Then he came to a shadow under the station eaves
and saw the young people hiding. "Adams, you can help us," said Van
Dorn. "We slipped off in the Doctor's phaeton, to get away from the
guying crowd and we have tried to get the house on the 'phone, and in
some way they don't answer. The horse is tied over by the lumber yard
there. Will you take it home with you to-night, and deliver it to the
Doctor in the morning--whatever--" But Grant cut in:

"Why, of course. Glad to have the chance." He was awkward and ill at
ease, and repeated, "Why, of course, anything." But Van Dorn
interjected: "You unde