The Project Gutenberg eBook of Pippin; A Wandering Flame, by Laura E. Richards.

When the Matron appeared again, accompanied by an older woman of severe aspect, Pippin was sitting on the cellar door, half-buried in children. One little imp was sitting astride his neck, hammering time on his chest with sturdy heels; a six-year-old girl clung to either shoulder, two or three more were on his knees, the rest sat or knelt or squatted as close as they could get; and Pippin, his head thrown back, his eyes fixed on the maple leaves overhead, was shouting at the top of his lungs:

"Darling, I am growing o-hold!
Silver threads among the gold
Shine upon my brow to-day-hay,
Life is fading fast away!"

As the song ended, before the Matron could make her presence known, the bull pup known as Jimmy fell silently upon his nearest neighbor, a boy somewhat bigger than himself, and pommeled him ferociously. The victim shrieking aloud, Pippin seized the pup by the scruff of his neck, dragged him off, and held him at arm's length, wriggling and clawing the air, his eyes darting fire.

"Hold still, pup! hold still! I'm bigger'n you be. Now then, you, leave him be, you hear me? I expect you did pinch him all right, all right; you look like a pincher. Now look at here! Can you wrestle, you two?"

"Green grass! What are you made of? Putty, or dough-scrapin's?" This to the yelper, while still holding the yapper well in hand. "Now if we could make a ring, and leave you fight it out sensible, and—"

The Matron stepped quickly forward. Pippin, aware of her, scrambled to his feet, shaking off (very gently, be sure) all but the urchin on his neck, who only clung the tighter; and still holding the bull pup—by the collar now—he beamed on the Matron.

"I was sayin', lady," he said, "that if you'd leave me make a ring, and these two pups fight it out, we'd see which would lick, and they'd be friends from now on. What say?"

The Matron said, "No!" decidedly, and at a word from her the children scuttled into the house by their side door, albeit with many a backward glance.

Pippin looked longingly after the freckled pup. "There's a kid I like!" he said. "I could do something with that kid if I had him. 'Tother one's a low-down skeezicks by the look of him. Here's the knife, lady; I hope it's satisfactory."

It was; but the two ladies desired a word with Pippin indoors, if he could leave his wheel. Pippin expected he could; he'd never knowed the Nipper to bolt, nor even shy. "After you, ladies!" Now who taught Pippin to hold the door open and bow with the grace of a young birch in the wind?

The Matron wondered, but said nothing. The three passed into a cool inexpressive parlor which had no opinion about anything, and sat down on three Mission chairs to match.

"This is Mrs. Faulkner," said the Matron; "the Assistant Matron. I am Mrs. Appleby. Your name is—?"

"Pippin Nix—what I would say, it's all the name I've got. Not bein' acquainted with my parents—you see—"

"I see! It seems a curious name—The point is this. Mrs. Faulkner and I think we know—"

"Think we may possibly know!" struck in Mrs. Faulkner, speaking for the first time, and then shutting her mouth with a snap as if she feared a word too much might escape.

"—May possibly know," Mrs. Appleby corrected herself, "the girl you are looking for."

"Green grass! Is that so?" Pippin smote his thigh, was confounded, and asked pardon, all in a breath.

Mrs. Faulkner bent severe brows on him, and Pippin reflected what a blessing it was Mrs. Baxter didn't ever look like that.

"We keep in touch with our girls," Mrs. Appleby continued, "till they marry or reach the age of twenty-five. The young woman we have now in mind is eighteen years old, and a very fine girl."

"Remain seated, if you please! We will come to that presently. We know her under a name slightly different from the one you have heard. Mrs. Faulkner remembers that her mother told her she had altered the name in order that the father should not trace the child."

"She was perfectly right!" Mrs. Faulkner's aspect was rigid to the point of awfulness. "She was a decent woman, and wished her child decently brought up. Her husband was a reprobate!"

"Meanin' long for 'rip'?" Pippin leaned forward eagerly, with pleading eyes and voice. "He sure was, lady! Yep, Old Man Blossom was a rip from Riptown, and so remains; but yet there never was any harm in him. What I would say—he's a crook, and a bo, and not the guy for family life anyways you look at it; but he never was a mean guy. He never hit from behind; there was no sandbaggin' in his; just he'd give you one on the jaw if he couldn't cop the swag without, you see. Now that's square, you see, for a crook! But—" Mrs. Faulkner's eyes glared wholly unresponsive. He glanced at Mrs. Appleby, and seeing, or thinking he saw, a faint glimmer that might mean an inward twinkle, addressed himself to her.

"You see how 'tis, lady! And now he's on the blink—that is, near his end, you see, and he wants his little gal; wants her bad. And—bein' a bo myself, it ain't for me to p'int out things to ladies like youse, but if she's the kind of gal like you say, mightn't she think, say, 'Well, after all, he's my dad, and I'm his kid, and 'twon't do me a mite of harm to give him a look in.' What say?"

"You say he is dying?" said the elder woman. "Has he suffered any change of heart? Does he repent of his evil ways?"

"Not yet he ain't!" Pippin flushed and his hands clenched; he seemed to hear the snicker once more. "But the way I look at it is this, lady!" He bent forward again, all shyness gone now, his brown face aglow. "'Look out for the grace of God!' says Elder Hadley to me. 'Wherever you look for it, you'll find it!' he says. 'If you don't,' he says, 'it's your own fault, for it's sure there somewhere!' he says. Well, I tried, honest I did, to find grace in Old Man Blossom, and all I could find was he wanted his little gal. So—well! What I would say, God moves in a myster'ous way, His wonders to perform; (sung to 'Albayno,' common metre, fine hymn, though a mite sober!) and how do I know but wantin' his little gal was the way was took by—by Them as has the handlin' of things—" a reverent jerk of the head toward the sky—"and—well—that's the way it struck me!" Pippin concluded lamely.

The tears stood in Mrs. Appleby's kind eyes, and even Mrs. Faulkner's severity was perceptibly abated.

"Yes—of course we must. Pippin, I believe all you say—" she glanced a trifle defiantly at her assistant—"because I cannot help it. I am sure you have told us the truth; but we cannot take action—we cannot tell you where Mary Fl—where the young woman is, until we have proof of your respectability and the steadiness of your purpose. You will understand that, I am sure. Well—now! Bring us a note from Mr. Hadley, and we will tell you where she is, and will recommend her employ—that is, the people with whom she is staying—to allow her to visit her father. This is all we can do!"

"You're a perfect lady, ma'am!" he said. "I see that the minute I laid eyes on you. I'll get that note if it takes a leg! 'Twon't take above a week to get to Shoreham—say a day there, and another week back—walkin', you understand—say two weeks, and I'll be back if I'm alive. I'm a thousand times obliged to you, lady—and you too, ma'am!" His smile loosened the strictures about Mrs. Faulkner's heart—a good heart, but over-institutionalized by years of routine—and sent a warm glow through her.

"I'll wish you good day—say!" he stopped suddenly. "About that pup—I would say kid: him with the freckles and the bull-dog grip. I like that kid. He's got sand, a whole bag of it. If you was lookin' for a home for him when he leaves this joint—but I guess we better leave that till I bring that note, what say? Good day, ladies! Come up, Nipper!" And with a comprehensive wave and smile that took in every eager face glued to the playroom window, Pippin went his way.

CHAPTER XV
PIPPIN MEETS AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE

PIPPIN went his way, planning his expedition as he went. He would start that evening, in the cool. Pay up at his joint, and he might leave Nipper there, mebbe. Decent folks, and he could travel quicker—No! he would take Nipper along, and give 'em a good sharpenin' up all round over there. The Warden's boys—they'd be glad to see him, he expected. A boy's knife always needed 'tendin' to; and the Warden! He was real good, he might have some tools, and he could go into the shop—green grass! he really believed he'd be glad to see the old place again! Now wouldn't that give you a pain?

Was that because he warn't obleeged to go, think, or because he found the Lord there, and there was a manner of blessin' on the place for him?—"Easy there!"

The last remark was not addressed to himself. He was crossing the street with perhaps a dozen other persons, between two halted phalanxes of motor cars, drays, wagons; midway a monumental policeman held a fraction of the world in the hollow of his hand. Just in front of Pippin was a stout gentleman, puffing nervously, his gold-framed gaze fixed intently on the sidewalk haven before him. Suddenly a boy—he was no more—stumbled over Pippin's feet, lurched forward, and fell heavily against the stout gentleman with a cry of alarm. The gentleman turned quickly. As he did so, Pippin's left arm shot out; he caught the boy and held him, struggling and kicking.

Pippin nodded toward the further sidewalk, and made his way thither, dragging his prisoner by the collar. The stout gentleman followed, bewildered.

"You wouldn't," said Pippin gently. "His hand was in your pocket, that's all, sir. Easy, bo! Nix on the fade-away, neither; I've got your shirt, too, see? Why not take it easy?"

The boy, who had been trying to wriggle out of his jacket, gave it up and stood sullen and silent, with clenched hands. The stout gentleman looked distressed. "You mean—" he said "—you fear the lad is a pickpocket?"

"That's what! Open your fins, Jimmy! drop the swagglekins! What? Need a little help, do you?"

Pippin was standing discreetly in the gutter that he might not obstruct traffic. Now with his free hand he drew out his file and gave a smart rap on the boy's knuckles. The boy uttered a yelp of pain, the hand opened involuntarily. Pippin deftly caught its contents as they dropped, and handed them to the gentleman with a little bow.

"God bless me! Yes, they are mine! Thank you!" cried the stout gentleman. "Is it possible? This young lad! I am distressed. Young man, I am deeply indebted to you. Shall you—a—deliver him over to the authorities?"

"Run him in?" Pippin eyed the boy thoughtfully. "I ain't quite sure yet. Me an' Jimmy'll have a little talk first, I expect. Mebbe—"

A bell clanged. There was a rush and a swirl in the crowd. As the fire-engine came thundering by, the boy suddenly dropped and hung limp and nerveless in Pippin's grasp; then, as the grasp shifted a little to gain a better hold, he gave a violent jerk, a shove, a spring, and was off, under the very wheels of the advancing hose-carriage.

"Slick kid!" he said. "He's ben well trained, that kid has. I couldn't have done that better myself. But there wasn't no chance to look for no grace in that one," he added. "Now I leave it to any one! But—what was I tellin' you? That's the second one to-day. You leave me get hold of them boys, this one and that pup to the Home joint, and I could do somepin with 'em. I could so!"

The trip to Shoreham, so carefully planned, was not to come off; the ladies of distaff and shears had ordained otherwise. It occurred to Pippin that in common politeness he could not leave town for a fortnight without "sharpenin' up" that young lady, bein' he had said he would call again. That afternoon, accordingly, he and Nipper took their way to the green lane in the pleasant suburb, and turned in at the white gate. There was no clothes-hanging nymph in the yard this time—it was Monday afternoon, and the clothes were lying in neat snowy rolls in a basket within, ready for the morrow's ironing—so Pippin knocked at the door, and Mary-in-the-kitchen opened it. A rather stern looking Mary, until she saw who it was; then she dimpled and smiled in a delightful way, and wanted to know if that was he.

"You was!" Pippin glowed responsive. "Now that sounds good to me. Something in my line to-day?"

"There was a woman come to clean Saturday, and what must she do but take my best potato knife to pry off the top of a jar! 'Twas a screw-top, too, so she had her trouble for her pains, and broke the knife besides—Just the tip; I thought perhaps you could grind it off?"

"Well, I guess! just watch me! If there's one job I like better than another, it's grind a new tip."

Mary brought the knife, which he pronounced a dandy from Dandyville. He didn't suppose she would care to see him do it? Some thought 'twas pretty to watch. Mary, with a glance at the clock, thought she had time. Soon, bright head and dark were bending over Nipper, the wheel was flying, the rough edge of blue steel was fining, thinning, brightening, shaping—yes, it certainly was pretty to watch. Pippin had a strong notion that something else would have been pretty to watch, too, could he have looked two ways at once; it was rather wonderful to feel a soft breath on your cheek, to be conscious that within six or eight inches of your own brown head was that bright efflorescence of light and color and softness, but Pippin did not say this.

When the knife was done, he looked up, and met his reward in a soft glow of admiration and wonder that almost took his breath.

"You surely are a master hand!" cried Mary. "Why, it's better than when it came from the shop."

"I'm real pleased if it's satisfactory!" said Pippin modestly. "'Twould be better still if I had a bit of shammy skin; I did have a piece, but I can't seem to—"

"Why, step right in! I've got shammy skin and to spare. Step in and set down, do! I'd be pleased to have you!"

But not so pleased as Pippin was to step! He wiped his shoes as elaborately as if he had not indulged in "the best shine in town, five cents!" before coming; he brushed imaginary dust off his neat brown clothes; finally he made his little bow of a young birch in the wind, and followed Mary into the kitchen.

Very different, Pippin, from the kitchen at Cyrus Poor Farm: for space, compactness; for mellow warmth of brick and timbers, brilliant white of paint and tile and enamel, set off by the blurred or shining silver of aluminum or nickel; for Mrs. Bailey, kindly and wrinkled, in her purple print, this vision of blue and white and gold.

He was to sit right down at this little table, Mary said. There! Here was the "shammy," and if he would excuse her, she would make up her rolls. That way they'd both be busy, wouldn't they? And no time wasted! Mary's laugh seemed to tinkle all round the room, striking little bell-like notes here and there, just as her smile—or so it seemed to Pippin—woke new lights on the shining kettles and saucepans. Then, standing at the large table next to his small one, she lifted the cover from a yellow bowl full of creamy, bubbling dough, and went to work.

Have you ever watched a pretty girl making rolls? There are few more attractive sights. First she tumbles the soft mass out on the board; then she kneads it, with much play of dimpled elbow and slender wrist. The bubbles heave and swell, but she catches them, breaks them down, works them in, till the whole is like smooth creamy velvet, delightful to see, more delightful to handle. Now she cuts off a piece, cups it in her hands, pats, moulds, shapes, tucks in a bit of butter; behold the perfect roll! Into the pan it goes, with its fellows, and so into the oven, to emerge in due time with the perfection of a "pale bake," tenderest fawn color deepening at the top, say to the hue of a winter beech leaf.

Pippin certainly was a long time over that knife tip. He rubbed it hard for a minute or two, till it shone like Mary's own particular coffeepot; then he paused, lost in contemplation of Mary's wrists and elbows, her clear-cut profile, and waving hair. Whenever she turned toward him, he rubbed the knife tip vigorously, only to relapse again when she turned away. So absorbed was he, he did not notice how rapidly the mass of dough was diminishing; and when Mary, having plumped the last roll into place, turned suddenly full upon him with a "There! That's done!" he started with a guilty flush, and almost cut himself with the knife, now more like a razor than a kitchen implement. Mary, meeting the full gaze of his dark bright eyes, flushed, too, and then laughed a little. "I think my work's pretty, too!" she said. "I guess you like to watch it same as I do yours."

"I sure do! And if you'll excuse me sayin' so, I never see rolls handled so elegant in my life. I'm part baker myself," he added apologetically, "and I've seen a many rolls handled." Mary kindled with interest. She wanted to know if he was a baker. Then why—

"Why ain't I bakin'?" Pippin laughed. "I'll have to tell you about that some day—lemme put 'em in for you! Dandy oven you've got; dandy outfit all round! That's if I might take the liberty of callin' again, Miss—"

"Pippin is what they call me!" Pippin, for the first time in his life, felt the need of two names. Now why?

"Mr. Pippin, I should be pleased to have you call again." She spoke a little formally; these were proper conventions, since there was no third party by to introduce them.

"Well, now, Miss Flower, I shall be glad to come, and more than glad, sure thing, the very day I come back. What I came special to-day was to say—"

But Pippin never said it. At that moment the screen door swung open, and a man entered. A man about Pippin's age, in linen duster and straw hat, carrying a basket of vegetables. A grocer's assistant, evidently; his wagon stood at the gate. The first thing that struck Pippin was the eager glance the man threw about the room, and the sharp flash of—was it suspicion or jealousy?—as his eyes fell upon him, Pippin. This was the first impression; the second was that Mary did not like him; the third that the man's nose was crooked. Having received these three impressions, Pippin bent over his potato knife, and polished it assiduously. Where had he seen that nose? Where had he seen that nose? It couldn't be—was it?—green grass! now wouldn't that—

He glanced warily up, and seeing the man's attention engrossed by Mary, took a good look at him. A thin, sharp face, eyes too near together, a straight slit of a mouth; but the nose was what interested Pippin. It was certainly very crooked! A long sharp nose; that must have been a powerful blow which had turned it from the straight course. Pippin's right fist clenched involuntarily, with a reminiscent thrill; the corners of his mouth twitched, and his eyes twinkled.

"No, I guess we shan't want anything to-morrow!" said Mary, in cool, flute-like tones. "No, you needn't call, thank you. We'll telephone when we need anything."

"Got company, I see!" the man directed an ugly scowl at Pippin. Pippin looked up cheerfully.

"Hello, Nosey!" he said. "That you? Quite a stranger, ain't you?" Again the man's eyes flashed, and this time there was recognition in them; the next moment his face was a wooden mask.

"Guess you've got me!" he said. "Stranger to me, far as I know. That your wheel out there?" He spoke with a curious mixture of eagerness and sullenness.

"Sure thing! Forgot me, have you, Nosey? Say 'Pippin,' and see if you don't fetch it?"

"We don't carry apples at this season," stolidly. "Berries is what we carry now, and early peaches."

"That so? Well, you're a peach, all right, all right. Well, Miss Flower, I expect I—" He was about to rise and make his adieux, when a look from Mary tingled through him to his toes; it said, "Stay!" He settled back in his seat. "I expect I'm ready for those other things you spoke of," he said slowly. "Scissors, was they, or knives?"

She vanished. As the door closed behind her, the man made a step toward Pippin, and spoke low and savagely.

"You quit, do you hear? Quit and stay quit! If I catch you here again, I'll—" he indicated measures which would seriously incommode Pippin's internal economy.

"That so?" said Pippin in an easy drawl. He tilted his chair back on two legs, and smiled amiably at his interlocutor. "Why, Nosey, I'm sorry you feel that way. I never meant to spile it permanent, but it does seem to have got a kind of a twist, don't it? I wouldn't bear malice, though, if I was you!"

The door opened; he dropped back against the table, and his face became once more a wooden mask.

Mary, her hands full of scissors, looked from one to the other; her breath came a little quickly, as if she had hurried. "You two gentlemen know each other?" she asked doubtfully.

"Why," said Pippin slowly, "I thought he was a boy I used to know, but he seems to think different. What is your handsome name, Mister, since Nosey Bashford won't do you?"

At this palpable hint, the man could but take up his basket and start for the door. He gave Pippin one venomous look; Pippin replied with a slight but friendly nod.

At the door the man paused, as if struck by a sudden thought. He had some extra fine tomato plants in the cart, he said. They was an order for Goodwins, next door, but the boss thought likely Mr. Aymer (Mary's employer) would like some. Wouldn't Mary step out and look at them? 'Twouldn't take but a minute, if she wasn't afraid to leave—a significant glance toward Pippin finished the sentence and decided Mary's answer. She had meant to say, "No!" with some asperity. As it was, she said, "Yes!" and followed him out to the gate, leaving Pippin alone.

Now, the latter asked himself, wouldn't that give you a pain? Honest, now, wouldn't it? What did he suppose that skeezicks was sayin' to her. If he came the give-away, he, Pippin, expected he could give him as good. Even if Dod was dead, and it wasn't likely he was—

"The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices
Make instruments to plague us!"

Being a plain person, he said, no two ways about it, that was what come of startin' mean. Yes; but, he reminded himself, the start was not of his own making. Let him be straight and keep straight, and things would come round 'cordin' to!

"That's right!" said Pippin aloud. "I'm only makin' a beginnin', so to say. My start is right now, see? Let Dod and Nosey get what they can out of theirs. Last week's dough-scrapin's needn't trouble me!"

Mary came back with her head high, a flush on her cheek and a sparkle in her eye.

"Gorry to 'Liza!" said Pippin, but not aloud. "She looks some-er when she's mad than when she's pleased!"

"No, nor want to! He's not my style, nor I his. Did you really know him, Mr. Pippin?"

"Did I? Do I know a skunk by the sm—Yes, I knew him when we was boys. 'Twas I give him his crooked nose. I'll tell you about it some day, if you'll let me. I must be goin' now."

Was it quite by accident, I wonder, that Mrs. Aymer came into the kitchen to get a cup of hot water? She greeted Pippin pleasantly, admired the rehabilitated potato knife, thought his must be a pleasant trade in summer weather. She thought it very possible that Mr. Aymer might like his pocketknife sharpened. Could Pippin wait a moment?

"That's what I'm here for!" Pippin smilingly assured her. Mr. Aymer being summoned, shortly appeared: tall, thin, kindly-faced, looking more like a college professor than a hardware dealer. He, too, after looking Pippin well over, praised his skill and discussed various aspects of cutlery with him. They agreed heartily on the fundamental fact that when you wanted a knife, you wanted it good. Followed commendation of certain makes, disparagement of others. Bugler's goods, Pippin opined, wasn't worth the price of the handles; he'd make as good a knife out of lead pipe. Now take Porter's, and there you had a knife. Both men began to glow with responsive ardor, and it required a discreet cough and glance from Mrs. Aymer to convey to both the fact that supper time was drawing near and that Mary had her work to do. Pippin withdrew with many apologies, but not before both householders had cordially asked him to call again. Mary, in her corner, remained demurely mute, but to be sure she had already invited him; and her farewell glance and smile sent him away trailing clouds of glory.

Later, on the comfortable little screened porch, the householders told their guest about the handsome lad who was so clever with tools, and who had evidently "taken such a shine" to their pretty Mary.

"I called John out on purpose!" said the lady. "Of course we feel responsible about Mary; and you liked him, didn't you, John?"

"I certainly did: mighty decent looking fellow. Intelligent, too! Knows good steel when he sees it."

"You ought to have seen him, Lawrence! You are so interested in young men. If he comes again, you must be sure to want your knife sharpened—if this old Conference is going to give you any time for us!" she added with a smiling pout. "Of course if there should be anything serious between him and Mary, we should want to be very careful!"

"Aren't you a little ahead of the game, Lucy?" her husband laughed. "The boy has been here once, I understand—twice? Oh, well! I don't know that Lawrence can count on the wedding fee, even so. But you would like him, Larry, that's a fact. I took to him at once, and you know Lucy thinks me hard to please, especially about young fellows."

"I wish I had seen him!" said the guest heartily. "I've seen nothing but gray heads all day long, and a boy would be refreshing."

Meanwhile, as they talked, Mary-in-the-kitchen sat on her back steps in the moonlight, and thought her own thoughts. Happy thoughts! Mary was always happy. If some of them were of dark eyes and a kindling smile, of quaintly chosen words—He had as sweet a voice, Mary must say, as ever she heard; she wished Mrs. Aymer had heard him sing; when he came again—oh, yes, he would come. The queer thing was, he didn't seem a bit of a stranger. Appeared like she had known him always.

What would you say, Mary, if you knew that the dark eyes were watching you now, in the shadow of that big elm across the road? You would be surprised, but possibly not displeased, Mary? Ah! But what if another pair of eyes were watching, too, sharply, eagerly, greedily; little red eyes, set too near together across a crooked nose? What then, Mary-in-the-kitchen?

CHAPTER XVI
PIPPIN ENCOUNTERS THE GIDEONS

PIPPIN spent the evening sitting on the edge of his bed, whistling on his file, as was his custom when perturbed in spirit, and taking counsel with himself. He had had a shock. Two hours ago, after leaving the white house, he felt the need of a pipe; a smoke of tribute, call it, to whatever gods might be interested in youth and beauty, in dimples and waving hair. Nearly opposite the house, across the lane, was a huge elm whose branches drooped low over the roadside. Its roots formed a comfortable seat neatly cushioned with moss. Pippin had already observed this natural retreat; now he sought it, and lighting his pipe, was at peace with the world.

Silently he communed with himself about the "young lady." He did not venture to think of her by any other title, though it must be confessed that he said "Mary" to himself now and then, just to be sure that it sounded like the prettiest name in the world, though of course he always knew it was. And he always knew—now, how did he know it was her name?—that she could have no other. If Pippin had put his thoughts into words—but he could not! His heart beat quick and hard in his ears, and there was something the matter with his breathing; and anyway, who was he to set up thinking of her at all? But if he had found words, they might have shaped themselves thus.

Honest, now! Had he ever, in all his life, seen a young lady that was a patch on her? Believe him, nix! It wasn't only her looks, though they was out of sight, clear; it was the way she moved, and spoke—notice how the corners of her mouth curled up round the words as if she loved 'em—And the sound of her voice, and the goodness that shined right out of her—my! my! that lamp is burnin' all right, all right! He paused, for beside the bright face that shone so clear before him, he seemed to see another, a face no less fair, more perfect indeed in line and tint and carving, but, as he had once said, like a lamp unlighted. "Poor Flora May!" he murmured. "Poor gal! Now wouldn't that young lady be a sister to her if she had the chance? You bet she would!"

Thus musing, he chanced to look up, and was aware of a man coming slowly along the road; very slowly, with a singular gait, half limp, half lurch. He was dressed like a day laborer, and carried a dinner pail; a pickaxe was slung over his shoulder. It was the gait that caught Pippin's eye; he stopped building air-castles, and looked narrowly at the advancing figure.

The man shambled slowly along, and paused near the gate of the white house. Drawing out a clay pipe, he proceeded to light it; a clumsy business he made of it, fumbling long for his matches, then making several vain attempts to strike a light, his eyes meantime roaming over house and grounds with sharp, searching glances. Pippin, always so ready to help, might easily have given him a light—but a moment before Pippin had extinguished his own pipe with a swift, silent motion. He sat perfectly still under his tree, not to be distinguished from it in the dusk, under the drooping branches, his eyes riveted to the slouching figure. So absorbed was he that he saw nothing of the quiet approach of another figure, until it stood close beside the first; a lighter, slimmer figure, that of a young man. Pippin could see no more till the newcomer, turning his profile to the rising moon, displayed a crooked nose.

If the two exchanged words, it was in a whisper so low that Pippin could not catch it. The younger man also pulled out a pipe, and seemed to ask for a light; there was more fumbling and scratching, then the elder nodded slightly and went limping and lurching along the road.

Why did the younger man linger? Why did he, too, slip under a drooping tree—not fifty feet away from Pippin's own, I declare—and stand there, silent and hidden as Pippin himself?

Why, Pippin, a man may have feelings, even if his nose is crooked. If a pretty girl comes out to sit on her steps and look at the rising moon and think sweet, girl-moonlight thoughts, why—be reasonable, Pippin! Why should not Nosey Bashford like to watch her as well as you? Nosey's nose is shockingly crooked, and his eyes are crooked, too, little and red and too near together; he is crooked inside and out, but he has his feelings, and it is well for you, Pippin, seeing that you are entirely unarmed, whereas Nosey is never without a sandbag or a brass knuckle or some such pretty trifle, that he does not know of your being only fifty feet away from him.

"That's right!" said Pippin, sitting on his bed, as above mentioned, whistling on his file; "that may be all so, and likely 'tis: but that don't explain Dod happenin' along just that minute, nor yet them two with their heads together. Dod has aged some—well, he would! Must be sixty year old, or nigh it—but he don't look no handsomer nor no—well, say piouser—than he did. What I say is, I believe them two has a game on. I hate to keep the Old Man waitin', but I rather guess I'll have to hang round here a spell, and see what they're up to. What say?"

When in need of sympathy, Pippin was apt to call up his dream family and demand it of them, never failing of a response. He did so now, and Ma, blue-eyed and pink-cheeked, and Pa, brown and stalwart, appeared promptly. Pippin, absurd fellow that he was, saw them sitting beside him, and appealed to Pa to confirm his last remark. Pa said he was right, things did appear to squint that way a mite. He expected Pippin had better keep his eye on them two.

"But I stuck him out!" Pippin slapped his thigh joyously. "I stuck him out, folks! And I would have if he'd have set there all night. Another thing!" His voice was grave again. "Notice what happened just before he left? Why, the Boss—Mr. Aymer, that is—come home. Didn't you hear some one step kind of quick along the sidewalk front of the house, whistlin' a little, but not so as to disturb folks, and then the latchkey rattle a mite as he put in? I tell you, 'twasn't all feelin's in Nosey's. He wanted to know what time the Boss was liable to come home, and he found out. Oh, they're smart, Bashfords; you got to keep your eye peeled when you watch them!"

Pippin stopped suddenly. Some one seemed to be talking; Ma this time, her blue eyes bright and serious. Had he looked for grace in them two?

"Green grass!" Pippin laughed aloud. "Grace, in Bashford's gang! If there's as much grace in e'er a one of 'em as would raise a biscuit, one solitary, little weeny biscuit, I'll—I'll—"

Pippin dropped his head. If he had been differently brought up, he might have beaten his breast and cried, "Mea culpa!" As it was, he said, "Green grass!" again, several times. The last exclamation was in a different tone. He raised his head, and his eyes shone.

"I'll try!" he said. "Honest, I will! Now behooves me get a mite o' sleep. But first—"

The room was a small and plain one, in a meek by-street which had to work hard to prove that it was not a slum, but did prove it. There were curtains in most of the windows, faded, patched, darned, but whole and clean (Mrs. Morrissey's were Nottingham lace, the street would have you know, but then Mr. Morrissey was on the Force), and not a house but had a geranium or a straggle of nasturtiums in window-box or tin can or broken pitcher.

Besides all this, not a lodging room in the street but had a Bible; the Gideons had seen to that. Pippin took the fat black book from the little light-stand beside the bed. He had his own little Testament that Elder Hadley had given him, but this was handy by, and besides, he admired to read about them Old Testament guys. Elijah was "some," he thought; as for Elisha, he had no opinion of him. Gettin' them kids all stove up just because they was a mite cheeky! Likely he was bald-headed!

The volume opening at the title page revealed a printed slip pasted inside the cover, on which Pippin read as follows:

This Holy Book, whose leaves display
the Life, the Light, the Truth, the Way,
is placed in this room by
The Gideons,
The Christian Commercial Travelers' Association of America,
Aided by
The Christian Forces of this City
with the hope also that by means of this Book
many may be brought to know the love of
Christ which passeth knowledge.

We earnestly solicit free-will offerings for the aid of our
Bible work.
Christian Traveling Men, Join Us, Help Us.
For particulars, inquire of any man wearing the button, or
THE GIDEONS,
22 West Quincy Street, Chicago, Ill.

"Green grass!" said Pippin. "Now wouldn't that—" He read it again, slowly and carefully. "Now wouldn't that—well, the reverse of give you a pain! Lemme see! What fits me special in this outfit?" His finger following the table of contents, Pippin knit his brows and set his teeth, murmuring as he went, "'If trade is poor,'—that ain't me! I made three dollars to-day, and two yesterday. Fifteen a week wouldn't be far from it, and five of that in the bank reg'lar every week. I tell you!

"'If you are losing confidence in man'—There! Isn't that a leadin'? Bet your life!" said Pippin. He turned to the appointed passage and read:

"'Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.

"'And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing.

"'And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.'

"I expect that is so," said Pippin gravely. "I certainly expect that that is so, and I will act as near that as is give me, 'cordin' to. Say I learn it off, so I'll have it handy by and not forget it, what say? 'Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling—'"

At this point there was a rap on the wall, and an angry voice asked whether there was a prayer meeting going on, or what? Couldn't a man get a wink of sleep without condemned galoots hollering their prayers through a megaphone?

"I'm real sorry, brother!" said Pippin pacifically. "I didn't know I'd riz my voice."

"Riz your voice! You go hire yourself out as foghorn to a Sound boat, and you'll make your fortune!"

"You've got a powerful organ of your own," replied Pippin. "If you'd like to have a prayer meetin', I'd be pleased to have you join in. Are you a Gideon?"

"Are you a goat that wants its hide took off?" roared the other. "If you don't shut your head—"

"I've shut and padlocked it! I'm just whisperin' through a knothole. Go to by-by, bo! Pleasant dreams!"

Pippin's chance came the very next day. As he was carrying Nipper past the white house—he was not going in, but somehow his way seemed to lie mostly through the lane—the grocery wagon stood at the gate, and even as he looked, the door opened and shut, rather hastily, and the crooked-nosed man—his given name was William, by the way—came out with his empty basket. He greeted Pippin with a scowl that blackened his never too attractive face. Pippin gave him a friendly nod.

Nosey's only reply was a snarl that might have meant anything—except friendliness.

"Say, Nosey, quit the grouch, what? I'm sorry I sp'iled your beak, bo. There! I'd mend it if I knew how, honest I would!"

Nosey's reply was intelligible this time, but unprintable. It was to the general effect that if Pippin didn't light out pretty condemned quick, he would "get his," whatever that might mean.

"That so?" said Pippin. "All right, bo! I just wanted to say that I hadn't no grouch against you. I'm on the straight now, Bill, see? Mebbe you are, too?"

"Yes, you are!" with an ugly sneer. "You and your wheel! You look out, that's all I say to you! Gidap!" The last remark was addressed to the horse, and was accompanied by a savage blow of the whip; the startled animal sprang forward and the wagon rattled out of sight.

A day or two after, Mrs. Appleby received a letter that puzzled her somewhat. It was signed, "Yours in the Lord, Pippin," and was to the effect that she was please not to be sore because the writer had to hold up that job a mite. He would pull it off quick as he could, but they was some guys trying to make a deal out of some folks he knew that was dandy folks, he could tell her, and he felt a call to hang round a spell so as he would be ready in case an extra hand was needed, for them guys was mean as they grow, and if that young lady or her boss come to any harm, he'd never get over it, sure thing. But quick as he got this off his chest, he'd make tracks for Shoreham and get that letter, if it took a leg.

Mrs. Appleby smiled over this effusion, which was carefully written on heavily ruled paper. The handwriting was stiff and official—had not Pippin learned to write in the office of the Warden, under the eye of that kindly potentate?—the spelling occasionally quaint, but she seemed well pleased as she laid it away methodically.

"I am sure that boy is genuine!" she said with a little nod. "I would trust him—what is it, Jane?"

A pupil-teacher was standing before her, red-cheeked, round-eyed, and out of breath.

"Yes, Mam! I 'ad 'im be the 'and"—Jane was but one remove from London—"and we was steppin' along quite-like, wen 'e 'eard a horgan, and 'e was horf!"

"Dear! dear!" said Mrs. Appleby again. "That is the third time; I will notify the police at once." Stepping to the telephone, she gave notice of the truant, "Ten years old, small and wiry, red hair and freckles; khaki pants, gray flannel shirt; will probably answer to any name except his own, which is James Mather. Do have him found, Mr. Inspector! He isn't a bad boy, and he is sure to have the nightmare to-night."

"Jimmy Mather has run away again, Mrs. Faulkner! I really don't know what to do with the boy."

"I should send him to the Farm School!" said Mrs. Faulkner promptly. "He is a very bad influence here. Last evening, when the cook was going to church, he pinned a dishcloth to her cloak, and she never found it out till she got back. She has given notice. I was just coming to tell you. I think she will stay if the boy is sent away."

"Little Jim!" cried Mrs. Appleby. "Oh, Mrs. Faulkner! He is too young for the Farm School, even if—"

"Mary is a very valuable woman!" said Mrs. Faulkner severely. "It is matter of knowledge to me that she has been offered fifteen dollars a week, and we get her for ten because of her little niece being here. James Mather is worth nothing at all that I can see, and is a nuisance besides."

As she stood perplexed, what was this vision that flashed suddenly before her eyes? Two brown, bright eyes in a face that seemed to smile all over, brow to chin; a musical voice saying,

"Dear! dear!" said Mrs. Appleby aloud. "I do wish he would!" and happening to glance out of the window, she saw Pippin entering the courtyard with Jimmy Mather beside him. Yes, things happen that way sometimes. Mrs. Appleby did not try to analyze her feeling of relief when Mrs. Faulkner was called out of the room just as Pippin entered it.

"Run straight into me!" said Pippin, when the culprit had been welcomed, rebuked, provisionally pardoned and sent to bed. "Follerin' a Dago with an organ and a monkey. Gee! Run just the way I used to run after a monkey. I knew the pup in a minute, and I had him by his slack and scruff before he knew what had got him. Green grass! he was surprised, that kid was! Then he bawled, and wanted to go with me, but nix on that, so I said I'd fetch him home, and he come along like pie. But say, lady, you rec'lect what I told you that day?"

"Can you show me anything that ain't, in a manner of speakin'? Well, I say it again. This is a dandy place for some kids, but it's no place for that one. You want to let me take him—"

"It's that, but it's more than that, and it's goin' to be more than what it is now. Leave me have that boy and a dozen more like him, and gee! I tell you we'll make things hum there to Cyrus! That's the kind I want; smart little kids, the kind that makes the smartest crook. Catch 'em little, and make 'em grow straight instead of crooked—what do you know about that? Wouldn't that be mince pie atop of roast turkey and cranberry sauce? I tell you!"

Thus Pippin, glowing with ardor, sure that everyone must see his project as he saw it; but now the gay fire died out of his face. "I forgot!" he said. "I can't take him just yet, lady. I—you got a letter from me? Did? Well, there's where it is, you see! I ain't free to go just yet. This job to Mr. Aymer's—"

"Mr. Aymer: John E. Lives corner of Smith and Brown Street. Maybe you might know him, Mis' Appleby? They sure are dandy folks!"

"There's a young lady works for him!" Pippin was blushing hotly, but he met the inquiring look bravely. "Miss Flower, her name is. I happened along by—in the way of business, you understand—and she had a carver needed sharpenin', and so we made acquaintance. She's—well, there! Mebbe you might know her, too? Do?" as Mrs. Appleby nodded. "Now isn't that great! Well, honest now, isn't she—did you ever see a dandier young lady than that?"

"She is a nice girl!" Mrs. Appleby's mouth was under strict control, but her eyes twinkled. "Have you been at the house more than once? You say you have met Mr. Aymer—and Mrs. Aymer?"

"I have, ma'am! They were more than kind to me, I must say. Yes, I've been there four or five times. I—I didn't do all the knives the first day I was there, nor yet the second. Their knives was in poor shape—" He paused and looked helplessly into the kind, shrewd gray eyes. "I—I don't know as I was in any too great hurry about them knives!" he faltered. "I—fact is, I give consid'able time to 'em; took a couple one day and another couple another. Pleasant place, and nice folks, you understand—and—I told you about them two mean guys—"

Mrs. Appleby said she did understand. And what did Pippin propose to do next? she asked. Why, that was just what he was studyin' over; he was just puttin' that up to himself when he ran across the kiddo just now. Whether to wait round a bit and watch till he was a mite surer than what he was—and yet he was sure, knowin' them two and their ways—or up and tell the Boss thus and so, and let him do as he der—as he thought fit.

"I've got a hunch," said Pippin, "that I'd better tell him right away. What say?"

"I'll do it! I'll do it before I sleep to-night. Maybe he'll think of some way to hasten matters up a mite. If they're goin' to do him up, I wish't they'd get at it, so's we can round 'em up and me get off on my business. Not but it is my business to stop such doin's every time I see a chance. I wish you good mornin' lady, and I'm a thousand times obliged to you."

He departed, and Mrs. Appleby sat down and wrote a note to Miss Mary Flower, care of John E. Aymer, Esq., Cor. Smith and Brown Streets, City.

CHAPTER XVII
THREE TETE-A-TETES

"It certainly is queer!" said Mrs. John Aymer. "I don't like it one bit, John. I do wish Lawrence was back."

"Sent for him over there, did they? One of his pet lambs in trouble? Well, he'll be back on the night train, for to-morrow is the final cakewalk of his old Conference. But as far as immediate plans are concerned, I'm afraid, my dear, you will have to put up with yours truly. Now, this—what's his name? Lippitt? Pippit?"

"Say Pippit! Certainly seems to be a decent chap. Tells a straight story, too. Knows this fellow Brown for a crook. We didn't ask him how he knew—"

"It wasn't necessary, John. I have never liked the man's looks. I spoke to Babbitt about him, and he said he had taken him on trial for three months, and he seemed a smart fellow, and that was all he knew. Of course I couldn't ask Babbitt to discharge him because I didn't like his looks, now could I?"

"—but we can find out about that later!" Mr. Aymer went on calmly. "Has seen Brown chinning with a pal—"

"Has seen Brown holding sweet converse with a comrade tried and true, of specially obnoxious character. Look here, Lucy!" Mr. Aymer blew a smoke ring and looked inquiringly at his wife, knitting briskly in her corner by the rose-shaded lamp. "How does your friend Nippitt know all this? I want to go a little bit slow here."

"Oh, John! you are so tiresome! I am sure, and so is Mary, that Pippit is perfectly truthful. Why, you have only to look at him! When he smiles—John, you needn't laugh! I would believe anything that boy said. And here he offers of his own free will to watch the house at night for a week, or as long as is necessary, if we will just give him a shakedown in the shed. I am sure the least we can do is to accept such an offer as that. The old night watchman would never offer to do such a thing."

"Well, he might as well. He never comes through this street at all, that I know of. Well, John, did you tell Lippitt—Pippit—he was to come? I shall feel so safe if he is there!"

"Yes!" said Mr. Aymer slowly. "I told him he might come, and now the question is whether I am only a plain fool, or a—"

"And now we need not lose our sleep!" Mrs. Aymer laid down her knitting, and came forward to rumple her John's hair affectionately, and deposit a kiss on his forehead. "You ought not to lose one wink of sleep just now, John, with stock-taking just coming on, and if I lie awake I am such a fright next day, and you don't like me to be a fright, do you, dear?"

"Neither to be nor to have!" said John. "Sooner shall Pippit occupy the shed for life."

"The loft could be made into a perfectly good bedroom if ever—" Mrs. Aymer cast a guilty glance at her husband, and went to fetch the cribbage board.

While this conversation was going on in the parlor with its rose chintz hangings, another dialogue was being held in the kitchen. Mary admired the parlor, dusted reverentially its bibelots, plumped its cushions to perfection; but for coziness, she must say, give her her kitchen!

It certainly was cozy this evening, with the red half-curtains drawn, and the lamplight shining on white enamel and blue crockery; shining on Mary, too, sitting in her low rocking-chair, knitting as swiftly and steadily as was the lady in the parlor. They were fast friends, mistress and maid, and it was a race between them which should produce the more socks and mufflers in this year when all the world was knitting.

Pippin, sitting as near as he thought manners would allow, watched the flying fingers and glittering needles, and wished that he might be a sock, just for a minute, to feel how soft her hands would be. Now Mary's hands were not soft; she would have been ashamed if they had been: firm, strong little hands, used to work ever since she could remember.

The two had just been preparing Pippin's shakedown in the shed, she deprecating, fearing he would sleep but poorly on a straw mattress, he glowing with praise of as dandy an outfit as anyone would want to see.

"Straw mattress!" he repeated. "Straw'll do for me, Miss Flower. Why, come to think of it, I don't know as I hardly ever slep' on anything but straw except while I was to Mis' Baxter's, over to Kingdom. She had wool tops to her beds, and they were surely elegant. I have heard of folks havin' curled hair, horses' hair, in their beds; did ever you hear of that?"

Yes, Mary had heard of that. She forbore to say that her own neat white bed upstairs boasted a hair mattress. As Mrs. Aymer said, it was real economy, but still—and in her heart she was wondering how and where this young man had grown up. Of course they had wool top mattresses at the Home—and mother had had nothing but straw—poor mother! Mary shivered a little. She too saw visions sometimes; one came upon her now, of the straw mattress being taken away, with its scanty coverings, and sold by Him for drink. 'Twas summer, he said; no need of beds and bedclothes in summer. "Sleep floor, nice 'n' cool!" It was after that that mother left him, and took her to the Home. Poor mother!

Mary became aware that a silence had fallen. Looking up, she met Pippin's bright eyes fixed on her with a look half eager, half appealing.

"What is it?" she asked involuntarily. "Did you ask me something, Mr. Pippin? I—I was just thinking—"

"I didn't!" Pippin spoke slowly, and his voice had not its usual joyous ring. "But I'd like to ask you something, Miss Flower; or perhaps tell you would be more what I mean. But maybe I'm keepin' you up?" He made as if to rise.

"No indeed!" she said. "It's only nine, Mr. Pippin. I don't hardly ever go up before half past. I'd be glad to hear anything you have to tell me."

"I don't know as you will!" Pippin spoke rather ruefully. "Be glad, I mean. I—I haven't been quite square with your Boss, Miss Flower. I haven't, that's a fact. No!" as Mary looked up, startled. "I don't mean I've told him anything that wasn't so. I believe it's all as I think and more so; but what I would say is, there's a heap I haven't told him. You see I—I dunno just how to put it—I felt to help him through this deal that I knew them fellers was puttin' up; and—and—what I would say—if I'd told him the whole of what there was to tell, mebbe he wouldn't have let me help. I'm doin' the right thing, young lady, no fears of that; the Lord showed me; but I'm scared, fear mebbe I ain't doin' it the right way. So I thought if I might tell you the way I was fixed—what say?"

Mary laid down her work, and looked straight at Pippin with her honest blue eyes. That made Pippin blush and feel as if a blue knife had gone through him. To cover his confusion, he felt for his file, drew it out and whistled softly on it; then, seeing Mary's look change to one of open amazement, he fell into still deeper confusion.

"It's a file!" he explained. "I always carry it. It's handy—" He broke off short, and made a desperate plunge. "I wondered if—if you wondered—how I come to be so cocksure of that guy's bein' a crook. Did you?"

"Well!" Mary hesitated a moment. "Yes! I didn't doubt but you did know, but—yes, I did wonder some."

"That's what I've got to tell you. I've knowed that guy ever since we was little shavers. We was—you may say—raised together, for a spell; that is, we was learned together, anyway."

"Bashford's school!" he said. "Bashford's gang. Sneak-thievin', pocket-pickin', breakin' and enterin'. Instruction warranted complete. That's the school we went to, young lady. I know Nosey Bashford because I was a crook like him—only I will say I could do a better job—" Pippin's chin lifted a little—"till the Lord took holt of me. Now you know where I stand! And gorry to 'Liza!'" he added silently; "do you s'pose I've got to git off this song and dance every time I meet any person that I value their good opinion? I want you to understand the Lord ain't lettin' me off any too easy, now I tell you!"

"But think," he assured himself, "how much easier you breathe when it's off your chest! I expect the Lord knows full well just who ought to be told things, and plans accordin'."

Mary Flower had gone very pale, and her sweet face was grave; but her eyes still met Pippin's frankly. "Go on!" she said. "You've said too much, or you've said too little; either way you'll have to finish now. But be careful, for I shall believe everything you say."

"Now wouldn't that—" murmured Pippin; then he was silent for a little, fingering his file absently. Mary thought he must hear the beating of her heart, but he did not, for his own was sounding trip hammers in his ears. She would believe everything—she would believe! Lord make him worthy—at least not leave him be more un-so than—Pippin drew a long, sobbing breath. At last he lifted his head.

"I left that gang when I was eighteen years old. I'd broke Nosey's beak for him long before that, fightin' when we was kids. He was a mean kid. I see he has it in for me still, and though I'm sorry, in the way of a Christian, that I broke it, still I'm kind o' glad too."

Pippin looked up in surprise, and a smile broke over his anxious face. "Is that so?" he said. "Well, Nosey never was real attractive, any time that I remember. Anyhow, come to grow to my stren'th, I quit. I didn't like them nor their ways; low-down is what I call Bashford's. But yet I didn't quit the trade: no, ma'am! Not then. The Lord didn't judge me ready by then. I stayed in it, and I done well in it—"

"Excuse me!" Mary's voice faltered a little. "What trade? I don't quite understand—"

"Like I said. Sneakin', breakin' and enterin'—burglary, to say the real word. There! I wasn't ashamed to do it then, nor I won't be afraid to say it now. I told you I was a crook, and I was—till goin' on four year ago. Then—" a curious softness always came into Pippin's voice when he reached this part of his story—"I found the Lord! Yes, young lady, I found the Lord, for keeps. I—" he glanced at the clock. "'Twould take too long to tell you all about it to-night; some day I will, if you'll take time to listen. I was in prison, and He visited me. All along of a good man who cared, and took holt of me and raised me up where I could see and hear, and know it was the Lord. If ever you hear of a man named Elder Hadley—"

Had Pippin seen her face at that moment, he might have stopped; but he stooped to pick up the ball she dropped. Mary opened her lips, hesitated, seemed to reflect, finally thanked him for the ball and went on with her work.

"That's his name!" Pippin was looking at the table now, his chin propped in his hands. "Best man the Lord ever made, bar none. I was in darkness, and he brought me out. He brought me out. Amen!"

There was another pause, while the clock ticked and the kettle purred gently on the stove. Presently Pippin pushed his chair back and rose to his feet, his shoulders very square, his chin well up.

"I do believe it!" said Mary Flower. Again brown eyes and blue met in a long earnest look; again Pippin drew a long breath.

"That sounds good to me!" he said simply. "I thank the Lord for that, Miss Flower. I don't know what I'd have done if you—had felt otherways. Now—" he glanced at the clock—"I mustn't stay another moment, keepin' you up like this. It's nigh on ten o'clock. There's more to it, a heap more. I'd like you to know why I come here to the city, and what I'm tryin' to do, and all about it. You—you'll try to—I'd like to regard you as a friend, if I might take the liberty. I've never had a lady friend, except Mis' Baxter, and though she is a wonder, and more than kind, yet she's—"

Married and stout, and middle-aged, and altogether aunt-like; speak out, Pippin. But Pippin did not speak out; he stood and looked with bright, asking eyes, at once brave and timid. Mary held out her hand frankly.

"Sure, we will be friends!" she said. "I haven't ever—that is—I'll be glad of your friendship, I am sure, Mr. Pippin. And now I will say good night, and hoping you will sleep well and no disturbance for anyone."

Having witnessed two tête-à-têtes, we may as well glance at a third, which was held about the same time, though in a place wholly unlike either rose-shaded parlor or shining kitchen.

A back room in a slum grog shop: dingy, dirty, reeking with stale tobacco, steeped in fumes of vilest liquor. Some of the liquor is on the table now, in two glasses; some of the tobacco is in the pipes, which two men are smoking as they sit, one sprawling, the other hunched, in their respective chairs. An elderly man, low-browed, heavy-jawed, the brutal-criminal type that every prison knows; the other young, slight, narrow-chested, with a crooked nose and small eyes set too near together.

"All ready for to-night?" the elder was saying, in a hoarse, whispering voice, that matched his face. "What's your hurry, Bill? I'm takin' things easy these days. I'm gettin' on in years, and when I take on a night job, I want to be sure it's all slick as grease. What's your hurry?"

"I want Pippin!" he said. "That's what I'm after. You can have the swag, Dad; it's all straight, I tell you—silver locked up nights in the sideboard, locks that a kid could pick. No money kep' in the house, but good silver; you can have the whole bag, but let—me—get—my hands on Pippin!"

CHAPTER XV PIPPIN MEETS AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE

CHAPTER XVI PIPPIN ENCOUNTERS THE GIDEONS

CHAPTER XVII THREE TETE-A-TETES

CHAPTER XV
PIPPIN MEETS AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE

CHAPTER XVI
PIPPIN ENCOUNTERS THE GIDEONS

CHAPTER XVII
THREE TETE-A-TETES