ir, a
ruddy complexion, and, what is not always given to the young man on the
cover, a deep and generous dimple in the ruddiest part of his right
cheek. He was dressed in the latest suit produced by Schaffner and Marx;
he wore a tie of variegated silk which, like Browning's star, "dartled"
now red, now blue. The silk handkerchief, which protruded carefully from
his breast pocket, also "dartled." So did the socks. One felt that the
heart of this young man matched his tie and socks. It was resplendent
with the vanity and hopefulness and illusions of twenty-two years.

The large, dingy, chocolate-colored lobby became suddenly a background to
Mr. James Greely, cashier of the Millings National Bank, and the only
child of its president.

Upon the ruffled and rumpled Dickie he smiled pleasantly, made a curious
gesture with his hand--they both belonged to the Knights of Sagittarius
and the Fire Brigade--and came to lean upon the desk.

"Holiday at the bank this morning," he said, "in honor of Dad's
wedding-anniversary. We're giving a dance to-night in the Hall. Want to
come, Dickie?"

"No," said Dickie, "I hurt my ankle last night on the icy pavement. And
anyhow I can't dance. And I sort of find girls kind of tiresome."

"That's too bad. I'm sure sorry for you, Hudson. Particularly as I came
here just for the purpose of handing you over the cutest little billy-doo
you ever saw."

He drew out of his pocket an envelope and held it away from Dickie.

"You're trying to job me, Jim,"--but Dickie had his head coaxingly on one
side and his face was pink.

"I'll give it to you if you can guess the sender."

"Babe?"

"Wrong."

"Girlie?"

"Well, sir, it ain't Girlie's fist--not the fist she uses when she drops
_me_ billy-doos."

Dickie's eyes fell. He turned aside in his chair and stopped the
grinding of the graphophone. He made no further guess. Jim, with his
dimple deepening, tossed the small paper into the air and caught it
again deftly.

"It's from the young lady from Noo York who's helping Mrs. Hudson," he
said. "I guess she's kind of wishful for a beau. She's not much of a
looker Girlie tells me."

"Haven't you met her yet, Jim?" Dickie's hands were in his pockets, but
his eyes followed the gyrations of the paper.

"No. Ain't that a funny thing, too? Seems like I never get round to it. I
just saw her peeping at me one day through the parlor curtains while I
was saying sweet nothings to Girlie on the porch. I g