stunt
for a bunch of professors. That was his notion of a nice, normal
development for a small child. There she sat poked up cross-legged on a
baggage truck. He'd trained her to sit in that self balanced position so
she could make her mind blank without going to sleep. A freight train
was hitting a twenty mile clip past the station, and she was adding the
numbers on the sides of the box cars, in her mind. It kept those
professors on the jump to get the figures down in their notebooks, but
she told them the total as the caboose was passing."

"Some stunt," I agreed. "Freight car numbers run up into the
ten-thousands." Worth didn't hear me, he was still deep in the past.

"Poor little white-faced kid," he muttered. "I dumped my valises, horned
into that bunch, picked her off the truck and carried her away on my
shoulder, while the professor yelled at me, and the other ginks were
tabbing up their additions. And I damned every one of them, to hell and
through it."

"You must have been a popular youth in your home town," I suggested.

"I was," he grinned. "My reason for telling you that story, though, is
that I've got an idea about the girl over there--if she hasn't changed
too much. I think maybe we might--"

He stood up calmly to study her, and his tall figure instantly drew the
attention of everybody in the room. Over at the long table it was the
sharp, roving eye of the snub-nosed flapper that spied him first. I saw
her give the alarm and begin pushing back her chair to bolt right across
and nab him. The sister sitting next stopped her. Judging from the
glimpses I had as the party spoke together and leaned to look, it was
quite a sensation. But apparently by common consent they left whatever
move was to be made to the bride; and to my surprise this move was most
unconventional. She got up with an abrupt gesture and started over to
our table--alone. This, for a girl of her sort, was going some. I
glanced doubtfully at Worth. He shrugged a little.

"Might as well have it over. Her family lives on one side of us, and
Brons Vandeman on the other."

And then the bride was with us. She didn't overdo the thing--much; only
held out her hand with a slightly pleading air as though half afraid it
would be refused. And it was a curious thing to see that pretty,
delicate featured, schooled face of hers naively drawn in lines of
emotion--like a bisque doll registering grief.

Gilbert took the hand, shook it, and looked aroun