present to hear, thought a gnashing Pemrose: to the exile who
had been such a hazing firebrand at college, burning out the fine flame
of youth in the straw blaze of senseless pranks,--a griffin and
shatterpated jester.

CHAPTER V

SHE SAVED A CITY

"And so--and so it's all hung up for another twelve years--the Thunder
Bird's flight! For I don't suppose there's much chance of the money
coming from another direction."

Pemrose Lorry echoed the cry, repeated it desolately, hours later,
standing in her own room--a room that was a sort of sequel to herself,
as every Camp Fire Girl's nest should be.

Her father had echoed it, as she sat very close to him, driving home in
the Grosvenor's limousine.

"Well! so far this strung-out will has been for us much cry and little
wool, eh, girlie," he muttered; and for the first time she heard
discouragement in his voice; perhaps he had "banked" upon that third nut
more than he admitted.

"So the money is hung up for the next dozen years, as far's any benefit
to the invention is concerned," he went on presently, just before his
own home was reached. "I'd better be putting my time into something
else, I guess," with a raw scrape in the tones. "How--how about a
machine for the manufacture of paper clothing, eh, or airdrawn rugs--"
sarcastically--"prosperity, _riches_, in that! Ha! Get thee behind
me, Satan--but don't push!" added the inventor whimsically, thrusting
his head out of the auto window,--with a sound that was neither laugh
nor groan.

"Get thee behind me, Satan--and don't push!"

Tears sprang to those blue eyes of Pemrose now, as she recalled the
half-piteous tone in the voice.

Toandoah was discouraged. Toandoah was tempted--tempted to sacrifice the
highest claim of his intellect, his original dream, or the dream whose
originality he had made practical, of reaching the heavenly bodies; of
being a pioneer in exploring the Universe outside his own earth and its
enveloping atmosphere; of finding out the secrets of that mysterious
upper air, and where it ended, of getting back a record of it--the
Thunder Bird's golden egg, the first record from space.

And the girl in her buoyant young heart of hearts felt that hope--nay,
certainty--were still there, green, springing, as the first signs of
happy springtime in the world outside.

How--how was she to make him feel it; she his little Wise Woman, his
laboratory pal?

Her eye went to the emblems upon her wall: