silence; they couldn't see each other. Brown's heart was
beating fast.

"It is very generous of you to--think of me," came her voice, lower but
very friendly.

"I ca-can't avoid it," he stammered, and wanted to kick himself for what
he had blurted out.

Another pause--longer this time. And then:

"I am going to enter my house and climb up on the fence.... Would you
mind waiting a moment?"

"I will wait here," said Beekman Brown, "until I see you." He added to
himself: "I'm going mad rapidly and I know it and don't care.... _What_--
a--girl!"

While he waited, legs swinging, astride the back fence, he examined his
injuries--thoughtfully touched the triangular tear in his trousers,
inspected minor sartorial and corporeal lacerations, set his hat firmly
upon his head, and gazed across the monotony of the back-yard fences at
Clarence. The cat eyed him disrespectfully, paws tucked under, tail
curled up against his well-fed flank--disillusioned, disgusted,
unapproachable.

Presently, through the palings of a back yard on Sixty-fifth Street,
Brown saw a small boy, evidently the progeny of some caretaker, regarding
him intently.

"Say, mister," he began as soon as noticed, "you have tore your pants on
a nail."

"Thanks," said Brown, coldly; "will you be good enough to mind your
business?"

"I thought I'd tell you," said the small boy, delightedly aware that the
information displeased Brown. "They're tore awful, too. That's what you
get for playin' onto back fences. Y'orter be ashamed."

Brown feigned unconsciousness and folded his arms with dignity; but the
next moment he straightened up, quivering.

"You young devil!" he said; "if you pull that slingshot again I'll come
over there and destroy you!"

At the same moment above the fence line down the block a white straw hat
appeared; then a youthful face becomingly flushed; then two dainty,
gloved hands grasping the top of the fence.

"I am here," she called across to him.

The small boy, who had climbed to the top of his fence, immediately
joined the conversation:

"Your girl's a winner, mister," he observed, critically.

"Are you going to keep quiet?" demanded Brown, starting across the fence.

"Sure," said the small boy, carelessly.

And, settling down on his lofty perch of observation, he began singing:

_"Lum' me an' the woild is mi-on._"

The girl's cheeks became pinker; she looked at the small boy appealingly.

"Little boy," she said, "if you