n their noisy way home from
school. A pretty young woman in neat walking-habit and big white straw
hat followed the children, smiling in through the open door at Garton,
noting Conniston with a flash of big brown eyes and quickly dropping
lids. Billy, in seeming carelessness, had wandered to the door when
the children passed, and stepped outside, chatting with her for five
or ten minutes.

"Miss Jocelyn," Garton told him. "Bat Truxton's daughter, and the
village schoolmistress. Billy thinks he's rather hard hit, I fancy."

"I've heard of her," Conniston replied, frowning at the map he was
holding flat on the table. "Dam Number Two is the one which is
completed, isn't it? And Number Three is the smaller auxiliary dam?
How about Number One, which seems to be the most important of the
lot? When do we go to work on that?"

Garton chuckled. "You're going to be as bad as I am, Conniston! Can't
even stop to look at a pretty girl? The Lord knows they're scarce
enough out here, too. Yes, Dam Number One is the important one of the
lot. It will be the biggest, the hardest, and most expensive to build,
and it will control the water-supply which is going to save our
bacon."

Whereupon he, too, forgot Miss Jocelyn and Billy, and launched into
further explanation. At six o'clock Billy Jordan covered his
typewriter and put on his coat and hat. He came over to the table and
leaned his elbow on it, waiting for Garton to finish something that he
was saying.

"I'm going around to Truxton's a little while this evening," he said,
trying to speak as a man of the world should, but flushing up under
Garton's twinkling eyes. "If you find time dragging on your hands you
might come along, Mr. Conniston. Miss Jocelyn"--he hesitated a
moment--"Miss Jocelyn said I might bring you around."

Conniston thanked him and asked him to thank Miss Jocelyn, but assured
him that instead of having time lagging for him he had more to do than
he could manage. So Billy went on his way alone. Nor did he seem
disappointed at Conniston's refusal to accompany him. It was only when
it began to grow dusk and the boy brought Garton's supper that
Conniston got up and went down the street to his own solitary evening
meal at the lunch-counter.

It was after nine o'clock, and Conniston was lying on his cot in the
little rear room of the office-building listening to Tommy Garton talk
about reclamation--it seemed the only thing in the world he cared to
talk about duri