hen listened with distaste, but perforce (for what else could he do
in the grasp of a man of twice his power?), to a brilliant and
convincing summary of his character, terminating in a withering sketch
of his personal and sartorial appearance.

"I didn't mean the kid any harm," argued the Scion suavely. "I--I came
back to apologize."

"Let me catch you snooping around here again and I'll break every bone
in your body," the Little Red Doctor answered him.

"I guess this Square's free to everybody. I guess you don't own it,"
said the youth, retreating to his car.

Notwithstanding the unimpeachable exactitude of this surmise, he was
seen no more in that locality. Judge, then, of our dismay, locally, at
learning, not a fortnight later, from a fellow employee of Mayme's, that
she had been met at closing time by a swell young guy in a
cherry-colored rattler, who took her away to dine with him. Catechized
upon the point, later on, by a self-appointed committee of two
consisting of the Little Red Doctor and myself, Mayme said vaguely that
it was all right; we didn't understand. This is, I believe, the usual
formula. The last half of it at least, was true.

About that time we, in common with the rest of the Nation, took that
upon our minds which was even more important than Mayme McCartney's love
affair. War loomed imminently before us. It was only a question of the
fitting time to strike; and Our Square was feverishly reckoning up its
military capacity. The great day of the declaration came. The Nation had
drawn the sword. In the week following, Our Square was invaded.

She descended upon us from the somber sumptuousness of a gigantic
limousine, the majestic, the imposing, the formidable, the authoritative
Mrs. S. Berthelin. We knew at once who she was, because she led, by the
ear, as it were, her hopeful progeny, young David. I do not mean that
she had an actual auricular grip on him, but the effect upon his
woe-begone and brow-beaten person was the same. He suggested vividly a
spoiled and pretty lapdog being sternly conveyed to a detested bath. She
suggested a vivified bouquet of artificial flowers. We hastily rallied
our forces to meet her; the Little Red Doctor, the Bonnie Lassie, and
myself. Mrs. Berthelin opened her exordium in a tone of high philippic,
not even awaiting the formalities of introduction. But when I insisted
upon these, and she learned that the Bonnie Lassie was Mrs. Cyrus
Staten, she cringed. Despite