, but I never thought of really seeing
anything like that. I've had some pretty good times on the lake and over
at St. Joe. Max used to take me over to Berrien Springs last summer, when
he could get off. My aunt lives there."

Bannon was buttoning his coat, and looking at her. He felt the different
tone that had got into their talk. It had been impersonal a few minutes
before.

"Oh, St. Joe isn't bad," he was saying; "it's quiet and restful and all
that, but it's not the same sort of thing at all. You go over there and
ride up the river on the May Graham, and it makes you feel lazy and
comfortable, but it doesn't stir you up inside like the St. Lawrence
does."

She looked up. Her eyes were sparkling as they had sparkled that afternoon
on the elevator when she first looked out into the sunset.

"Yes," she replied. "I think I know what you mean. But I never really felt
that way; I've only thought about it."

Bannon turned half away, as if to go.

"You'll have to go down there, that's all," he said abruptly. He looked
back at her over his shoulder, and added, "That's all there is about it."

Her eyes were half startled, half mischievous, for his voice had been
still less impersonal than before. Then she turned back to her work, her
face sober, but an amused twinkle lingering in her eyes.

"I should like to go," she said, her pencil poised at the top of a long
column. "Max would like it, too."

After supper that evening Max returned early from a visit to the injured
man, and told Hilda of a new trouble.

"Do you know that little delegate that's been hanging around?" he asked.

"Grady," she said, and nodded.

"Yes, he's been working the man. I never saw such a change in my life. He
just sat up there in bed and swore at me, and said I needn't think I could
buy him off with this stuff"--he looked down and Hilda saw that the bowl
in his hand was not empty--"and raised a row generally."

"Why?" she asked.

"Give it up. From what he said, I'm sure Grady's behind it."

"Did he give his name?"

"No, but he did a lot of talking about justice to the down-trodden and the
power of the unions, and that kind of stuff. I couldn't understand all he
said--he's got a funny lingo, you know; I guess it's Polack--but I got
enough to know what he meant, and more, too."

"Can he do anything?"

"I don't think so. If we get after him, it'll just set him worse'n pig's
bristles. A man like that'll lose his head over nothing. He