I wanted to wear my white
linen suit, with a blue cravat and Panama hat. I felt independent even
of Fred Hencoop, as I walked along the street under the shade of the
elms; but, the minute I was inside Widow Jones' gate and walking up to
the door, the thermometer went up to somewhere near 200 degrees. There
were something like a dozen heads at each of the parlor windows, and
all women's heads at that. Six or eight more were peeping out of the
sitting-room, where they were laying the table for tea. Babbletown
always did seem to me to have more than its fair share of female
population. I think I would like to live in one of those mining towns
out in Colorado, where women are as scarce as hairs on the inside of a
man's hand. Somebody coughed as I was going up the walk. Did you ever
have a girl cough at you?--one of those mean, teasing, expressive
little coughs?

I had practiced--at home in my own room--taking off my Panama with a
graceful, sweeping bow, and saying in calm, well-bred tones:
"Good-evening, Mrs. Jones. Good-evening, ladies. I trust you have had
a pleasant as well as profitable afternoon."

I had _practiced_ that in the privacy of my chamber. What I really did
get off was something like this:

"Good Jones, Mrs. Evening. I should say, good-evening, widows--ladies,
I beg your pardon," by which time I was mopping my forehead with my
handkerchief, and could just ask, as I sank into the first chair I
saw, "Is your mother well, Mrs. Jones?" which was highly opportune,
since said mother had been years dead before I was born. As I sat
down, a pang sharper than some of those endured by the Spartans ran
through my right leg. I was instantly aware that I had plumped down on
a needle, as well as a piece of fancy-work, but I had not the courage
to rise and extract the excruciating thing.

I turned pale with pain, but by keeping absolutely still I found that
I could endure it, and so I sat motionless, like a wooden man, with a
frozen smile on my features.

Belle was out in the other room helping set the table, for which
mitigating circumstances I was sufficiently thankful.

Fred Hencoop was on the other side of the room holding a skein of silk
for Sallie Brown. He looked across at me, smiling with a malice which
made me hate him.

Out of that hate was born a stern resolve--I would conquer my
diffidence; I would prove to Fred Hencoop, and any other fellow like
him, that I was as good as he was, and could at least eq