ers."

Aunt Basha, comfortable and efficient, was unpacking the basket and
putting away the wash in the few bureau drawers which easily held the
boy's belongings. "Dey's all mended nice," she announced. "Young marse,
sir, you better wa' out dese yer ole' undercloses right now, endurin' de
warm weather, 'caze dey ain' gwine do you fo' de col'. You 'bleeged to
buy some new ones sir, when it comes off right cool."

Lance smiled, for there was no one but this old black woman to take care
of him and advise his haphazard housekeeping, and he liked it. "Can't
buy new ones," he made answer. "There you go again, mixing me up with
Rockefeller. I'm not even the Duke of Westminster, do you see. I haven't
got any money. Only sev'nty fo' cents for the she-wolf."

Aunt Basha chuckled. Long ago there had been a household of young people
in the South whose clothes she, a very young woman then, had mended;
there had been a boy who talked nonsense to her much as this boy--Marse
Pendleton. But trouble had come; everything had broken like a card-house
under an ocean wave. "De fambly" was lost, and she and her young
husband, old Uncle Jeems of today, had drifted by devious ways to this
Northern city. "Ef you ain't got de money handy dis week, young marse,
you kin pay me nex' week thes as well," suggested the she-wolf.

Then the big boy was standing over her, and she was being patted on the
shoulder with a touch that all but brought tears to the black, dim eyes.
"Don't you dare pay attention to my drool, or I'll never talk to you
again," Lance ordered. "Your sev'nty fo' cents is all right, and lots
more. I've got heaps of cash that size, Aunt Basha. But I want to buy
Liberty Bonds, and I don't know how in hell I'm going to get big money."
The boy was thinking aloud. "How am I to raise two hundred for a couple
of bonds, Aunt Basha? Tell me that?" He scratched into his thatch of
hair and made a puzzled face.

"What fo' you want big money, young marse?"

"Bonds. Liberty Bonds. You know what that is?"

"Naw, sir."

"You don't? Well you ought to," said Lance. "There isn't a soul in this
country who oughtn't to have a bond. It's this way. You know we're
fighting a war?"

"Yassir. Young Ananias Johnson, he's Sist' Amanda's boy, he done tole
his Unk Jeems 'bout dat war. And Jeems, he done tole me."

Lance regarded her. Was it possible that the ocean upheaval had stirred
even the quietest backwater so little? "Well, anyhow, it's the biggest