he tore
desperately into his work, but with the girl's face ever before him.

On the third day after Tyke had received notice to move, the
preparations were far advanced. Delicate instruments had been
carefully wrapped; heavier objects had been clothed with burlap;
truckmen were notified to be ready on the following day. Tyke and Drew
had made frequent pilgrimages to the new place and had arranged where
the stock could be placed to the best advantage. New bills and
letterheads had been ordered from the printers, and even the old sign
over the door, which Tyke obstinately refused to leave behind, had been
taken down to have the old number painted out and the new one
substituted.

There was no elevator in the old building. Drew had often urged
Grimshaw to have one installed, but the old man was dead set against
any such "new-fangled contraptions." So, everything from the upper
lofts, when it was called for, had to be carried or rolled down the
rickety stairs, a proceeding which often roused rumbles of rebellion in
the breast of Sam, upon whom fell the brunt of the heavy work.

He had spent most of that afternoon in getting down the boxes from the
third floor so that they might be within easier reach of the truckmen
when the moving should begin. He was on his way down with one of them,
perspiring profusely and tired from the work that had gone before,
when, as he neared the lowest step, he slipped and dropped his burden.

He was fortunate enough to scramble out of the way of the box and thus
escape injury. But the box itself came to the floor with a crash, and
split open.

Drew and Winters sprang to the help of the porter, and were relieved to
find that he was not hurt. He rose to his feet, his black face a
picture of consternation.

"Dat ole mis'ry in ma back done cotched me jes' when Ah got to de las'
step," he explained. "Ah hope dey ain't much damage done to dat 'er
box."

"Pretty badly done up, it seems to me," remarked Winters, as he
surveyed the broken chest critically.

"Never mind, Sam," consoled Drew. "It wasn't your fault and the old
box wasn't of much account anyway."

Just then Tyke thrust his head out of his office to learn the meaning
of the crash. At the sight of the broken box he came into the shop.

"How did this happen?" he asked.

"Ah couldn't help it, Mistah Grimshaw," said Sam ruefully. "Ma back
jes' nacherly give way, an' Ah had to let go. Ah'm pow'ful sorry, sah."

Sam