upon his entrance and by the odd
look every man in the shop had bent upon him.

Vaguely disquieted, he walked to one of the seats in the rear of the
shop, and looked up and down the two lines of barbers, catching quickly
shifted, furtive glances here and there. He made this brief survey after
wondering if one of the barbers had died suddenly, that day, or the
night before; but there was no vacancy in either line.

The seat next to his was unoccupied, but some one had left a copy of
the "Extra" there, and, frowning, he picked it up and glanced at it. The
first of the swollen display lines had little meaning to him:

Fatally Faulty. New Process Roof Collapses Hurling Capitalist to
Death with Inventor. Seven Escape When Crash Comes. Death Claims--

Thus far had he read when a thin hand fell upon the paper, covering the
print from his eyes; and, looking up, he saw Bibbs standing before him,
pale and gentle, immeasurably compassionate.

"I've come for you, father," said Bibbs. "Here's the boy with your coat
and hat. Put them on and come home."

And even then Sheridan did not understand. So secure was he in the
strength and bigness of everything that was his, he did not know what
calamity had befallen him. But he was frightened.

Without a word, he followed Bibbs heavily out throught the still shop,
but as they reached the pavement he stopped short and, grasping his
son's sleeve with shaking fingers, swung him round so that they stood
face to face.

"What--what--" His mouth could not do him the service he asked of it, he
was so frightened.

"Extry!" screamed a newsboy straight in his face. "Young North Side
millionaire insuntly killed! Extry!"

"Not--JIM!" said Sheridan.

Bibbs caught his father's hand in his own.

"And YOU come to tell me that?"

Sheridan did not know what he said. But in those first words and in the
first anguish of the big, stricken face Bibbs understood the unuttered
cry of accusation:

"Why wasn't it you?"

CHAPTER XII

Standing in the black group under gaunt trees at the cemetery, three
days later, Bibbs unwillingly let an old, old thought become definite
in his mind: the sickly brother had buried the strong brother, and Bibbs
wondered how many million times that had happened since men first made a
word to name the sons of one mother. Almost literally he had buried his
strong brother, for Sheridan had gone to pieces when he saw his dead
son. He had nothing to help him me