t
twenty-four hours had hinted at how dramatic that may be; with
securing lodgings for the night; with the problem of earning not more
money but enough money to keep her alive. All this had left its mark,
not in ugliness, but in a certain seriousness that made him keen to
know about her. Here was a girl who was not especially concerned with
operas, with books, with the drama, but with the stuff of which those
things are made.

Miss Winthrop removed from her typewriter the final page of the long
letter she had finished and rapidly went over it for errors. She found
none. But, as she gathered her papers together before taking them into
the private office of Mr. Farnsworth, she spoke. She spoke without
even then glancing at Don--as if voicing a thought to herself.

"Believe me," she said, "they are not going to pay you for sitting
there and watching me."

Don felt the color spring to his cheeks.

"I beg your pardon," he apologized.

"It doesn't bother me any," she continued, as she rose. "Only there
isn't any money for the firm in that sort of thing."

"But there doesn't seem to be anything around here for me to do."

"Then make something," she concluded, as she moved away.

Blake, to whom he had been introduced, was sitting at his desk reading
an early edition of an evening paper. Spurred on by her admonition, he
strolled over there. Blake glanced up with a nod.

"How you making it?" he inquired.

"There doesn't seem to be much for me to do," said Don. "Can you
suggest anything?"

"Farnsworth will dig up enough for you later on. I wouldn't worry
about that."

"But I don't know anything about the game."

"You'll pick it up. Did I understand Farnsworth to say you were
Harvard?"

"Yes."

"I'm Princeton. Say, what sort of a football team have you this
year?"

Don knew football. He had played right end on the second team. He also
knew Princeton, and if the information he gave Blake about the team
ever went back to New Jersey it did not do the coaching staff there
any good. However, it furnished a subject for a pleasant half hour's
conversation. Then Blake went out, and Don returned to his former
place back of Powers's desk.

"I'll bet you didn't get much out of him," observed Miss Winthrop,
without interrupting the click of her machine.

"He seems rather a decent sort," answered Don.

"Perhaps he is," she returned.

"He's a Princeton man," Don informed her.

"He's Percy A. Blake," she declared--as