"Ask Billy," Hertha said, looking up. "I'm sure it's time for him to
come and look after the flowers."

CHAPTER XVI

William Applebaum, or Billy, as Kathleen called him, was a short man,
stockily built, whose little length of limb and small hands were
overtopped by a large head that commanded attention. It was well shaped,
with an abundance of blond hair, a straight forehead, clear blue eyes
and a fair, healthy skin. His mouth and chin were too small for the rest
of his face, but he wisely concealed them with a beard which, as time
went on, he kept closely clipped.

His grandfather, of whom he was justly proud, had been a revolutionist
in Germany, in 1848, one of the band that strove bravely, but
unsuccessfully, to bring political democracy to the Fatherland. Young
Wilhelm was imprisoned for his activities, but he made his escape, and
in a series of perilous adventures, in which his daring was only equaled
by his good luck, at length found himself in America. There he settled
in a small town in the Middle West, married, and brought up a family;
and in his old age found himself with a son William and a grandson of
the same name, living in the town of his adoption.

Those who love to dwell upon the past are grateful for any audience, and
the grandfather, harking back at the end of his life to its one dramatic
happening, was happy in the garden, working among his bright shrubs and
clambering vines, or of a winter night seated by the ugly but
heat-giving stove, to tell his always attentive small grandson of his
great adventures. It would be, "Billy, I never hear a knock like that at
the door that I don't remember the time I was drinking a glass of beer
at the back of the house and the police knocked at the front and spoke
my name." Or, "That's a strong grape-vine, Billy, growing against the
arbor, and I like to see you climb up and get the fruit for us; but
would you have been able to climb down the vine that saved my life the
night I left prison?"

The story that Billy liked the best was the one where his
grandfather--he must think of him not as gray-haired and rheumatic, but
as a swift-running, strong youth--hid in a cart filled with hay. He lay
close to the bottom, scarcely able to breathe for the seed about his
face, jolting to the town on the seacoast. Suddenly there appeared the
always pursuing soldiers. They came up, and the captain, staring
suspiciously at the cart, called upon the driver to stop, and