e wanted was to have the drive over and to
be alone with his memories. How bold he had been at the end when he had
crushed her little hand in his! Had she understood--and just what had
she meant when she had said,

"And so it's Jack and Mimi now, isn't it?"

That night at precisely 10.45 in his sixteenth year, hanging out of the
second story window of the Kennedy, with a soul above mosquitoes, Skippy
Bedelle discovered the moon.

* * * * *

Forty-eight hours later, Skippy suddenly realized that the hot and cold
symptoms, the loss of appetite, the inability to concentrate his mind on
either "The Count of Monte Cristo" or "Lorna Doone," the hardness of his
bed, the length of the day were not due to either German measles or the
grippe. He was suffering from something that neither Dr. Johnny's pink
pills, nor his white ones nor the big black ones could alleviate. He was
in love, genuinely, utterly, hopelessly in love.

CHAPTER XIX

THE URCHIN BEGINS TO BLOOM

THE first result of young love was a sudden aversion to the well-known
but freckled features of Skippy Bedelle. The examination in the
looking-glass had left him in a condition of abject despair. Only a man,
full-fledged and resplendent, could hope to hold the affections of the
dazzling Mimi Lafontaine, and what a tousled, scrubby little urchin he
was! That night he spent one dollar and twenty cents, out of a slender
reserve, for toilette accessories, and began the long fight for a part
in the middle of his reckless, foaming hair.

The next day marked a milestone in the sentimental progression of Mr.
John C. Bedelle. For the first time in his life, his astonished eyes
encountered a little blue envelope inscribed to his name in a large,
dashing, unmistakably feminine hand. Neither mother nor sister, aunt or
cousin had ever addressed that letter. He picked it up and then set it
down with a sudden swimming feeling. It was postmarked "Farmington."

"My Lord, if it should be from her," he said.

There was, of course, one sure way to solve the difficulty, but Skippy
was too overcome by his emotion to imagine it. Instead, he sat down and
contemplated it with a mystical veneration.

"It can't be. No, no, it can't be from Mimi! Good Lord, no. A girl
doesn't write to a man first," he said, shaking his head. "It's from
Sis. It's a joke, and she's got some one else to address it. That's it."

He opened the letter, which read as