en it came he found that all the seats were
occupied but he discovered a vacant corner at the front and huddled
there.

Unfolding his paper carefully he scanned the world news and found it
depressing. It always was, Wilbur thought. He turned to the sport pages
for solace. That too was depressing, for it featured the doings of those
public heroes who battered each other to a pulp for profit and applause.

Not that Wilbur would have been unwilling to attend a prize fight. No
indeed. He would have enjoyed it immensely, except that he could not
stand the sight of men beating each other. And the blood! Even the
thought of blood made him slightly ill.

He turned quickly to the want ads. Those were always safe, sometimes
even exciting. Today there was a man who needed a bodyguard. Wilbur
reflected wistfully that he would have made a fine bodyguard, if only
things were different.

Actually he was a writer of greeting-card poetry, and as he swung off
the car his mind was already busy on a poem for Mother's Day. All he
needed was a good last line. So far it went:

"To the Mother so loving and tender,
On this day that is yours alone,
Homage I willingly render,
Ta ta-ta tum ta ta."

The last line would come to him, Wilbur knew. It always did. In the
meantime he nodded shyly to the elevator starter and found himself a
place at the back of the car. It rose swiftly and his heart pounded.

What if it should stop suddenly between floors? There was a beautiful
girl standing next to Wilbur and he thought how fear would flood her
face. That was the time when a cool and confident voice could avert
panic. But Wilbur was aware that there was more chance that the voice
would be the girl's rather than his.

His mind went back to the last line of the ditty he had been composing.
He almost had it, then it was gone. He bit down on his tongue in
concentration, unaware that he was staring at the girl next to him.

"My devotion you'll always own," Wilbur murmured.

"On such short acquaintance?" the girl smiled.

* * * * *

Wilbur turned pink, then red. He wanted to tell her he hadn't meant it
that way, and he found himself wishing he had. She was the kind of girl
he sometimes dreamed about, tall and not too thin, with golden hair and
gray eyes in which flecks of color danced.

"I meant my mother," Wilbur managed at last.

"How sweet. Now would you mind getting out of my way?"

Wilbur