her was pretty well versed in his
tricks, thanks to long years of experience, and there was little chance
of further delay. So John sat up and dangled his legs over the side of
the bed, while he rubbed his sleep-laden eyes with his fists.

"Need a wet washrag?"

No. He was wide awake now. He listened to her steps on the stairs, and
to the opening of the front door as his father brought in the morning
paper. Then he fingered one stocking abstractedly.

Half an hour later, prompted by Mrs. Fletcher's remonstrances, her
husband came up and found the boy staring with unseeing eyes far over
the railroad tracks into the park. In his hand was the same stocking
which he had picked up so many minutes before.

At last he appeared in the dining-room, to find that his father and
mother had eaten their meal. His hair was half brushed, and his face and
neck untouched by cleansing water (hadn't they been soaped the night
before?), but he set to work on the nearly cold breakfast with a will.
He removed his empty grain saucer from the bread and butter plate and
looked up suddenly.

"Mother," he said irresolutely.

"Yes, son?"

"Say, Mother--how old does a fellow have to be to get married, anyway?"

His father chortled with merriment. John flushed an embarrassed red. His
mother restrained a smile as she answered:

"About twenty-one, dear, and lots of people wait until they're older.
Why?"

"Nothing. Does it cost very much?"

"Cost much?" Mr. Fletcher dropped the Sunday paper to the floor and
looked at his son and heir attentively. "Why, I should say it does. You
ought to have at least a thousand dollars saved before you even _think_
of marrying."

"John," cautioned Mrs. Fletcher reprovingly. "Don't torment the child."

"Let's see," went on her husband, unheeding. "You're ten now. If you
want to marry by the time you're twenty-one, that means you'll have to
earn about a hundred dollars a year from now on. Better begin right
away."

"Raise my allowance, will you, dad?" came the unexpected retort. "I'm
only getting a quarter a week now, and Sid DuPree's father gives him a
whole dollar."

"Young man," was the grave reply. "If you want to support a family,
you'll have to do it of your own accord. You and your mother keep me
busy as it is."

"Give me a quarter, then," the boy persisted. "That's all I want.
Please!"

His father dug into his pockets and brought out the desired coin. "The
nest-egg for the second generation