of Herr Brockhaus on
the second floor--a dealer in tailor's supplies. And she had heard that
he was a very nice man.

"Do you think I can get it," Keith demanded eagerly.

"Why don't you run up this minute and ask," she suggested.

Keith looked as if he had been to jump off a church steeple. But in
another minute he was climbing the stairs. His legs seemed rather shaky
and his tongue felt like a piece of wood. The moment he opened the door,
however, all his fears and hesitations were gone. Once more he was the
old Keith who had made a play of studies and examinations.

Herr Brockhaus was a tall, youngish, good-looking man, a little haughty
of mien, but with a tendency to smile in quite friendly fashion.

"I have as good as hired another boy who got here earlier than you," he
said in reply to Keith's inquiry. On seeing Keith's dejected look, he
laughed good-humouredly.

"There are plenty of other jobs," he suggested.

"But you look as if you would be kind to me and give to a chance to
learn," Keith heard himself saying to his own intense astonishment.

"I can see that when you want a thing you want it real hard," Herr
Brockhaus rejoined with another peasant laugh. "Well, I like that. What
kind of a hand do you write?"

"Awful," Keith confessed, "but I am going to learn better."

For a good long while Keith felt himself studied from top to toe, and
under that searching scrutiny he blushed as usual.

"I am willing to do anything that is required," he ventured to ease the
suspense.

"All right--what did you say your name was? Keith--I'll take you, and
tell the other boy that I changed my mind. When can you begin?"

"Tod ... tomorrow," Keith corrected himself with a sudden remembrance
of his father.

"Good," said Herr Brockhaus. "Show up at eight. And I'll pay you ten
crowns a month the first year, although as a rule volunteers don't get
anything."

Keith walked home on air. The sun never shone more brightly than that
day. The tall old stone houses along West Long street looked imposing
and mysterious, as if they had been magic mansions full of golden
opportunities for bright little boys. School seemed years away already.
Lector Booklund was a dream.

His mother listened in silence to his wonderful tale. Then she kissed
him.

"When you have made a lot of money, will you present me with a new black
silk dress," she asked with a suspicious lustre in her eyes.

"Anything you want, mamma," he promised sol