sed, then concluded impressively: "He made two whole dollars
last week and he's willing to blow in every cent of it on us!"

"You don't say so!" Rosie shook her head and clucked her tongue in
amazement as deep as Janet's own.

"You'll come, won't you, Rosie?"

Rosie hesitated. "I'll come if I can. I mean I will if Jarge Riley
hasn't something on. If he's off on Labour Day afternoon, of course
he'll want me and I'll have to be with him."

"Of course," Janet agreed. "But maybe he won't get off. I wonder how
soon he'll know?"

"I'll ask him tonight," Rosie promised. "Let's see: today's Thursday and
Labour Day's next Monday. I ought to be able to let Tom know early on
Saturday."

"I think I'm going to be off," George told her that night in answer to
her inquiry. "I switch around to a late run tomorrow night, but I won't
know until tomorrow whether I'm going to keep it regular. What do you
want to do tomorrow night? Ride down with me on my last trip? Then we'd
stop and get a soda on the way home."

"Thank you, Jarge, I think that would be very nice. And you can write me
a little note about Labour Day and hand it to me when I get on the
car."

George's face fell. "Won't talking be good enough?"

"No, Jarge, it'll be better to write. You're doing beautifully in your
letters but you must keep them up."

George sighed but murmured an obedient: "All right."

The next evening Rosie was at the corner in good time and, promptly to
the minute, George's car came by. It was an open summer car with seats
straight across and an outside running board. Rosie climbed into the
last seat, which was so close to the rear platform where George stood
that it was almost as good as having George beside her. When there were
no other passengers on the same seat, George could lean in and chat
sociably.

"Here's a letter for you," he announced, as Rosie settled herself. He
gave her a little folded paper and at the same time slipped a dime into
her hand with which, in all propriety, she was to pay her carfare.

"I'll answer your note tomorrow," Rosie said.

Duty called George to the front of the car and Rosie peeped hastily into
his letter. "_My dear little Sweetheart,_" it ran; "_Say, what do you
think? I'm off Labour Day afternoon, so we can go to the Parade. Say,
kid, I'm just crazy about you. George._"

So that settled the Tom Sullivan business. Rosie felt a little sorry
about Tom because Tom did like her. It couldn't be helped, t