"Oh, my Lord!" he almost groaned. "Don't tell me she has promised to marry--" He broke off to glare venomously at Thane.

"Don't blame me for it, Charlie," exclaimed the latter. "I am as innocent as an unborn babe. Charge it to woman's wiles." He laughed boisterously, unnaturally.

Mr. Pollock spoke. "The next issue of the Sun will contain the formal announcement of the engagement of the most popular and beloved young lady in Windomville. No doubt it will be old news by that time,--next Thursday,--but publication in the press gives it the importance of officialty."

"We may congratulate ourselves, however, that we are not to lose her," said Mrs. Pollock. "She is to remain in--"

"Whe-when is it to take place?" groaned Charlie, moisture starting out on his brow.

"That," began Mr. Pollock, "is a matter which cannot be definitely announced at present, owing to certain family--er--ah--conditions.

In addition to this, I may say that there is also the children to consider, as well as the township trustee and, to an extent, the taxpayer. The--"

"All I've got to say," grated Charlie, "is that the police ought to be consulted, first of all."

"The police!" exclaimed Angie Miller.

"The--the what?" gasped Furman Hatch, lifting his head suddenly.

He was very red in the face. "I'd like to know what the devil the police have to do with it?"

Charlie took a look at Angie Miller's face, and then the truth dawned upon him. He sank back in his chair so suddenly that the legs gave forth an ominous crack.

"Don't do that!" cried Margaret Slattery sharply. "You know them chairs are not made of iron. And I don't want you flopping all over me when I'm pa.s.sing the stew--"

"Yes, sir!" boomed Charlie, who had collected his wits by this time, and was pointing his finger accusingly at Mr. Hatch. "The police have simply got to be called. It's going to take half the force, including Bill Foss, to keep me from drinking the heart's blood of my hated rival. Ladies and gents, that infernal, low-down villain over there has come between me and--But n.o.body shall say that Charles Darwin Webster is a poor loser! Say what you please about him, but do not say he is a short sport. It breaks my heart to do it, but I'm coming around there to shake hands with you, old Tintype.

I'm going to congratulate you, but I'm never going to get through hating you."

He arose and bolted around the table. Mr. Hatch got to his feet and the long and the short man clasped hands.

"Put her there, old boy! I've already made up my mind what my wedding present is going to be. The day before the wedding I'm coming in and order a dozen photographs of myself,--pay for 'em in advance.

And I'm going to give every darned one of 'em to the bride, so's she can stick 'em up all over the house just to make you feel at home, you blamed old bachelor. And as for you, Miss Angelina Miller, the very topmost height of my ambition will be reached in less than two minutes after the ceremony. Because, then and there, I'm going to kiss you. Bless you, my children. As old Rip Van Winkle used to say, 'may you live long and brosper.'"

Having delivered himself of this felicitous speech, the somewhat relieved Mr. Webster wiped his brow.

"What did he say?" quaked old Mrs. Nichols, putting her hand to her ear.

"Says he hoped they'd be happy," bawled old Mr. Nichols, close to her ear.

"Pa.s.s the bread, Doc," said Mr. Hatch, getting pinker and pinker.

"When's it to take place, Angle?" inquired Charlie, resuming his seat. He cast a sharp look at Courtney. The young man shifted his gaze immediately.

"As I explained to Mr. Pollock, everything depends on my aunt,"

said Angie composedly. "She is very old,--eighty-three, in fact."

"You don't mean to say your aunt objects to your marrying old Tintype," exclaimed Charlie.

"Not at all," replied Angie, somewhat tartly.

"You see, it's this way," volunteered Mr. Pollock. "Miss Angie is the sole support of a venerable and venerated aunt who lives in Frankfort. That is a thing to be considered. Her duty to her father's sister--"

Courtney interrupted, chuckling. "It's too much to ask of any woman. I suppose it must take nearly all you earn, Miss Miller, to support your aged relative, so naturally you do not feel like taking on Mr. Hatch immediately."

There was a moment's silence around the table.

"I see by the Chicago Tribune," said Mr. Pollock, after a hurried gulp of coffee, "that there's likely to be a strike of the street-car men up there."

"You don't say so," said Doc Simpson, looking so concerned that one might have been led to suspect that he was dismayed over the prospect of getting to his office the next day.

"What's the world coming to?" sighed Maude Baggs Pollock nervously.

"Strikes, strikes everywhere. Murder, bloodshed, robbery, revolution--"

"Next thing we know," put in Charlie Webster, without looking up from his plate, "G.o.d will strike, and when He does there'll be h.e.l.l to pay, begging your pardon, ladies, for using a word that sounds worse than it tastes."

"I use it every day of my life," said Miss Flora Grady. "It's a grand word, Charlie," she added, a little defiantly.

"Times have changed," remarked Mr. Pollock blandly. "It wasn't so very long ago that women Said 'pshaw' when they wanted to let off steam. Then they got to saying 'shucks,' and from that they progressed to 'darn,' and now they say 'd.a.m.n' without a quiver. Only yesterday I heard my wife say something that sounded suspiciously like 'dammit to h.e.l.l' when she upset a bottle of ink on her desk. She hasn't stubbed her toe against a rocking-chair lately, thank goodness."

Doc Simpson stopped Courtney as he was starting upstairs after dinner. The dentist was unsmiling.

"Say, Court, I'm running a little close this week. Been so much excitement a lot of patients have forgotten all about their teeth.

Can you let me have that ten you borrowed last week?"

"Sure," said Courtney, in his most affable manner. "I'll hand it to you tomorrow. I'll give it to you now if you'll wait till I run upstairs and get it out of my trunk. That's my bank, you know."

"Tomorrow'll do all right," said Doc, a trifle abashed.

"Can I see you a second, Mr. Thane?" called Miss Grady, when he was halfway up the stairs.

He stopped and smiled down at her. "I hope you'll forgive me if I don't come down, Miss Flora. My knee is still on the blink. It hurts worse to go downstairs, than it does up."

"I'll come up," said Miss Grady promptly. "You remember those roses I ordered for you last week? Well, I had to pay cash for them, including parcel post. You owe me seven dollars and thirteen cents."

"I'm glad you spoke of it. I hadn't forgotten it, of course, but--I simply neglected to square it up with you. Have you change for a twenty, Miss Flora?"

"Not with me."

"I'll hand it to you tomorrow. Seven-thirteen, you say? Shall we make it seven-fifteen?" He favoured her with his most engaging smile, and Miss Grady, who thought she had steeled her heart against his blandishments, suffered a momentary relapse and said, "No hurry. I just thought I'd remind you."

He failed completely, however, to affect the susceptibilities of Miss Mary Dowd, who presently rapped at his door, and rapped again when he called out "Come in." He opened the door.

"Pardon me, Mr. Thane, for coming up to speak to you about your bill. Will it be convenient for you to let me have the money this evening?"

She did not soften the dun by offering the usual excuse about "expenses being a little heavier this month than we expected," or that she "hated to ask him for the amount."

"Is it three or four weeks, Miss Molly?" he inquired, taking out an envelope and a pencil.

"Four weeks today."

"Sixty dollars." He jotted it down. "I cannot let this opportunity pa.s.s to tell you how thoroughly satisfied I have been with everything here, Miss Molly. The table is really extraordinarily good. I don't see how you can do it for fifteen dollars a week, including room."