The next morning Miss Redding held a brief conversation at the breakfast table regarding Lem's immediate future, the important question being whether Lem should be sent to school. With two school teachers at the table Susan felt she was sure to receive good advice. To Lem's delight the unanimous opinion was that it was hardly worth while for him to go to school during the brief tag end of the term remaining. When Henrietta Bates said this, Miss Redding had no further doubts, for she had a very high opinion of Miss Bates. There was something safe and solid about Miss Bates that gave weight to her opinion.

Henrietta Bates had made an excellent impression on Miss Redding. Henrietta was one of half a dozen out-of-town teachers who had hastened to Riverbank at the time when, following the trouble over a certain Mrs. Helmuth's case, the school board had arbitrarily decreed that never again should a married woman teach in Riverbank's schools. The “foreigners,” as the intruding teachers were called, had immediately become the subject of some of the most ardent hatred and abuse, and some of them had made replies that made them exceedingly unpopular, but Miss Bates had, by good-natured diplomacy, avoided all this. The others had been sent packing as soon as local talent was available to supplant them, but Henrietta had not only remained, but had been rapidly promoted, and was a real favorite with all.

“She's the kindest and affectionatest woman I ever knew in all my born days,” Miss Susan often said. “Just look how she does for Mr. Todder. It's like he was her son. She sews on his buttons and mends his socks, and never a sign of flirting with him or anything. I do admire Henrietta Bates highly, and that's a fact.”

Every one admired Henrietta. She was so large and so cheerful and, withal, so “safe.” She was so wholesome and healthy and free from complaints.

“It's a wonder to me,” Miss Susan often said, “that no man has grabbed her long ago. If I was a man I'd marry her in a minute. She's the best there is, to my notion.”

Miss Susan had rejoiced openly when Henrietta's news came from Spirit Lake.

“Well, I'm glad!” Miss Susan said. “If ever a woman deserved a fine man, Henrietta does.”

As a rule Henrietta was cheerful. She would play the ancient piano any time she was asked, or sing in her very fair voice. She was always ready to make up a set at croquet; she even tried tennis, but had to give it up. “I'm too aged,” she laughed, meaning—as every one knew—she was too heavy.

When she did have her short periods of depression it was because she had not heard from Billy Vane, she said, or had had a letter that was not satisfactory.

“I don't know what I'll do when she gets married and goes away,” Miss Susan said. “She's almost like a sister, the way she helps out. I guess folks don't know how many things can come up in a boarding-house to set everybody cross at each other, but Henrietta just keeps the front part of the house all nice and friendly all the time. I don't know whatever I 'll do without her.”

It was so in this matter of Lem.

“It is quite useless to send him to school for the short time there is left,” Henrietta told Miss Susan. “He wouldn't fit into any class, and he'd be unhappy and make work for the teacher and be so far behind his class that the schooling would n't do him any good. Let him wait until the fall term. Gay and Lorna and I can tutor him a little this summer.”

“If you ain't too busy getting ready to get married and quit us,” said Susan. “You'll be so busy getting ready—”

“I'll have a little time for Lem, I hope,” Henrietta said brightly, smiling at him. “And Gay and Lorna will be here.”

“Not being lucky enough to have our Billy Vanes,” said Lorna.

“Now don't be jealous of a poor old maid,” Henrietta teased.

“But we are,” said Lorna, and smiled inwardly. “Nobody loves us.”

She glanced at Freeman Todder, but it was one of his bad mornings, of which he had a great many. He was pale and heavy-eyed and his hand shook. No one at the table knew when he had come in the night before, but it had been after three in the morning. He had had a long session of poker, with bad luck, and his pocket held just eighteen cents. He kept his eyes on his plate.

“What do you think, Mr. Todder?” Susan asked.

“What?” he asked, looking up suddenly.

“Do you think Lem ought to wait until fall to start schooling?”

“What do I know about it?” he asked. “It's nothing to me.”

There was an unpleasant pause. Rudeness, even when coming from a man as evidently out of sorts as Freeman was, kills lively spirits. Henrietta came to the rescue.

“Did you ever see a lovelier day?” she asked. “Just see the sun on that vase of syringas! This is the sort of day I wish I was a Maud Muller. Lem, it is a crime to be in school a day like this, isn't it?”

“Yes'm,” said Lem. “I guess so.”

“So we won't make you go,” she said gayly. “Lorna and I are poor slaves. We have to go whether we like it or not.”

She arose and went to the door, humming.

She went into the hall and stood a moment at the screen door, looking out, and then went out upon the porch and walked slowly down toward the gate, stopping to pick a dandelion. At the top of the terrace steps she stood, waiting. Freeman Todder, taking his hat and cane, followed her. To any one seeing them at the top of the steps they would have seemed to have met there by chance.

“Well?” Henrietta asked. There was no lightness, no affection in her voice; no anger either.

“It went against me last night. I lost the whole twenty. The damnedest luck, Et.”

“I don't care the least about your luck,” Henrietta said. “You are an ungrateful, inconsiderate wretch. I 'll say it plainly. I'm utterly disgusted.”

“Oh, quit it!” said Todder rudely.

“I feel like quitting it—like quitting everything—forever,” she said. “I get so tired. God! how tired I get! And you never show the least consideration.”

She looked toward the house.

“We can't stand here,” she said. “Walk along with me. We must settle this now, Freeman.”

“Settle nothing!” he growled, but he walked beside her, going down the steps and turning down the street.

“It is not fair to me, Freeman,” she said. “I owe both the girls so much already, and Miss Redding for weeks and weeks. It has been hard, letting them think I am a silly old fool, and planning to make them think it. I don't know how much longer I might have gone on with it. Now that is ended.”

Freeman said nothing.

“I could n't have gone on with it much longer, but now it has come to an end,” Henrietta continued. “For one reason they simply can't lend me any more. No matter how amused they may be over thinking that I am a great silly, buying myself presents and pretending I get them from my Billy Vane, they can't spare the money. And you make me so furious, doing as you did last night, getting rid of even the few dollars I could get. You might at least spend the money sensibly. You might try to help me, when everything I do is for you.”

“A lot you'd do for me if I did n't scare it out of you,” Freeman scoffed, and turned his hard eyes on her. “And you'll do a lot more for me, too. You've got to. I'm in bad.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, frightened, turning to look into his face.

“I'm in bad, I say,” he answered. “I've been tapping Alberson's till and he knows it. You think you've been keeping me going? What could I do with the scraps of money you've been giving me? Chicken feed!”

Henrietta was very white.

“You've been stealing?” she whispered.

“Yes, and got caught; that's the worst of it. And I've got to make it good, for Johnnie is going to put me through. Now you know it; what are you going to do about it?”

“Oh, Freeman!” she moaned. She dared not weep, for Gay, or any one, might be watching her. Mrs. Bruce, in one of the houses across the street, did come to her door and Henrietta waved a merry hand. “How much did you take?” Henrietta asked Freeman.

“Three hundred, I guess, but old Johnnie don't know it. He says it is two hundred. That's what I have to make good. 'Make good or go to the jug,' was what he said. And he'll do it. I 'm nobody, you see. I 'm none of the ancient and honorable Riverbank families. Nobody'll stop trading with Johnnie if I'm jugged. It will be 'whoof!' and I'm gone.”

“Oh, Freeman! How could you? And so little I can do. What can I do? Do you think, if I saw him—” questioned Henrietta.

“If you saw him? Yes, with a roll of cash in your fist,” laughed Freeman. “What would you do? Kiss him? The best thing you can do is hunt up two hundred ducats.”

“That's impossible, of course,” Henrietta said flatly. “How long will he wait?”

“He'll be quick enough, don't fret!”

“Freeman, if I think I can do some good by seeing him, may I?”

“I don't care a hoot what you do,” Freeman Todder said. “And I don't care a hoot what happens. That's how I feel.”

Henrietta put her hand ever so briefly on his arm.

“I know. And I'm sorry. It is all my fault. I'll do the best I can. I must go back now.”

“So long,” Freeman said, and went on down the hill.

Henrietta turned and went toward the house, trying to make her step springy and her face bright. She felt very old and worn. As she neared the gate Gay came across the street and Henrietta waited for her and slipped her arm through Gay's and forced a smile.

“You look happy,” Gay laughed.

“Happy? Why shouldn't I?” asked Henrietta. “I feel like a Pippa ready to chirp, 'All's right with the world,' this fair morn.”

“I honestly believe you're the youngest thing I know,” said Gay, and she meant it. She was a bit jealous. She had seen Henrietta place her hand on Freeman Todder's arm and, as such thoughts will come, had come the thought that Henrietta might be in love with Freeman.

What more the two women might have said was interrupted by the rattle of a cart that drove to the gutter and stopped at the Redding gate. In the vehicle were Harvey Redding, the newly self-appointed saint, as fat as ever, and a man of spare and awkward construction whose long neck suggested that of an ostrich in the act of swallowing an orange. He was in his shirt sleeves, without a waistcoat, but on one of his suspenders straps he wore one of the largest nickel-plated stars that ever adorned a human being. This star bore the legend, “Riverbank Municipal Police; Canine Division, No. I,” and had been presented to Officer Schulig by a group of playful citizens with a speech. While properly credentialed as a deputy member of the Riverbank police force and as full and complete Dog Warden, Officer Schulig now received no pay and considered it fitting to do no work except when driven to it by direct orders from the Town Marshal. As he said himself, he had “soured onto the schob” when the City Council took away the twenty-five cent fee for capturing and impounding stray dogs. He had even given up wearing his star in public, except when it was absolutely necessary, because it had become the custom of the lighter-minded to shield their eyes when the star approached, as if its glory was too great. At the same time these ungodly rascals would read the badge, saying, “Rifferbangk Muntzipipple Poleetz. Canine Divitzion. No one,” this having been the manner in which Officer Schulig had read it upon its presentation. What made it more annoying to Officer Schulig was that when any one read “Canine Divitzion. No one,” some one always chanted, with surprise, “What, no one at all?” and the answer, apologetically given, was, “Well, hardly any one.”

The custom of teasing Officer Schulig when he was performing any police duty had become so common, and made him so angry, that he no longer waited to be teased; he became angry as soon as he was called upon to perform any official task. And he was angry now.

“Got a hurry mit you, und out from my buggy get. By gollies, I ain't got all day yet for fooling aroundt. I shouldt take a club to you if I ain't left it to home already,” he ordered; and Saint Harvey hefted his huge bulk from the seat and clambered out of the cart backward. When he turned toward the house he, too, was red with anger and with the unusual exertion. On his fat wrists were a pair of glittering handcuffs.

“Dod-baste you!” he exclaimed whole-heartedly to Officer Schulig. “You ain't got no right to drag me into my sister's house with these here things on me. Take 'em off!”

“Stop now! You don't say to me dot you baste me!” shouted Schulig, white with rage. “Nobody hass a righdt to baste me. Baste yourself! Und I don't take hand-cuffers off from any man vot says he bastes me. Und anyhow I don't. I leaf my keys by my house. So shut up once!”