As Henry and his wife went down the steps, they exchanged glances and smiled faintly. “First time I’ve been in that house for seven months,” said Henry, half to himself. “It’s a bully old shack, too. I lived in it ever since I was six.”

“Still, we’re pretty comfortable right where we are, dear.”

Henry lagged a little. “That does hurt my feelings. Of course, I’m so busy I could live in a dog-kennel and hardly notice it, but when you have to camp day in and day out in that measly little joint, and smell everybody else’s corned beef and cabbage, and dig like a general-housework girl and cook, and manicure the stove, and peel the potatoes and dust off the what-not and so on––not that you haven’t made it a mighty pretty place, because you have––without one day’s vacation since last August––”

“But I’ve told you so often, dear, I’m glad to do it if it helps you.”

“It helped a lot. If you hadn’t done it in the first place, I wouldn’t have had the cash on hand to tie up the rest of the picture houses. But that time’s gone by. I don’t see why in thunder you won’t hire some servants. And at least you could pike up into the country for a week. Why don’t you?”

She hesitated, for temptation was strong, and she was really very tired. “Maybe it’s just because I want to play the game out, too. It’s only two months more.”

“And after that,” he said firmly, “we’re going to move. I’ll have enough to buy a young bungle-house up on the hill, even if I don’t get anything from Archer. And then I’m going to make up to you for this year––see if I don’t.”

“Would you sell the Orpheum?”

“Sell it!” he echoed. “I’d sell it so quick you’d think it was a fake oil-well! I could, too. Bob Standish sends me a proposition from somebody about once a week.”

“Don’t you believe there’s any chance of our catching up, then?”

“Looks pretty black,” he admitted. “They’ve got us eight down and nine to go, but if this amendment holds off we’ve still got eight weeks left to think up some wild scheme.”

She squeezed his arm. “I’m not afraid of the future, no matter what happens. We can take care of ourselves.”

“Sure we can,” he said, easily. “Maybe I could get a job keeping the books for the League!... Seriously, though, I’ve had two or three different propositions put up to me over at the Club ... but Lord! how I hate to be licked! Well––let’s train our gigantic intellects on the job, and finish out the heat, anyway.”

She went back to her hated housekeeping, and Henry went back to his hated theater, and for another week they labored and pinched and saved, each in a specific purpose, and each in desperate support of the other’s loyalty and sacrifice.

He brought her, then, the morning edition of the Herald, and pointed out a telegraphic item 259 on the first page. “They must think it’s a sure thing,” he said, “and the devil of it is that I guess they’re pretty nearly right.”

Anna glanced at the headlines, and gasped. “Mix elected second vice-president of the national organization––and pledges twenty-five thousand dollars to the national campaign fund! Oh!... I wish I could say what I think!”

“If a hearty oath would relieve you, don’t mind me,” said Henry. His chin was squarer than usual, and his eyes were harder. “You can see what happened, can’t you? Aunt Mirabelle railroaded him through––and the pompous old fool looks the part––and she let him promise money she expects to get in August. And I’ll bet it hurt him just as much to promise it as it does me to have him!”

She threw the paper to the floor. “Henry, can’t we do something? We’re only a few hundred dollars short! Can’t we make up just that little bit?”

“It’s a thousand, now,” he said. “A thousand, and we’re falling further behind every time the clock ticks.” He retrieved the 260 Herald, and abstractedly smoothed out the pages. “That was a great spread-eagle speech of Mix’s wasn’t it? Talking about his model ordinance, and what he’s going to do next year!... Nothing I’d love better than to give that fellow a dose of his own tonic. But that’s the deuce of it––I can’t think how to put it over.... Even if I’m licked, I wouldn’t feel so badly if I just had the personal satisfaction of making him look like a sick cat. Just once.”

“Yes,” she said, sorrowfully. “Dad’s prophecy didn’t seem to work out, did it?”

“What prophecy was that?”

“Don’t you remember? He said if Mr. Mix only had enough rope––”

“Oh, yes. Only Mix declined the invitation. He’s handled himself pretty well; you’ve got to grant that. There’s a lot of people around here that honestly think he’s a first-class citizen. Sometimes I’m darned if I don’t think they will elect him something. And then God save the Commonwealth! But if they ever realized how far that League’ll go if it ever gets under way, and what a bunch of hocum Mix’s 261 part of it is––” He stopped abruptly, and froze in his place; and then, to Anna’s amazement, he turned to her with a whoop which could have carried half-way to the Orpheum.

“Henry! What on earth is it?”

Henry snatched up his hat and made for the door. “More rope!” he said, exultantly, over his shoulder. “Lots more rope––I’ll tell you tonight!”

He arrived at the City Hall before the record room was open, and he fretted and stamped in the corridor until a youthful clerk with spats, pimples, and an imitation diamond scarf-pin condescended to listen to his wants. In twenty minutes he was away again, and he was lucky enough to catch Judge Barklay before the bailiff had opened court.

“Hello, Henry,” said the Judge. “Did you want to see me about anything?”

“Rather!” said Henry, who was slightly out of breath. “It’s about a comma.”

“A what?”

“A comma. Where’s your copy of the ordinances?”

“On my desk. Why?”

Henry ran through the volume to the proper place, inserted his thumb as a marker, and held the book in reserve. “Judge, do you suppose the voters want any of these fool blue-laws passed?”

“No.”

“Well, who does, then, outside of the League?”

“Nobody. All we want is a decent city.”

“It’s simply that the League’s got the Council more or less buffaloed, isn’t it?”

“That’s what I’ve heard, Henry.”

“And the first thing we know, the League’ll have put in such a big wedge that it’ll be too late to get it out. If this amendment gets over, Mix’ll have a show in the fall, and then the League’ll run wild. Just as they said in those pamphlets that Mix published, and then squirmed out of. Isn’t that so?”

“Very likely. Very likely.”

“And yet everybody’s afraid to stand up 263 against it, for fear they’ll be called names?”

“It looks so, Henry.”

“But if the people once started a back fire––”

The Judge shook his head. “Mobs don’t start without a leader.”

“I know, but if they ever realized what a ghastly farce it would be––not even using any of the League’s new notions, but taking what we’ve got on the books right now––” He opened the volume of ordinances, and read slowly: “‘Whosoever shall fail in the strict observance of the Lord’s Day by any unseemly act, speech or carriage; or whosoever shall engage in any manner of diversion––’” Here he paused impressively. “‘––or profane occupation––’” He slung the volume on the desk, and faced the Judge. “Don’t you get it?”

“I’m afraid I don’t––quite.”

“Why,” said Henry, with a beatific grin. “Why, there’s a comma after that word ‘diversion.’ I’ve just come from the City Hall. I’ve seen the original copy. There is a comma. ‘Any manner of diversion’––that’s one thing: ‘or any manner of profane occupation for 264 profit––’ that’s something else again, and different entirely. And the Reform League has been shrieking to have that ordinance enforced––to say nothing of the amendment. Well, why not enforce it once. ‘Any manner of diversion?’” He began to laugh, helplessly. “Oh, come on, Judge––take the pins out and let your imagination down. Any manner of––”

The Judge was whistling softly. “By George, Henry––”

“Can’t you see it working? I’m not sure anybody could even take a nap! And––”

The Judge stepped past him. “That’s all right, Henry. Stay where you are. I’m just going to telephone Rowland.... Hello: Mayor’s office, please––” He motioned to his son-in-law. “Make yourself comfortable––I shouldn’t wonder a bit if these blue-laws weren’t going to get just a little bit––bleached.”

On his delirious way to the Orpheum, he stopped in to see Bob Standish, not to share the joke with him, for Judge Barklay had laid great 265 stress on the closest secrecy, but in answer to a recent message asking him to call.

“What’s the excitement, Bob?”

His friend regarded him with the innocent stare which had made his fortune. “Remember I spoke to you some time ago about renting that space over the Orpheum?”

“The nursery? Yes.”

“Well, it’s come up again. Different party, this time. Of course he hasn’t seen it yet, but it’s a chap who wants about that much space––might want to enlarge it a little, but we’d arrange that; he’d do it at his own expense––and he’d pay fifteen hundred a year.”

Henry deliberated. “It’s so near the finish.... I don’t much care one way or the other. Who’s the party?”

“Bird named McClellan.”

“I don’t know him; do I?”

“I don’t know why you should; never met him before, myself. Well, do you want to trade?”

“I don’t much care what I do.”

Standish surveyed him closely. “You’re very peppy this morning, seems to me.”

“I’ve got an excuse to be.”

“For publication?”

“Not yet. You’ll see it soon enough.”

Standish’s eyes dropped back to his desk. “Well, let’s get this lease question off our chests. If you’ll let me handle it for you, I’ll guarantee you’ll be satisfied.”

“Would you do it if you were in my shoes?”

“Absolutely––provided you were in mine.”

Henry laughed. “Well, Mr. Bones, what is the answer?”

“Why––this may do you some good. That is, if you let me manage it for you. But suppose it’s immaterial. Suppose you run out your string, and win or lose, you know what’s on the docket for you, don’t you? If you want it?”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead. I’ve had one or two things put up to me.”

“Forget ’em.” Standish pointed at the wall. “Nice new mahogany flat-topped desk right there.”

Henry’s mouth relaxed. “Why––Bob.”

As Standish gazed at him, no observer would have said that this immature-looking boy was rated in the highest group of local businessmen. 267 To a stranger, the offer might have seemed insignificant, even humorously insignificant; but to Henry it was stupendous, and for two widely varying reasons.

“Just to think over,” said Standish. “In case.”

Henry’s fists were doubled. “It isn’t so much the ... the commercial side of it, Bob, but when I know you’ve always had me down for such an incompetent sort of––”

“That was before the war. To tell the truth, old rubbish, last August I couldn’t have seen it with the Lick telescope. Thought you were a great scout, of course––good pal––all that––but business; that’s different. A friend’s one thing; but a partner’s a lot of ’em.”

Henry was staring fixedly at him. “I wouldn’t have any money to speak of––”

“Then don’t speak of it. I’ll name the price. The price is your year’s profit on the Orpheum.”

There was a little silence. “When did you get this hunch, Bob?”

“Oh, about last February.”

“But it was about then that I came in here 268 one day, and––and you said you––you said one pal couldn’t boss another. You said––”

“Oh!... But as I recall it, you were talking about a job.”

“Yes, and you said you wouldn’t give me one! And ever since then I’ve been––”

“Idiot!” said Standish. “Is that what’s been gnawing at his tender heart! Why, you astigmatic fool––why.... Stop right there! Certainly I wouldn’t have you for an employÉ, but as a partner––that’s different. If you apologize, I’ll slay you. Shake hands and wipe it off your brain.... Now let’s get back to business. We’ve got to have quick action.”