IT was in that mood that he decided to go home. The little house on West Twelfth Street was the abode of misery. So much the better.

He found some letters and a telegram waiting for him. He opened the telegram, certain that it was an urgent invitation to join beloved merrymakers—an invitation that he declined in advance with much self-pity He read:

Ask for Thompson.

It was signed:

Tecumseh Motor Company.

He then saw that it came from Dayton, Ohio. The other letters were from some of the other Herald advertisers. All but one were cordial requests for his immediate services—and capital. The last asked for more details about the business experience of Mr. Thomas P. Leigh.

They did not interest him. He was too full of his romantic experiences. The Dayton man was a hero—a Man! Tommy must become one.

He saw very clearly that he must add ten years to his life.

He did it!

Then it became obvious that he must transform his hitherto juvenile mind into a machine, beau-fully geared, perfectly lubricated, utterly efficient. Since machines express themselves in terms of action and accomplishment, Tommy began to pack up.

His wearing apparel did not bother him, save for a passing regret that he had no old clothes to be a mechanic in. But the succeeding vision of overalls calmed him. What meant a second fight was the problem of living in Dayton in a room which he must not decorate with the treasured trophies of his college life. It was to a battle-field that he was going. He took out of his trunk many of the cherished objects and prepared to occupy a bomb-proof shelter instead of a cozy room. Second victory! And it was an amazing thing, but when Mr. Leigh came home that evening he found in his son no longer a boy of twenty-one, but a young man.

The sight of the father, whose tragedy was now his son's, gave permanence to the change in the son. Tommy had passed the stage of regrets and entered into the hope of fair play. Fate must give him a sporting chance. He did not ask for the mischief to be undone suddenly and miraculously; nothing need be wiped out; he asked only that time might be given, a little time, until he could pay back that money. And if he couldn't win, that he might have one privilege—to die fighting. His father was his father. And the son's work would be the work of a son in everything. Fairness, justice—and a little delay!

Tommy shook hands with his father a trifle too warmly, but he smiled pleasantly. “I'm leaving to-night on the nine-fourteen train, father.” He had studied the time-tables and he had solved the perplexing problem of how to raise the money to pay for the ticket. He had borrowed it from two of the friends with whom he had lunched at the club. It wasn't very much, but he wanted it to be clean money.

Mr. Leigh looked surprised. Tommy felt the alarm and he hastened to explain. “It's the Day-ton man,” he said, and he handed the telegram to his father.

Mr. Leigh kept his eyes on the yellow slip long enough to read the brief message two hundred times. At length he looked up and met his son's eyes. He made an obvious effort to speak calmly.

“Have you thought carefully, Thomas? You know nothing about this man or the character of the work. It may mean merely a waste of time.”

“I know that I want to work.”

“Yes, but it ought to be work that you are competent to do.”

“I am not competent to do any work that calls for experience and training. I have to learn, no matter where I go, and so—Father, I've got to pay back what you have—spent for me! I must! It will take time, but I'll do it, and the sooner I start, the better I'll feel.”

Mr. Leigh looked at his son steadily, searchingly, almost hungrily. Then the old man's gaze wavered and indecision came into his eyes. “Thomas, I—”

“I'll write you, father.” Tommy looked away, his father's face had grown haggard so suddenly.

He heard the old man say, “You must take enough money to pay for your return in case you find the work uncongenial.”

“I won't find any work uncongenial,” said Tommy, very positively. He knew!

“One can never tell, my son. It is wise to be prepared. I will give you—”

“No, no, father!” Then Tommy said, determinedly, “I cannot take any money from you.” He looked at his father full in the eye.

Mr. Leigh hesitated. Then he asked: “How do you expect to go? You can't walk.”

“No,” said Tommy, without anger; “I borrowed fifty dollars from friends.”

Mr. Leigh turned his head away. Then he walked out of the room.

They had very little to say to each other at dinner. It was after Tommy had ordered a taxi to take him and his trunk—if it had not been for the trunk he would not have dreamed of spending so much—to the station that Mr. Leigh said:

“Thomas, I wish to explain to you—”

“No, dad, please don't! There was such pain in the boy's voice that Mr. Leigh took a step toward him. Tommy was suffocating.

“My son, there is no need of your feeling that you—”

“I don't! I understand perfectly!” Tommy shook his head—without looking at his father.

Mr. Leigh walked out of the room. Tommy took a step toward him and halted abruptly—something was choking him. He began to pace up and down the room, dreading the news of the arrival of the taxi and yet desiring it above all things.

Presently Mr. Leigh returned He had in his hand a little package. He gave it to Tommy, who took it mechanically.

“My son,” said Mr. Leigh, in a low voice, “your uncle Thomas gave this to your mother—one hundred dollars in gold. She kept it for you. She wrote on it, 'For Tommy's first scrape.' It is not my money. It was hers. It is yours. Take it—for your first scrape. And, my son—” The old man's speech seemed to fail him. Presently he went on: “You are in no scrape. Your mother—Well, I have done my duty as I saw it. And, Thomas—”

“Yes, sir.”

“Remember that I am your father and that there is no wisdom in unnecessary privations. You are not called upon to expiate my—my weakness of character. If ever you find yourself suffering actual want—”

Tommy couldn't say what his pride urged. Instead he told his father, “I'll wire for help if I really need it, dad.” Having said what he did not think he would ever do, he made up his mind that he would take money dripping with the blood of slaughtered orphans rather than increase this old man's unhappiness.

“Thank you, my son,” said the old man, very simply.

“A nautomobile is out there waiting,” announced Maggie.

“Tell the man to take the trunk,” Tommy told her. Then to the old man: “Well, dad, it's good-by now. I'll write—often.” He held out his hand.

Mr. Leigh came toward his son. His face was grim but his outstretched hand trembled. “Good-by, my son! Good-by.” He grasped both Tommy's hands in his and gripped them tightly. Then his voice broke and he said, huskily: “My son! My son!”

“Dad!” said Tommy, his eyes full of tears. “Oh, dad! It will be all right! It's all right!”

Mr. Leigh released his son's hands and walked away.

Maggie came in and said, “Good-by, Master Thomas.”

“Good-by, Maggie,” said Tommy. Then he threw his arms about her neck and kissed her on her cheeks. “Take care of him, Maggie. If—anything happens telegraph me. I'll send you my address.”

“What can happen? He's as strong as he ever was,” said Maggie, calmly.

Tommy went up-stairs to the library, where he was sure his father had gone. Through the open door he saw his father pacing up and down the room. He was shaking his head as men do when they are arguing with themselves, and his hands were clenching and unclenching spasmodically.

Thomas F. Leigh turned on his heels and walked down the stairs very quietly. He had entered into his new life. It was a life of bitter loneliness.

He could have no friends, because his secret could not be shared. He felt the loneliness in advance. It almost overwhelmed him.

In the hall, as his hand grasped the knob of the street door, without knowing that he craved to hear the sound of a living voice in order to dispel the stifling silence that enveloped his soul, Tommy Leigh said, aloud:

“It's up to me to make good!”