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 "Sam's. He told me a month ago he was looking around for an opening."

Mr. Quinby gave a short, hard laugh, stood up, and left the room. Another moment and the front door closed. The boy knew that he was gone.

"Bert!" his mother said. "What will you do next?"

He flushed hotly. "Why does pop always think I do things just to hurt him?"

"Why do you always hurt him?" she asked.

The question stung him. He took refuge in his old sanctuary—his room—and there gave himself up to bitter reflections. No matter what he did, it seemed, he did wrong. Here he was with his big chance, but what difference did that make? Was he supposed to be able to think of everything? After Sam left, if the new clerk didn't do everything just sc, the blame would be his. He'd hear about it, all right; oh, yes, he'd hear about it. He threw up his hands with an impatient motion that, had he known it, was an exact copy of his father's.

"I suppose the only thing for me to do," he scowled, "is to back out. Then everybody will be happy." In spite of his depression, the idea gave him the painful-pleasurable emotion of a martyr.

He came down the stairs on tiptoe, let himself out of the house, and went over to Washington Avenue. A glance through the window showed