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 aspirations as elsewhere in Kansas, the hearty ambition to get ahead for themselves and hoe their own row. It might be said of Pawnee Bend that it was just starting out on its own account, like himself.

This thought drew him closer to the brotherhood he had joined when he put his name on the petition. It made him feel so fine he came swinging down the stairs whistling a business-college tune.

Three men were lined up at the desk in close conference with MacKinnon, so engrossed in their business, which appeared to be some sort of accounting from the way they jumped their pencils along the paper as if adding figures, that they did not notice the town's newest citizen until he was about to pass them on his way to the door.

"Hey, Dunham!" MacKinnon hailed him.

The other three threw up their heads like startled horses at the sound of Dunham's name. Bill turned back at MacKinnon's excited signal, wondering if he was to be taken up for affixing his name to the petition under false pretense.

"This is the man, gentlemen!" MacKinnon said, speaking as if he had come to his climax. He seemed to offer Bill as an exhibit, with a wave of the hand.

Bill was assured at once, for there was satisfaction, even triumph and pride, in MacKinnon's way of presenting him. He felt that he had made a hit, in some way to be revealed, perhaps through his ability to write what the president of the school board back home used to call an ineligible hand.

One of the three men before the desk stepped for-