you, and then there are other boys who will put asafetida in the furnace if you choose to teach them chemistry."

"Oh, no, sir," said Stover, all in a gasp.

"Your parents think you are hard to manage," said the Doctor, with the wisp of a smile. "I don't. Go out; make some organization; represent us; make us proud of you; count for something! And remember one thing: if you want to set fire to Memorial Hall or to dynamite this study do it because you want to, and not because some other fellow puts it into your head. Stand on your own legs." The Doctor rose and extended his band cordially. "Of course, I shall have my eye on you."

Stover, dumbfounded, rose as though on springs. The Doctor, noticing his amazement, said:

"Well, what is it?"

"Please, sir—is that all?"

"That's all," said the Doctor seriously.

Stover drew a long breath, shook hands precipitately and escaped.

IV

The spell was still on him as he stumbled over the resounding steps. But, twenty feet from the door, the spirit of irreverence overtook him. Then, at the thought of the waiting Butsey, he began to pipe forth voluminously the martial strains of Sherman's March to the Sea, kicking enormous pebbles victoriously before him.

Butsey White, sitting on the doorstep of Laloo's, gazed at him from the depths of a steaming frankfurter sandwich.

"Well, you look cheerful," he said in surprise.

"Why not?"

"How was he?"

"Gentle as a kitten."

"Come off! Were you scared?"

"Scared! Lord, no! I enjoyed myself."

"You're a cheerful liar, you are. What did he say to you?"

"Hoped I'd enjoy the place and all that sort of thing. And—oh, yes, he spoke about you."

"He did, did he?" said Butsey, precipitately leaving the frankfurter sandwich.

"He hoped I'd have a good influence on you," said Stover, whose imagination had been too long confined.

Butsey rose wrathfully, but the answer he intended could not be made, for, reckoning on his host, he was already in his third frankfurter, and there was the Jigger Shop yet to be visited.

"Dink, if you ever have to tell the truth," he said, "it'll kill you. Come in and meet Mr. Laloo."

Mr. Laloo was leaning gratefully on the counter—as, indeed, he was always leaning against something—his legs crossed, lazily plying the afternoon toothpick.

"Laloo, shake hands with my friend, Mr. Stover," said Butsey White professionally. "Mr. Stover's heard about your hot dogs, way out in California."

Laloo transferred the toothpick and gave Stover his hand in a tired, unenthusiastic way.

"Well, now, they do be pretty good hot dogs," he drawled out. "Suppose you want one?" He looked at Stover in sleepy reproachfulness, and then slid around the counter in the shortest parabola possible.

"Pick him out a nice, young Pomeranian," said Butsey, peering into the steaming tin.

Laloo forked a frankfurter, selected a roll and looked expectantly at Stover.

"What's the matter?" said Dink, mystified.

"Mustard or no mustard?" Butsey said in explanation. "He likes to talk, but the doctor won't let him."

"I'll have all that's coming to me," said Dink loudly.

A second later his teeth had sunk into the odorous mass. He shut his eyes, gazed seraphically at the smooty ceiling and winked at Butsey.

"Umm?" said Butsey.

"Umm! Umm!"

"Isn't he the fancy young dog-catcher?"

"Well, I should rather!" said Dink, lost in the vapors. "I say, have another?"

"Thanks, old chap, but I had a couple while you were chucking the Doctor under the chin," said Butsey glibly. "Save up now; we've got a couple more places to visit."

"How much?" said Dink.

Laloo, who was reclining against the nearest wall, elevated four fingers and gazed out the window.

"Four!" said Stover.

"One and three."

"Three!" said Butsey in feigned surprise. "Oh, come, I didn't eat three—well, I never; what do you think of that?"

Dink rubbed his ear thoughtfully, looked hard at Butsey and paid. Laloo followed them to the door, leaned against the jamb and gazed down the road.

"Now for Bill Appleby's," said Butsey cheerily. "He's rolling—rolling in wealth. We'll go in later for lamps and crockery and all that sort of thing. I thought we might sort of wash down the hot dogs before we go up to the Jigger Shop—eh, what?"

In Appleby's general merchandise store Stover gravely shook hands with a quick, business-like little man with a Western mustache, a Down-East twang and a general air of being on the trigger.

"Well, Bill, how's business?" said Butsey affably, nudging Stover.

"It's bad, boys, it's bad," said Bill mournfully.

"Bad, you old robber," said Butsey; "why, that little iron safe of yours is just cracking open with coin. How's the rootbeer to-day?"

"It's very nice, Mr. White. Just come in this morning."

"Yes, it did! Bet it came in with the Ark," said Butsey, to Stover's great admiration. "Well, are you going to set us up to a couple of bottles, or have we got to pay for them?"

"We've got some very fine Turkish paste, Mr. White," said Bill, producing the rootbeer.

"Well?" said Butsey, looking at Stover.

"Sure!"

"I'd like to show you some of our new crockery sets, Mr. Stover," said Appleby softly. "Just come in this morning. Want a student's lamp?"

"No time now, Bill," said Butsey, hastily consulting the clock. "See you later."

Other groups came in; Appleby moved away. Stover, quenching the hot dogs in rootbeer, heard again the opening salutations:

"Well, Bill, how's business?"

"It's bad, Mr. Parsons. It's bad."

"Well, Bill, ta-ta," said Butsey, as they moved off. "Seen Doc Macnooder this morning?"

"No, Mr. White, I haven't saw him to-day."

"Always make him answer that," said Butsey chuckling, "and always ask him about business. We all do. It's e-tiquette. There's Firmin's," he said, with a wave of his hand—"post-office, country store, boots and shoes and all that sort of thing. And here's the Jigger Shop!"

Stover had no need of the explanation. Before a one-story, glass-fronted structure a swarm of boys of all ages, sizes and colors were clustered on steps and railings, or perched on posts and backs of chairs, all ravenously attacking the jigger to the hungry clink of the spoon against the glass. They elbowed their way in through the joyous, buzzing mass to where by the counter, Al, watchdog of the jigger, scooped out the fresh strawberry ice cream and gathered in the nickels that went before. At the moment of their arrival Al was in what might be termed a defensive formation. One elbow was leaning on the counter, one hand caressed the heavy, drooping mustache, one ear listened to the promises of a ravenous, impecunious group, but the long, pointer nose and the financial eyes were dreamily plunged on the group without.

"Gee, did you ever see such an eye?" said Butsey, who had reasons of his own for quailing before it. "It's almost up to the Doctor's. You can't fool him—not for a minute. Talk about Pierpont Morgan! Why, he knows the whole blooming lot of us, just what we're worth. Why, that eye of his could put a hole right through any pocket. Watch him when he spots me." Pushing forward he exclaimed: "Hello, Al; glad to see me?"

Al turned slowly, fastening his glance on him with stony intentness.

"Don't bother me, you Butsey," he said shortly.

"Al, I've sort of set my sweet tooth on these here strawberry jiggers of yours."

The Guardian of the Jigger made a