raising his voice, "he wants to be an actor?"

"Yep."

"But many boys think that—almost every boy thinks that."

"But not the way this boy does."

"Yes, but can he read these, Tommy? I never heard any one murder English like William does. Yet he does it so winningly—that's the word, I think—that any jury would acquit him. And his slang—uh!" He shrugged his shoulders.

"Fierce, ain't it?" said Tommy smilingly.

"But can he really read these books?" Whimple reiterated.

"You should hear him and see him tackling the dictionary when he's stuck. Besides—I'm telling you everything mind in confidence—'Chuck' Epstein reads with him."

"Epstein! Whew!—and in his day he was the greatest comedian of them all. And a Jew!"

"And a man," said Tommy Watson with a note of challenge in his voice.

"I've heard much of his kindnesses," Whimple said, "but know him only by sight."

"He's a great friend of mine," said Tommy; "he spends nearly all his mornings here; has done since he retired from the stage. He's getting feeble, but his mind is as clear as ever, and his heart—well, his heart has never grown old."

"William Adolphus Turnpike, Epstein, retired comedian, Tommy Watson, auctioneer," said Whimple softly, and then looking up he found Watson regarding him with a whimsical smile.

"Us three, and no more—Amen, as the Three Guardsmen used to say," Tommy said.

"Well, not exactly in those words," Whimple replied.

"But meaning the same," Tommy retorted, "so what's the difference? Believe me," he went on, "the boy is safe with us. If his ambition sticks—why, he'll land."

"You're a good sort, Tommy Watson," said Whimple warmly as he left the shop, "I wish I could do more to help the boy."

"You're doing lots," said Tommy genially, "lots, and—well, the legal world'll take off its hat to you yet."

CHAPTER IV

Meanwhile our hero, as Vivian de Vere de Softley, the author of one thousand love stories, would say, was pensively leaning out of one of the office windows and thoughtfully taking pot shots at passers-by with a pea-shooter. Preferably he selected as his marks gentlemen who carried weight, and considered his best shot that which stung the ear of an elderly banker who wore a silk hat, and was detested by all who listened to his exhaustive speeches at banquets given by associations that could not afford to leave him off their programmes. The banker was exceedingly wrath, but as William was an expert in concealment, his victim was foiled in his attempts to discover the cause of the sudden stoppage of his flow of thought on his next great speech.

The banker finally passed on, and William was aiming for his next shot when something struck him on the shoulder. He turned smartly to encounter the stern gaze of a lady, an elderly lady. Her parasol was descending for another blow, but William adroitly dodged it. Nothing daunted, she raised it again, and this time succeeded in rapping "our hero" smartly across the arm.

William dropped to the floor, crawled under the table, rose again and waited. The lady walked gravely toward him, whereupon William again followed the under-the-table route, and finally flopped into a chair by his own desk. The lady regarded these manoeuvres with a gleam of anger in her fine dark eyes.

The boy had swiftly "taken her in," to use his own expressive phrase, and afterwards was able to say that she wore a bonnet, not a hat, that long ringlets of grey hair hung down each side of her face, that her dress was of silk and black, and that she held in her hand a slender chain, to which was attached a dog of the most melancholy countenance, and a shape that made William grin.

"What are you laughing at?" demanded the lady.

"The dog; if it is a dog."

"And a very good dog it is too."

"Well, I've seen pictures of 'em," said William politely, "but I ain't never believed it till now."

"Believed what?"

"The face and the shape——"

"There's nothing the matter with the shape," was the tart response; "Dick's a Daschund."

"A what! Oh! Gee! Say, my tongue always rolls around like it had no roots when I strike a word like that."

"No wonder; a boy of your age should be at school."

"School! not for mine, lady. I've gotter make a livin'."

"A living—you! What are you doing here?"

"I'm the office boy."

"Office boy! Whose office boy?"

"Mister Whimple's."

"You're a liar," the words were snapped out with a force and directness that William afterwards declared put him "on the blinks" for a few seconds.

The only retort that he would have made to one of his own sex rose swiftly to the boyish lips, and stayed there. He rose—who shall say what freak of imagination swayed him then—and took a step toward the lady. His hand went to his cap—in the encounter he had forgotten it until then—and off it came with a sweeping bow. He was no longer William, or Willie, or Bill; he was no longer an office boy; this was not Toronto. Here was the lady of the castle, proud, imperious, haughty; he was one who served under the banner of her lord. Beyond, was the great old house, surrounded with stately trees and fine driveways, and Sir William Adolphus Turnpike, in a voice he did not know, was saying, "Fair lady, I am thine to command. If I have offended I prithee forgive; 'twas not my intent, I do assure thee."

And the lady—what half-forgotten dreams came surging to her mind. Long ago, so long ago, there had been a boy with a heart of gold that had lost none of its admiration for her when the boy gave place to the man. But on a far-off border line of the empire he had given his life for the flag, and out of her life there had gone the dreams of a future with him. All through the years since then she had held her heart against those who would have stormed it, and now—and now—she tried to speak, but her lips were tremulous and her eyes tear-dimmed. She courtesied low and with grace, and William, who was standing with the ink-stained fingers of one hand clutching his cap and the other held where he thought his heart might be, felt a thrill of sympathy.

"Lady," he said softly, "I await your command."

And still she did not speak. Then William, true knight, threw down his cap, placed a chair for her, carefully laid her parasol on his desk, and waited.

Presently, "Boy," she said gently, "where did you learn that?"

"I read it somewhere," he said, "some of it, and I guess I just made up the rest. I can't help it, lady. I often have them kinder spells."

She was looking at him thoughtfully, and William blushed under her scrutiny.

"Don't be ashamed, boy," she said. "'Them kinder spells'"—and she mimicked him so well that William laughed outright, "will carry you a long way some day. You may sit down."

William sat, and thereupon Dick, his mistress having loosened her hold upon the chain, ambled over and placed his solemn-faced visage as close to the boy's knees as he could get it. William lifted the dog which snuggled close to his breast.

"If Dick likes you there must be some good in you," said the lady: and her voice was again sharp and firm. "Where's Whimple?"

"He'll be here soon, I expect."

"Umph! Poking around the law courts I suppose. He's never been here when I want him."

"Mister Whimple is a busy man," said William loyally.

"Don't lie to me," was the sharp rejoinder, "I'm a Whimple. Miss Elizabeth Whimple, if you want to know, and I'm his aunt. He would be a fool and enter law against my advice, and I hope he'll starve for it."

William's eyes narrowed. "Did you ever try starving, Miss Whimple?" he demanded.

"Heavens, no!—what would I want to try that for?"

"Well, I'm glad if you never have to," was the answer. "My Dad came near to it sometimes before he got onter his feet, and I ain't very old myself, but I've seen the day