dreamed about, tall and not too thin, with golden hair and gray eyes in which flecks of color danced.

"I meant my mother," Wilbur managed at last.

"How sweet. Now would you mind getting out of my way?"

Wilbur looked down and found that he had somehow managed to walk from the elevator to his office without knowing it. He had his hand on the doorknob.

"I beg your pardon," he mumbled, and flung the door open in what he hoped was a gallant gesture.

There was a crash as the door swung inward for a few feet and stopped. The crash was immediately followed by a howl of pain. A moment later Pete Bellows' flushed and furious face came around the side of the door. He was rubbing his head.

"Mook, you idiot!" Bellows roared. "I ought to punch your nose for this!"

"He didn't know your head was in the way," the girl said.

"Huh?" Bellows grunted. He took a good look at the girl and the anger drained from his face. Without thinking he straightened his tie and slicked back his oily black hair.

"You must be Miss Burnett, the girl the agency said they were sending," Bellows murmured in his most dulcet tones. "Well, well, Wilbur, this is my new secretary."

"But how do you know I'll do?" Miss Burnett said, startled.

"Oh, you'll do. I just know you will," Bellows told her. "You and I are going to get along just dandy."

"My shorthand is a little rusty," the girl said.

"What's a little thing like that?" Bellows laughed, ignoring the fact that he had fired his last secretary because she had misspelled an eight-syllable word.

But the last secretary had worn thick glasses, Wilbur recalled. That would make a difference to Pete Bellows. He was suddenly aware that Bellows was frowning at him.

"Get to work, Mook," Bellows said cheerfully. "Mother's Day is coming, you know."

With what he pretended was a gentle pat on the back Bellows flung Wilbur toward the tiny cubicle he occupied at the rear of the large office. Once Bellows had played tackle on a football team and although he was beefier now he was still very strong. Wilbur almost went through the thin partition.

He bounced off and recovered his balance, then went into his cubicle through the door. It was a windowless hole, lit by a single small bulb. Wilbur worked at an old table which was neatly stacked with sheets of blank paper. He furnished his own pen.

There was a small window in Wilbur's door, but contrary to what a visitor might have expected, it had not been placed there for Wilbur's convenience. The window was the means by which Bellows could watch his poet and be certain that he was working every minute of the time.

Today Wilbur found himself at a loss for rhymes. By mid-morning he had completed only fifteen poems in praise of Mother. He still had some fifty to go. But instead of writing he too often caught himself listening to what was going on in the outer office.

"Mr. Bellows—" the new girl started to say.

"Call me Pete," Wilbur heard Bellows tell her. "I'll call you Jean. Just one happy family, you know, you and I and Wilbur."

"Does Mr. Mook write all the poetry?" Miss Burnett wanted to know. She sounded quite impressed and Wilbur glowed with a new found pride.

"Just a knack. Doesn't take any brains," Bellows deprecated. "Any fool could do it."

I'd like to see you try, Wilbur thought. You're one fool who couldn't. He thought that was pretty good repartee, even if it was only mental. Wilbur wished he had the nerve to say the words to Bellows' face. But he didn't.

His newspaper, still folded to the classified ads, reposed in Wilbur's wastebasket and his eyes chanced to fall upon it. Something stirred in Wilbur. There had been one advertisement in particular. Just below the request for a bodyguard. He wondered if he had read it right.

Keeping one eye on the window to make sure Bellows did not observe him, Wilbur retrieved his newspaper. Quickly his eye sped down the column. There it was:

Are you timid? Do you lack confidence? I can help you. A. J. Merlin, 136 W. Erie St.

Wilbur shook his head and dropped the newspaper into the wastebasket. He was rather inclined to think A. J. Merlin was overestimating his powers. Probably a fake, anyway. Most of those fellows were.

Looking out of his window, Wilbur saw Bellows patting Jean on the shoulder as he explained something to her. He was a fast worker, was Pete Bellows. By the time Wilbur got the next line of poetry written Bellows was asking Jean if he could take her to lunch.

Before answering she turned her head toward Wilbur and he could see that she was none too happy about the offer. She seemed to be trying to think of a good reason for not accepting.

"Well?" Pete asked. Jean looked back at him.

"I—I guess so," Wilbur heard her say. Bellows patted her on the shoulder again.

I wonder, Wilbur thought, what she would say if I asked her sometime? That looked like a question which would never find an answer. It would take more nerve than he had to ask. But the very thought of him inviting a girl like Jean to lunch sent a pleasant tingle down Wilbur's back. He even allowed himself to think that she might prefer a smoother type of man than Pete Bellows. Smoother, Wilbur reminded himself miserably, not mushier.

Just before noon Pete Bellows came in to get the copy Wilbur had turned out through the morning. At the sight of the tiny stack which had accumulated Bellows' mouth turned down.

"Loafing!" he accused. "Just because I've been too busy to keep my eyes on you!"

It occurred to Wilbur that the only thing he'd seen Pete do that morning was pat Jean's shoulder, and that hardly seemed like hard work. But he didn't say anything.

"Probably reading the paper while my back was turned," Pete went on. He reached down and got the paper and put it in his pocket. "Now, listen to me, Mook. You'd better have some work done when Jean and I get back from lunch!"

Wilbur nodded without looking up at him. He was always afraid to look at Bellows when the burly man was angry. Pete could get a vicious glint in his eye. After Pete had left the cubicle Wilbur sneaked a look after him. He saw that Jean had heard the whole thing. And at sight of the distaste on her face he flushed.

Why couldn't he have told Pete off? Wilbur started to dream about what he should have said. Then he stopped. It was all right to daydream but Pete had sounded sore when he had said he wanted to see some work done. Wilbur put his head down and started writing.

Within the hour he had completed six odes to Mother. One of them, Wilbur knew, he could sell to a magazine for twenty times what Bellows would pay. For a moment he was tempted, even going so far as to pick up the sheet of paper preparatory to putting it in his pocket. Then he thought of what Pete Bellows might do if he found out. Wilbur set the paper back on the pile.

He was just in time. There were footsteps out in the hall and then the door swung open. Bellows and Jean came in. The girl was laughing now, and as Pete helped her off with her coat he was practically breathing down her neck. It looked as though he had made some progress.

"Is it all right if I go to lunch now?" Wilbur asked timidly. He had to wait until Pete had checked over his work. Then he got permission to go.

Until he was outside Wilbur felt hungry. For an hour his stomach had been reminding him that it was time to eat. But suddenly the pangs of hunger were gone. The thought of food was even unpleasant.

Maybe a short walk would give him fresh appetite, Wilbur thought. The day was pleasant and sunny. If he spent a half hour walking he would still have twenty minutes in which to gulp a sandwich. Pete Bellows had decreed that fifty minutes constituted a lunch hour for Wilbur.

It was with no conscious motive that Wilbur headed south. He found