the increasing crowds at the nonsensical behavior of the orphans. In the center of town, prominent business men were away from their offices for luncheon. They gazed indifferently at the marching band, but as the machine approached, they recognized its monogram, and, attracting the attention of companions, they burst into shouts of laughter. Here was the car of wealthy Obadiah Dale, packed with negro children, chaperoned by his daughter, taking part in a minstrel parade.

Suddenly upon the sidewalk near the curb, Virginia espied her father. Regardless of her surroundings, the girl endeavored to attract his attention by waving her hand. The pickaninnies joined with shouts, considering it a pleasant game.

Plunged in thought and heedless of the band, the increased clamor aroused Obadiah. Incredulity and amazement, at the sight of his daughter and her company, held him. An acquaintance approached, spoke and laughed. Anger flushed the mill owner as he marked the staring eyes fixed in unveiled amusement on himself and his daughter.

“Daddy is over there,–there.” She indicated the place to Ike, delight in her discovery accenting her cry.

The chauffeur, thus rudely torn from his musical reverie, solaced his disturbed harmoniousness, by smiting the ears of the crowd and wrecking the sweet tones of the band, by a discordant honk. Thus soothed, he attempted to turn towards the sidewalk, but the congested traffic blocked him and he had to delay a few moments before he could swing the car over to the curb.

Obadiah came up. He glared at the assembled orphans with manifest disapproval and gave gruff tongue to his astonishment. “What does this mean? I don’t understand it,” he snarled at Virginia.

In the depths of her big blue eyes lay tenderness as she anxiously searched his cold grey ones for some sign of sympathetic appreciation. “Daddy, dear”–there was a note of pride in her manner–“these are orphans from the Lincoln Home. I have had them out riding all morning.”

The pickaninnies acknowledged the introduction with screams.

This attention added fuel to Obadiah’s irritation, “How are you going to get rid of this bunch?” he asked loudly, giving no heed to the listening ears of guests. “I want to go home and get my lunch.”

The girl wrinkled her nose in thoughtful consideration of the social dilemma she faced. The truly resourceful are never long at a loss. “You get in here, Daddy,” she urged, “you can hold me on your lap and we will run over to the Orphans’ Home. We can leave the children there and go straight home.”

“The idea!” snapped Obadiah, “I won’t be made more ridiculous than I have been, today. You must learn to give thought to others, Virginia.”

Instantly, her happiness faded before his words. “I am so sorry. I forgot how time was passing and I didn’t mean to get in this big crowd. How will you get home? What can I do for you, Daddy?”

Once more he realized that amused faces watched him as he interviewed his daughter, a lily in a bed of black tulips. “Get out of this crowd. Everybody is laughing at me. I’ll get home some way,” he declared peevishly. “You get rid of that outfit as soon as you can,” he called, as he moved away, apparently in a hurry to escape the orphans’ company. “I’ll see you at home.”

CHAPTER III
UNGIVEN ADVICE

Obadiah Dale’s office was in a modern building. He considered it the finest in South Ridgefield, but then–Obadiah owned it. The proximity of an army of employees disturbed him. So he had gathered his principal assistants about him, away from the mill, in this more peaceful environment.

Obadiah’s personal suite contained three rooms. His private lair was in the corner. Its windows overlooked metal cornices, tin roofs and smoke stacks. The view should have afforded inspiration to sheet metal workers, and professional atmosphere was available at all times to such chimney sweeps as called.

The personal staff consisted of Obadiah’s stenographer, Mr. Percy Jones, who referred to himself as the “Private Secretary” and was habitually addressed in discourteous terms by his employer, and a bookkeeper identified by the name Kelly.

Across the hall was the sanctum of Hezekiah Wilkins, general attorney for the Dale interests. The other executive officers of the organization occupied the rest of the floor.

Certain preparatory sounds evidencing to the discriminating ear of youth the probability of a band bursting into melody had reached Mr. Jones. Rising hurriedly from his desk in the center of the middle room of Obadiah’s suite, he had gone to a window, and peering down, discovered that the Jubilee Minstrels were about to favor South Ridgefield with a parade.

Mr. Jones watched the preparations with interest. He was a dapper little fellow with thin, dark hair, who sported a very small mustache with a very great deal of pride. As much of a dandy as his small salary would permit, he had indefinite social aspirations, and rather considered himself a man of much natural culture and refinement.

His curiosity satisfied, he turned to a door, opposite to the one which insured privacy to Obadiah, and entered the domain of Kelly. The bookkeeper was perched upon a high stool before an equally elevated desk burdened with the mill owner’s ledgers. He was red headed, big and raw boned, clearly designed by nature for the heaviest of manual labor but by a joke of fate set to wielding a pen.

“Hi, Kelly,–minstrels,” thus Mr. Jones advertised the forthcoming pageant as he lighted a cigarette.

The upper part of Kelly’s person was brilliantly illuminated by the reflected light of a globe hanging an inch above his head. “Where?” he asked, blinking about from his area of high illumination into the shadows of the room as though looking for callers.

“In the street, you chump. They are going to parade. As soon as the old man goes, we’ll hustle out and look ’em over.”

A movement in the corner room sent Mr. Jones scurrying to his desk. From the street sounded the staccato taps of a snare drum, rhythmically punctuated by the boom of the bass, passing up the street. Obadiah emerged from his room as one marching to martial music. He broke step like a rooky to tell his stenographer, “I’m going to lunch.”

Leaping to his feet, Mr. Jones bowed profoundly as his employer departed, his manner filled with the awe and respect due a man of such wealth and position. He listened intently until the elevator descended, then he shouted, “Get a move on you, in there. He’s gone.”

The bookkeeper appeared, his hat on the back of his head and struggling into his coat.

“Hurry, we can get the elevator on its next trip,” urged the stenographer.

“What’s the rush–we don’t want to run into the old man,” the bookkeeper demurred.

“We’ve got a right to eat, ain’t we? What’s the lunch hour for?”

“Say, who’s talking about not eating? I don’t want the old man’s face as an appetizer,” protested Kelly.

“Gee, he has got you bluffed. You are scared of him.”

The bookkeeper shrugged his big shoulders and laughed. “Not on your life am I afraid of that old spider, but I don’t like him. That’s all.”

“The old man is a good enough scout when you know how to handle him,” boasted Mr. Jones. “Tell him where to get off once in awhile and he’ll eat out of your hand.”

“Say,” chuckled Kelly. “The next time you decide to call him down, put me wise. I don’t want to miss it.”