title="32"/>“Quit your kidding and come on. You think that I am shooting hot air. I’ll show you some day.”

Their hasty luncheon was completed when the strains of music heralding the return of the minstrel show hurried them forth to the curb to procure suitable places to watch the parade.

“Kelly, look at the pickaninnies in the automobile following the band,” exclaimed Mr. Jones, greatly interested. “That’s something new. I never saw it before.” Thus he confirmed originality from the wealth of his own knowledge.

“What’s the white girl doing there?” Kelly sought information at the fountain of wisdom.

The sagacious Mr. Jones was puzzled, but for an instant only. He elucidated. “They have a white manager and that’s his wife who won’t black up.”

The explanation struck Kelly as reasonable and for the moment it sufficed, as he gave his attention to the passing machine. “That’s a peach of a car,” he proclaimed, and in further commendation, “Gosh, it’s as fine as the old man’s!”

Now it was so close that Mr. Jones was enabled to place an expert’s eyes upon it. “Why,” gasped that specialist, astounded by the revelations of his own keen optic, “blamed if it ain’t the old man’s car and,” he stammered in his excitement, “I–I–It’s the old man’s daughter–Virginia–in that minstrel parade.”

In silent wonder the young men watched the passing marvel and, turning, followed it as if expecting further events of an extremely sensational nature.

“By Jove, there’s the old man.” The eagle eye of Mr. Jones had picked his employer unerringly from amidst the multitude. “He sees the car,” the stenographer continued, as one announcing races, on distant tracks, to interested spectators. “Wilkins is kidding him. He’s getting sore. We’d better beat it.” Regardless of previous fearlessness, Mr. Jones guided his companion into the entrance of a building from which vantage point they watched the meeting of Obadiah and his daughter.

“By crackie, he’s hot. Everybody is laughing at him.” To prove the truth of his own assertion, Mr. Jones threw back his head and guffawed cruelly at the embarrassment of his employer.

One o’clock found the two clerks at their desks. Obadiah was a punctual man. Always on time himself, he demanded it of his employees. Today, however, minutes flew by with no sign of the manufacturer’s return.

At one thirty, Mr. Jones entered Kelly’s room to confer in regard to this unwonted tardiness. Resting his elbows upon the bookkeeper’s desk he projected his head within the area of light in which his colleague labored and submitted a sporting proposition. “I’ll bet my hat that the old man is raising the deuce somewhere.”

Kelly inspected the illuminated face of the stenographer with interest, as if the brilliant rays exposed flaws which he had not previously noted. Disregarding the wager, he replied with emphasis, “You said a mouthful.”

Mr. Jones displayed marked uneasiness. “I’m surprised that he is not back. He had important matters to attend to.” The stenographer waxed mysterious. “Only this morning he called me in. ‘Mr. Jones,’ sez he, ‘I must have your invaluable assistance, today, on a matter of great importance. I couldn’t get along without your help. Please, don’t step out without warning me.’”

Apparently Kelly regarded the stenographer’s secret revelations lightly. “You told him that you didn’t have the time?” he suggested with a grin.

Mr. Jones attempted to frown down unseemly levity regarding serious matters.

Kelly burst into laughter. “Gee, if I wasn’t here to keep you off the old man, he sure would suffer.”

Mr. Jones changed the subject, before such frivolity. “He ought to fire that feller Ike. I’ll bet he’s to blame for the whole thing. The idea of getting a young lady mixed up in a mess like that. He ought to be fired.” Mr. Jones’ soul revolted at the notoriety which had befallen his employer’s daughter. He became thoughtful and then confidential. “That girl is a pippin, Kelly. A regular pippin.”

“You’ve said it.” The bookkeeper’s emphasis spoke volumes.

“Did you ever think about her?”

“Sure,” admitted Kelly with candor, “lots of times.”

“That girl lives a lonesome life in that big house with only the colored servants and her father,” alleged the knowing Mr. Jones. “What fun does she ever have? The old man thinks that she is only a baby. If she has a nurse and is taken out every day for an airing, he imagines nothing else is necessary.”

“You are talking,” quoth Kelly.

“If the old man had any brains–” Mr. Jones noted a correction–“I mean, if he was a cultured and refined man, if he was alive–” Mr. Jones’s manner expressed grave doubt of Obadiah’s vitality–“He would understand that young people must enjoy themselves once in awhile.” Poignant memories of the mill owner’s refusal to grant certain hours off for social purposes embittered the stenographer at this point in his discourse. He paused. “If he had any brains, instead of hanging around and trying to grab every cent that isn’t locked in a burglar proof safe, the old duffer would open up his swell house and spend some coin. He’s got plenty of money. It sticks to him as if his hands were magnets and his fingers suction cups.”

“I say so,” agreed Kelly, with a vigorous nod.

For a moment Mr. Jones departed to assure himself that Obadiah did not surreptitiously draw nigh. Thus reassured, he returned and vigorously pursued his scathing arraignment of the absent one. “If he had red blood in his veins he’d have a heart where that girl is concerned. Why doesn’t he ever give a dance for her? If he wasn’t an old tight wad he’d give several a week, have a swell dinner every night and a theater party each time a decent show comes to town. He’d do that thing if he wasn’t a short sport. He ought to get a lively bunch of young people to make his place their social headquarters and tear things loose.”

“That’s me.” Thus did the laconic Kelly record his position.

Mr. Jones went on, “He should give his daughter the opportunity to enjoy the better things of life.” The stenographer drifted over to a window and fell to musing. He gave thought to volumes of lighter literature which had led him to believe that, in well conducted families of wealth and position, private secretaries often assumed the responsibilities of social secretaries or major domos. Turning again to the bookkeeper, he resumed, “It takes certain peculiar qualifications to handle that sort of thing. Everybody knows that the old man couldn’t do it. He ought to come out like a man and admit that he has no conception of that bigger social life which plays such an important part in the world today. Then–” Mr. Jones spoke with great meaning–“there are those who understand such matters and could relieve him of all responsibilities except–” Mr. Jones snapped his fingers as though it was a bagatelle–“signing the checks.”