her to be my wife.” “You—Carol?” The boy’s voice was so incredulous that Ogden smiled. “Yes; I wasn’t always forty-two, you know. I was thirty then, and she was eighteen.” “That was the reason you hung around father, then?” “One of the reasons, yes,” said Ogden slowly. “She was a sober little head for eighteen, and it was largely because for years she had had to be a mother to her little brother.” The tone and manner in which this was said caused Hugh to remove his cigarette for a thoughtful moment. “Good old Carol,” he said; then, restoring the cigarette, he added,[7] “I wish to thunder she had married you. That guy Morrison carried her off to Colorado. She hated to leave me like the devil. She wrote me every day while I was over there.” [7] “Don’t light another cigarette, Hugh,” exclaimed the other in irrepressible impatience. “Don’t you know you never will hold a position if you’re one of these coffin-tack slaves?” Hugh flared up. The flare showed in his beautiful eyes and darkened them to violet. Who was this glass of fashion to dictate to a decent Bolshevist like himself! “And don’t I tell you I don’t give a damn how many dinky positions I lose?” he retorted. Ogden put a soothing hand on the boy’s big arm and was nervously shaken off. “I’m sorry, old man. Don’t take it that way. Of course you’re free, white, and twenty-one; but I can’t help taking an interest in you.” “Better cut it. I thank you, of course, for looking me up”—Hugh rose—“but I’ve got to trot along now. Good luck to you.” John Ogden rose, too. “It won’t be good luck for me unless I see you again. I’m staying at this hotel. Come to dinner with me to-night.” “Oh, no. Thank you just the same, but I’ve no togs decent to dine in a place like this.”[8] The boy was somewhat touched by the older man’s invitation and manner, and he smiled grudgingly, revealing perfect teeth and more than ever causing Ogden a twinge of memory. “I can dress for a dinner of Reds in some cellar. That’s my size.” [8] “Wait a minute, Hugh. Listen.
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