The Lucky Seventh. Barbour Ralph Henry

She was tall, like her brother, but, unlike him, was light in coloring, with brown hair that just escaped being yellow and a very fair skin and blue eyes. She was not a beauty, but she was pretty in spite of irregular features, with a lot of animation and a smile that won friends at once. She was fifteen; but she looked older, Gordon thought as he took the hand she extended.

      “I haven’t seen you for a long time, Gordon,” she said, as she seated herself on the edge of Morris’ chair. “Not since the school dance in January. And then you didn’t ask me for a single dance.”

      Gordon smiled a trifle embarrassedly. “I – I don’t dance very well,” he said. “I thought it would be kinder to spare you.”

      “You didn’t spare Grace Levering,” she laughed.

      “Well, Grace – ”

      “Is awfully nice. I know.”

      “I didn’t mean that! I meant that – she’s only thirteen – and – ”

      “Oh, I’m too old?” Louise opened her eyes very wide. “But I’m only fifteen, Gordon. How old are you? Or isn’t it polite to ask?”

      “Fifteen, too,” he laughed. “I guess the reason I danced with Grace so much was because I thought she wasn’t old enough to be fussy about the way I did it. Kind of tough on her, though, wasn’t it?”

      “Kind of tough on the rest of us, you mean,” responded Louise. “You’ll have to make it up this summer by coming to some of our parties at the Point. Will you?”

      “Why – yes, if you want me to. But, really and truly, I’m a fierce dancer, Louise.”

      “Is he?” She turned to her brother. Morris shook his head.

      “Search me. I know he can bat a ball like sixty, though. I’ve been trying to get him to stay and play some tennis, but he won’t. You ask him, sis.”

      “Won’t you?” she begged. “The court’s just crying to be played on. If you will, I’ll bring you out the biggest, coldest pitcher of lemonade, Gordon, you ever saw!”

      “Thanks, but – some other time – ”

      “That means never!” she sighed. “I don’t think you’re as nice as you used to be. Is he, Morris?”

      “He’s so full of business these days. Say, sis, father’s going to cut up the athletic field for building lots. What do you think of that?”

      “What for?” she demanded.

      “Search me. It leaves the school in a hole, all right.”

      “How horribly mean!” said Louise. “It was such a nice field, too! I don’t think he ought to do it, Morris, and I guess I’ll tell him so.”

      “Go ahead!” laughed her brother. “It’ll make a lot of difference – I don’t think! Gordon came around to get me to ask dad to let the fellows use the field until he began to cut it up, but I told him that he’d better do the asking himself. If I asked he might give orders to build a dozen houses on it to-morrow!”

      “I know.” Louise nodded. “I wish you’d give up the idea of that automobile, Morris. Mother doesn’t want you to have it, either.”

      “Just because dad made such a fuss,” he grumbled. “She was all right before that. I’m going to have it, just the same.”

      “I wish you wouldn’t,” she murmured. “Do you think he ought to drive an auto, Gordon? Don’t you think it’s too dangerous?”

      “I don’t know,” answered Gordon. “I’ve never had much experience with automobiles. I suppose, though, that if one is careful – ”

      “Morris won’t be,” mourned Louise. “He’ll have an accident, kill himself, break his arm or something.”

      “Oh, piffle, sis! I can run an automobile as well as any chap. I’ve done it. When I get the car you’ll be tickled to death, and you’ll want to be riding in it every minute.”

      Louise shook her head energetically. “No, I shan’t, Morris. I’d be scared to death. And I think it would be much better for you to wait another year or two. Papa won’t like it a bit if you take your money out of the bank and spend it on an automobile.”

      “It’s my money, and I have a right to do as I please with it,” responded her brother. “Besides, if he’d kept his word – ”

      “Oh, Morris, you shouldn’t say things like that! Papa never actually told you you could have it.”

      “Well, he as much as told me,” muttered Morris. “Anyway, I’m going to have it. Stacey would think I was a pretty funny sort if I refused to take it after he’d got it for me.”

      “Maybe he could sell it to someone else,” suggested Gordon. “’Most everyone is buying the things nowadays. Well, I’ll be going, I guess. Good-bye. Good-bye, Louise. I’ll come over some time and have that tennis, Morris, if you’ll let me know.”

      “Come whenever you can, will you? I’m at home most of the time; or I shall be until I get my car.” And Morris grinned exasperatingly at his sister.

      “Don’t forget that you’re to come to the Point some time and dance every dance with me,” Louise reminded, as she and Morris accompanied Gordon to the door. “That’s the only apology I’ll accept.”

      “You’ll wish you hadn’t invited me after the first dance,” replied the visitor grimly. “But I’ll come if you want me to some time. Good-bye.”

      On his wheel once more, and spinning down the shadow-dappled street, he thought, not without a little natural envy, how fine it must be to have as much money as the Brents. Morris had spoken of buying a six-hundred-dollar automobile in much the same way as Gordon might have announced his intention of purchasing a new suit of clothes! And yet, on reflection, Morris didn’t seem really happy and contented, and never had. He always appeared to have a quarrel with someone or something. Sometimes it was the teachers at High School, who were imposing on him; once it had been the baseball coach, Mr. Farrel, who, according to Morris, was keeping him off the team for spite, and now it was with his father. It would seem, then, that the possession of much wealth didn’t always bring contentment. There was Dick Levering, who was not only poor but a cripple as well, and who was absolutely the most cheerful and contented fellow of all Gordon’s acquaintances. It was a bit puzzling, Gordon thought, as he whirled into E Street and headed toward the business section of town.

      Mr. Jonathan Brent’s office was in the Clearfield Trust Company’s Building, opposite the common. Gordon left his wheel against the curb and mounted the flight of marble stairs. A clerk took his name doubtfully and indicated a chair for him to sit in while he waited Mr. Brent’s pleasure. As it happened, although the mill president was a very busy man, Gordon didn’t have to wait long. Almost at once a buzzer sounded, the clerk disappeared, returned, and conducted Gordon through a door whose ground-glass pane was marked “Private.”

      Mr. Brent’s office looked out across E Street into the elm-shaded greenery of the common. An electric fan made a soft and pleasant whirring from the top of the big desk which, until Gordon had crossed the room, hid Mr. Brent from view. A chair was set at the end of the desk and into this, not very confidently, Gordon lowered himself while Mr. Brent, without looking up, ran his eye over a letter in his hand.

      Jonathan Brent was a small man, small and narrow, with a lean and wrinkled face, shrewd but not unkindly, and a pair of gimlet-like, blue-gray eyes. His face was clean-shaven and the grizzled brown hair had retreated until the top of his head was as bald and shining as the white-enameled newel-post at the foot of the Merricks’ stairway. His mouth was thin and set in a firm, straight line, a line that never altered as, presently, he laid down the paper in his hand and raised his gaze to Gordon’s.

      “Well, what do you want, my boy?” he asked, in a quick but not unpleasant voice.

      “I came to see you about the athletic field, Mr. Brent,” responded Gordon. “I heard yesterday that you intend to cut it up for building