The City of Fire. Grace Livingston Hill

know that he knew something about this man that the man did not know he knew. It was always good to know things. It was always wise to keep your mouth shut about them when you knew them. Those were the two most prominent planks in Billy Gaston's present platform and he stood upon them firmly.

      The burly one gave Billy a brief and gruff negative to his query and went on painting barrel labels. He was thinking of other matters, but Billy still hung around. He had a hunch that he might be going to make merchandise in some way of the knowledge that he had gained, so he hung around, silently, observantly, leaning on old rusty-trusty.

      The man looked up and frowned suspiciously:

      “I told you NO!” he snapped threateningly, “What you standin' there for?”

      Billy regarded him amusedly as from a superior height.

      “Don't happen to know of any odd jobs I could get,” he finally condescended.

      “Where would you expect a job around this dump?” sneered the man with an eloquent wave toward the majestic mountain, “Busy little hive right here now, ain't it?”

      He subsided and Billy, slowly, thoughtfully, mounted his wheel and rode around the station, with the air of one who enjoys the scenery. The third time he rounded the curve by the freight agent the man looked up with a speculative squint and eyed the boy. The fourth time he called out, straightening up and laying down his brush.

      “Say, Kid, do you know how to keep yer mouth shut?”

      The boy regarded him with infinite contempt.

      “Well, that depends!” he said at last. “If anybody'd make it worth my while.”

      The man looked at him narrowly, the tone was at once so casual and yet so full of possible meaning. The keenest searching revealed nothing in the immobile face of the boy. A cunning grew in the eyes of the man.

      “How would a five look to you?”

      “Not enough,” said the boy promptly, “I need twenty-five.”

      “Well, ten then.”

      “The boy rode off down the platform and circled the station again while the man stood puzzled, half troubled, and watched him:

      “I'll make it fifteen. What you want, the earth with a gold fence around it?”

      “I said I needed twenty-five,” said Billy doggedly, lowering his eyes to cover the glitter of coming triumph.

      The thick one stood squinting off at the distant mountain thoughtfully, then he turned and eyed Billy again.

      “How'm I gonta know you're efficient?” he challenged.

      “Guess you'c'n take me er leave me,” came back the boy quickly. “Course if you've got plenty help—”

      The man gave him a quick bitter glance. The kid was sharp. He knew there was no one else. Besides, how much had he overheard? Had he been around when the station telephone rang? Kids like that were deep. You could always count on them to do a thing well if they undertook it.

      “Well, mebbe I'll try you. You gotta be on hand t'night at eight o'clock sharp. It's mebbe an all night job, but you may be through by midnight.”

      “What doing?”

      “Nothing much. Just lay in the road with your wheel by your side and act like you had a fall an' was hurt. I wanta stop a man who's in a hurry, see?”

      Billy regarded him coolly.

      “Any shooting?”

      “Oh, no!” said the other, “Just a little evening up of cash. You see that man's got some money that oughtta be mine by good rights, and I wantta get it.”

      “I see!” said Billy nonchalantly, “An' whatcha gonta do if he don't come across?”

      The man gave him a scared look.

      “Oh, nothin' sinful son; just give him a rest fer a few days where he won't see his friends, until he gets ready to see it the way I do.”

      “H'm!” said Billy narrowing his gray eyes to two slits. “An' how much did ya say ya paid down?”

      The man looked up angrily.

      “I don't say I pay nothing down. If you do the work right you get the cash t'night, a round twenty-five, and it's twenty bucks more'n you deserve. Why off in this deserted place you ought ta be glad to get twenty-five cents fer doin' nothin' but lay in the road.”

      The boy with one foot on the pedal mounted sideways and slid along the platform slowly, indifferently.

      “Guess I gotta date t'night,” he called over his shoulder as he swung the other leg over the cross bar.

      The heavy man made a dive after him and caught him by the arm.

      “Look here, Kid, I ain't in no mood to be toyed with,” he said gruffly, “You said you wanted a job an' I'm being square with you. Just to show I'm being square here's five down.”

      Billy looked at the ragged green bill with a slight lift of his shoulders.

      “Make it ten down and it's a go,” he said at last with a take-it-or-leave-it air. “I hadn't oughtta let you off'n less'n half, such a shady job as this looks, but make it a ten an' I'll close with ya. If ya don't like it ask the station agent to help ya. I guess he wouldn't object. He's right here handy, too. I live off quite a piece.”

      But the man had pulled out another five and was crowding the bills upon him. He had seen a light in that boy's eye that was dangerous. What was five in a case of a million anyway?

      Billy received the boodle as if it had been chewing gum or a soiled handkerchief, and stuffed it indifferently into his already bulging pocket in a crumple as if it were not worth the effort.

      “A'rright. I'll be here!” he declared, and mounting his wheel with an air of finality, sailed away down the platform, curved off the high step with a bump into the road and coasted down the road below the tunnel toward Monopoly, leaving Sabbath Valley glistening in the sunshine off to the right. With all that money in his pocket what was the use of going back to Sabbath Valley for his lunch and making his trip a good two miles farther? He would beat the baseball team to it.

      The thick one stood disconsolately, his grimy cap in his hand and scratched his dusty head of curls in a troubled way.

      “Gosh!” he said wrathfully, “The little devil! Now I don't know what he'll do. I wonder—! But what else could I do?”

      II

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      Over in Sabbath Valley quiet sweetness brooded, broken now and again by the bell-like sound of childish laughter here and there. The birds were holding high carnival in the trees, and the bees humming drowsy little tunes to pretend they were not working.

      Most of the men were away at work, some in Monopoly or Economy, whither they went in the early morning in their tin Lizzies to a little store or a country bank, or a dusty law office; some in the fields of the fertile valley; and others off behind the thick willow fringe where lurked the home industries of tanning and canning and knitting, with a plush mill higher up the slope behind a group of alders and beeches, its ugly stone chimneys picturesque against the mountain, but doing its best to spoil the little stream at its feet with all colors of the rainbow, at intervals dyeing its bright waters.

      The minister sat in his study with his window open across the lawn between the parsonage and the church, a lovely velvet view with the old graveyard beyond and the wooded hill behind. He was faintly aware of the shouting of the birds in glad carnival in the trees, and the busy droning of the bees, as he wrote an article on Modern Atheism for a magazine in the distant world; but more keenly alive to the song on the lips of his child, but lately returned from college life in one of the great