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“Girls, girls! This will never do!”

Mrs. Mills brushed out his damp yellow curls with her hands. “You’re all wet.”

“Girls, if you’ll let me sit down, I’ll take one on each knee,” he said, pleadingly, and they released him.

Stacey grew red with sympathetic embarrassment, and shrank away into a corner.

“Go get supper ready,” commanded Herman. And it was only after they had left him that he said to Stacey: “Oh, you found your way all right.” He took a seat by the fire and surveyed his wet shoes. “I took a run up to Mott’s house–only a half block out o’ the way. He said they’d be tickled to have you at Cyene. By-the-way, you’re a theolog, aren’t you?” Wallace nodded, and Herman went on: “So I told Mott. He said you might work up a society out there at Cyene.”

“Is there a church there?”

“Used to be, but–say, I tell you what you do: you go out with me to-morrow, and I’ll give you a history of the township.”

The ringing of the bell took them all out into the cheerful dining-room in a good-natured scramble. Mrs. Mills put Stacey at one end of the table, near a young woman who looked like a teacher, and he had full sweep of the table, which was surrounded by bright and happy faces. The station-hand was there, and a couple of grocery clerks, and a brakeman sat at Stacey’s right hand. They all seemed very much at home, and called one another by their Christian names, and there was very obvious courtship on the part of several young couples.

Stacey escaped from the table as soon as possible, and returned to his seat beside the fire. He was young enough to enjoy the chatter of the girls, but his timidity made him glad they paid so little attention to him. The rain had changed to sleet outside and hammered at the window viciously, but the blazing fire and the romping young people set it at defiance. The landlady came to the door of the dining-room, dish and cloth in hand, to share in each outburst of laughter, and not infrequently the hired girl peered over her shoulder with a broad smile on her face. A little later, having finished their work, they both came in and took active part in the light-hearted fun.

Herman and one of the girls were having a great struggle over some trifle he had snatched from her hand, and the rest stood about laughing to see her desperate attempts to recover it. This was a familiar form of courtship in Kesota, and an evening filled with such romping was considered a “cracking good time.” After the girl, red and dishevelled, had given up, Herman sat down at the organ, and they all sang Moody and Sankey hymns, negro melodies, and college songs till ten o’clock. Then Mrs. Mills called, “Come, now, boys and girls!” and they all said good-night, like obedient children.

Herman and Wallace went up to their bedroom together.

“Say, Stacey, have you got a policy?” Wallace shook his head. “And don’t want any, I suppose. Well, I just asked you as a matter of form. You see,” he went on, winking at Wallace comically, “nominally I’m an insurance agent, but practically I’m a ‘lamb’–but I get a mouthful o’ fur myself occasionally. What I’m working for is to get on that Wheat Exchange. That’s where you get life! I’d rather be an established broker in that howling mob than go to Congress.”

He rose on his elbow in bed and looked at Wallace, who was rising from a silent prayer.

“Say, why didn’t you shout? I forgot all about it–I mean your profession.”

Wallace crept into bed beside his communicative bedfellow in silence. He didn’t know how to deal with such spirits.

“Say,” called Herman suddenly, as Wallace was about dropping off to sleep, “you ain’t got no picnic, old man!”

“Why, what do you mean?”