the happy faculty of telling all he knew. With an easy assurance he slipped along through life, never embarrassed, and taking occasional well-merited snubs so good-naturedly that his friends might have regretted giving them had they not known only too well that they slid off from his mind like the fabled water from a duck’s back. A year younger than Phil, his yellow head towered far above him, and he outgrew his coats and trousers in a manner entirely incompatible with the relative sizes of the family circle to be clothed, and of the paternal salary. But Ted never minded that. He carried off his shabby clothes as easily as Bert did his perfectly fitting suits, and seemed in no way concerned about the difference.
A year older than any of the other lads was Sam Boeminghausen, a short, sturdy boy, a real German, blond, phlegmatic, and good-humored. But his light blue eyes had a look of determination that suggested that the day might come when Sam would be something or somebody. His father had recently made a large fortune in Western cattle-ranching, and, as yet, the family had not entirely adapted them-
