called upon him to make these deliveries. He felt awkward and cheap carrying small parcels through the streets.
"I don't see why we can't have an automobile delivery wagon," he grumbled.
"I can't afford it," his father explained. "I must watch pennies. There's enough worry to putting a business on its feet without adding the worry of paying for a car."
The boy was glum. "It takes a long time to walk around with packages."
"How about your bicycle? Say, Bert, why didn't we think of this before? I'll have a carrying tray fitted to the frame. That will help a lot."
Bert was sorry he had spoken. The bicycle had been his very own. Now the tray, to his mind, heralded it as no longer his, but part of a business that was advertising its cheapness. And then he saw the old town cobbler pedaling a bicycle and delivering his jobs, the shoes tied together by their laces and hanging over his shoulders. He took the tray from the bicycle.
"What's the matter?" his father demanded. "Are you ashamed to carry goods for me? You never come near the store unless I ask you to."
His father had noticed—at last. Contentment spread genially through Bert's veins. So he had made his father miss his presence. He felt that he had scored a triumph. His sky brightened. In the satisfaction of the moment he put the carrier
