months of uncertainty, was at last coming into its own. This dawn of prosperity was reflected in many ways. More stock came in; there were orders to deliver. He was kept, it seemed, in a ferment of industry—polishing the glass of the show cases, dusting the shelves, and from day to day unpacking shipments and putting them away. Every so often he went to the bank, and the sum of his money on deposit grew. From time to time he caught glimpses of Old Man Clud, but their paths did not cross and they held no speech.
After a month the work began to pall on him, and he chafed at the periods that confined him to the store. Dolf Muller worked only on Saturdays in his father's shop. Bill Harrison, with his one leg, was loafing away the summer. Bert began to feel cheated out of good times. Turning his complaint in his mind, he decided that his weekly allowance was too small.
"One dollar doesn't seem so much when you've worked all week for it," he told his father the next Saturday.
Mr. Quinby, busy, missed the shot, and the boy went home with the dollar in his pocket. For the first time it seemed an insignificant sum.
The incident lingered in his mind. He took to muttering to himself, and his thoughts grew sulky and obstinate. And then the same accordion that had brought him and his father so close the night
