“Never mind, Kid. I’ll like you just as much in a blue jumper as I would in a red automobile.”
Before the Kid had grown large enough to knock out his father he had been compelled to learn the plumber’s art. So now back to this honorable and useful profession he returned. But it was as an assistant that he engaged himself; and it is the master plumber and not the assistant, who wears diamonds as large as hailstones and looks contemptuously upon the marble colonades of Senator Clark’s mansion.
Eight months went by as smoothly, and surely as though they had “elapsed” on a theater program. The Kid worked away at his pipes and solder with no symptoms of backsliding. The Stovepipe gang continued its piracy on the high avenues, cracked policemen’s heads, held up late travelers, invented new methods of peaceful plundering, copied Fifth avenue’s cut of clothes and neckwear fancies and comported itself according to its lawless bylaws. But the Kid stood firm and faithful to his Molly, even though the polish was gone from his fingernails and it took him 15 minutes to tie his purple silk ascot so that the worn places would not show. One evening he brought a mysterious bundle with him to Molly’s house.
“Open that, Moll!” he said in his large, quiet way. “It’s for you.”
Molly’s eager fingers tore off the wrappings. She
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