There he found that horrid old bank staring him in the face, that same pig bank which stood a grinning monument to his industry of the past months. But what good was the paper route now? or where the pleasure in dropping his weekly income into that long, narrow slot? Louise wasn't his girl any more. She'd said so, herself. In a sudden fit of spite, he sprang up and seized the heavy, sneering bit of pottery in both hands. The next moment, it crashed to the floor and pennies, nickels, dimes, and even half-dollars rolled out on the carpet or mingled with the shattered bits of china. He stood astounded at the number for a moment, then gathered them up on his bed, and took careful count. Thirty-eight dollars and fifty-three cents? He could scarcely believe his eyes. Then he lay back, not quite so grief-stricken, and stared thoughtfully into space until Mrs. Fletcher called him for dinner. [Illustration: _"Thirty-eight dollars and fifty-three cents."_] At the table, that evening, he was unusually quiet. As he finished his last slice of bread and butter, he looked up at his father. "Dad, if a fellow earns a lot of money, all by himself, he can spend it any way he wants, can't he?" Mr. Fletcher nodded. "Why, son?" "I was just wondering. That's all." A week later, Louise was sitting on the street curbing in front of her apartment building, when a crimson-clad baseball warrior on a new bicycle sped over the macadam and came to a sudden halt beside her. She raised her eyes in astonished recognition. It was her late fiance. "'Lo." "'Lo." "Like my new wheel?" "Uhu." "Bought it out of the money I was saving so's we could get married. Cost me twenty-one dollars, and it's got puncture-proof tires and a real coaster brake. Just watch me ride it!" He sped off, rode free for a moment, threw the brake on and came to a sudden stop, then cut a figure eight over the paving. The clear spring sun made miniature rainbows in the shining, rapidly revolving spokes, and an early robin warbled his approval of the performance from his seat in a linden's top. "I can ride without touching the handles, too," he boasted, as he guided the wheel back to her. "Isn't it peachy?" She nodded. The long, curving bars bore a suggestion of possible rides on this beautiful steel-and-rubber creation, if their quarrel could be healed, and she held out a tentative olive branch. "Want to play jacks?" John shook his head. "Going over to the park baseball diamond with the 'Tigers.' We're going to play the 'Jeffersons,' this afternoon." "But your paper route?" He laughed joyously. "Sold it to the newspaper man. He gave me three dollars and twenty-five cents for the customers." "Oh!" There was a pause. "Like my baseball suit?" he asked. She gazed at the flaming horror and nodded enthusiastically. "You ought to see me run that team!" "You?" she exclaimed. "Why, I thought Sid was captain."