Turning, he walked gropingly from the office and down the long aisle. His sight was suddenly dimmed. So much so that he almost collided with a well-dressed woman who had just entered the store and was walking toward the office. The woman drew disgustedly aside from his wavering pathway and passed on toward the glass door beyond. The man had not seen her. But as he left the store he heard one clerk say to another: “Dad’s establishing a new record. Drunk before 11 A.M.; and pretty near ran into the boss’s wife, at that.” “I--I hope Marcia doesn’t believe I’m in that condition,” he mused remorsefully. “And just after she was so kind and forgiving as to want me to take charge of the big house while Joe’s away.” On the square the recruits were still drilling, a crowd of idlers watching their gawky maneuvers. From the group of onlookers, as Dad emerged into the street, a small figure detached itself and darted joyously toward him. CHAPTER VI THE CHUMS “I saw you go in,” hailed the boy, “and I was laying for you. I didn’t want to go in there with you because I’m not very popular with father to-day. What’s the matter, Dad? You look all done up.” The little fellow slipped a grubby hand into his grandfather’s and looked up at him in genuine concern. There was nothing of the Lord Fauntleroy, grandpa-lean-on-me element about Jimmie Brinton. Short enough to merit the loathed title of Runt, he was stocky and deep of chest. His hair grew in very red and very bristly formation. His face was plenteously freckled, his mouth rather large, and his eyes a palish green. In repose his face was positively ugly. But then, neither Jimmie Brinton nor Jimmie Brinton’s face was ever long in repose. And there was an elfin charm about the unbeautiful youngster. “I’m feeling all right, thanks, Jimmie,” returned Dad, as together they made for the square. “At least, as all right as a man can hope to when he’s taking medicine he hates and that is the only medicine due to cure him.” “Has father been lecturing you again?” “No. Just showing me my duty. He’s a wise man, your father, Jimmie. Where he gets it from I don’t know. Sometimes he’s so wise it hurts. At least, it hurts foolisher folks like me. I’m coming to live at your house after Thursday.” “I know,” said the boy with a queer constraint. “Mother told me.” “Aren’t you glad?” asked Dad, wondering at the lad’s unusual tone. “Yes,” said Jimmie briefly. “Of course I am. But I’m not glad for you. You’ll try not to mind too much the way mother acts, won’t you?” “You mustn’t talk that way, son.” “Oh, I’m not kicking at how she treats me. I like her a lot. Only she doesn’t seem to know what a brick you are. And it kind of riles me.” “Oh, that’ll be all different now,” prophesied Dad. “She’s changed her mind about me. If she hadn’t, would she be wanting me to come up to the big house to live and to take charge of everything and look after you and her while Joe’s away, fighting for his country?”