"Certainly," replied the obliging banker, "come right into my office and she will get it out for you." Stover and Wilson walked into the office. "Ruth," Stover said, addressing his stenographer, "Mr. Wilson wants you to draw up a contract for him." "Yes, sir." She sat down to a table and took down the dictation without once asking him to repeat. When he was through dictating she went into her private office to make typewritten copies. The two men remained in the president's office talking. In a short time Ruth returned and handed Wilson the contracts and returned to her office. After looking them over Wilson remarked, "Jim, that's a fine stenographer you've got." "Yes, she's good and always on the job." "What do you pay her?" "Ninety dollars." "How did you manage to get a girl like that for ninety dollars? I pay my stenographer one hundred thirty dollars, and the chances are that if she had done this work I would have had to send the work back to have one or two corrections made. If you don't pay that girl more money someone will take her away from you." The banker smirked and rubbed his thin hands together. "I have raised her wages once since I employed her. I think a lot of Ruth, both as a stenographer and a girl. I will probably give her another raise soon. You see, Mr. Wilson, I am a special friend of her father. He got into some difficulty when president of the bank at Zala a couple of years ago, and I bought his stock to help him out, and of course I feel an interest in the girl." "Well, I must be going." A little way up the street Wilson met Harold King. "I saw Jim Stover and had a talk with him about the salary of your friend. (Just brought it up incidentally.) He said that he would probably raise her salary soon. You see he is an old friend of the Babcock family." "So I have heard." "Her salary is a little low, but I presume Jim never thought much about it, but since it has been called to his attention, I think he will raise it." "I thank you, Mr. Wilson." Harold could scarcely wait for night to come when he could call on Ruth. He was anxious to get business for himself, but he was more anxious that Ruth should receive an advancement in wages, not alone because she was a dear friend, but largely because he knew she had her heart set on sending her father to a specialist. Harold didn't believe that it would do him any good. He had talked with several local doctors who had examined him and they pronounced his case as hopeless. He knew, though, that Ruth would never be satisfied until she had sent her father to Dr. Lilly. That same evening when he called at the Babcock home he found Mr. Babcock on the porch, his head resting between his hands, his elbows on his knees. "Good evening, Mr. Babcock." "Good evening, Mr. King. Have a chair." "How are you feeling, Mr. Babcock?"