"To resign July first," John answered, for the first time definitely crossing the bridge, "to come to San Francisco and seek an engagement with some of the stock companies playing permanently here, even though I begin the search for an opening without money enough to last more than a week or two." "Without money!" exclaimed Mr. Mitchell, in surprise. "Yes," confessed Hampstead, flushing a little. "My salary was not very munificent, you know, and I have usually contrived to get rid of it, frequently before I got the pay check in my hands." Mr. Mitchell’s small, prudent eyes looked disfavor at a spendthrift. "However," he suggested, "you have only yourself to think of." "That’s another point against me," confessed Hampstead. "I have some one else to look out for. My brother-in-law is an artist, you know, and he has not been very successful yet, so that I hold myself ready to help with my sister and the children if it should ever become necessary." "That’s a handicap," declared Mitchell flatly. "I won’t admit it," said John loyally. "You don’t know those children. Tayna’s the girl, nearly twelve now, a beauty if her nose is pugged. Such hair and eyes, and such a heart! Dick’s the boy, past ten. He’s had asthma always, and is about a thousand years old, some ways. But they—" Hampstead gulped queerly. "Those two children," he plunged on, "are dearer to me than anything in the whole wide world. You know," and his tone became still more confidential, while his eyes grew moist, "it would only be something that happened to them that would keep me from going on with my stage career." Mitchell’s respect for John was changing oddly to a fatherly feeling. He felt that he was getting acquainted with his clerk for the first time. He resolved that he would not tempt the boy, and that if it became necessary, he would help him. However, before he could express this resolve, if he had intended to express it, the telephone rang. Hampstead answered it, stammered, faltered, replied: "I will see, sir, and call you in five minutes," hung up the ’phone and turned to confront Mitchell, with a look almost of fright upon his face. "It’s William N. Scofield," he exclaimed. "He wants me to take dinner with him at his club to-night." A disbelieving smile appeared for a moment on the wide lips of Mitchell; then understanding broke, and his smile was swallowed up in a hearty laugh. "He wants to offer you a position," Mitchell said, when his exultant cachinnations had ceased. "Look out that he doesn’t win you. Scofield is a very persuasive man. He nearly got me once. Besides, he has more to offer you than I have." Hampstead pressed his hand to his brow. Under his tawny thatch ideas were in a whirl. "What shall I do?" he asked rather helplessly. "Stay over," commanded Mitchell unhesitatingly. "Ring up and tell him you’ll be there." "But there’s no use, anyway," replied John suddenly, getting back to the main point. "My mind’s made up."