Disloyalty! Yes, that was the very word. He knew as he reflected that he had been disloyal ever to yield to the spell of Marien Dounay. He had been disloyal to Bessie, to his ideals, and to himself. He turned to where a few days before he had pinned his old Los Angeles motto on the wall of his Oakland room: "Eternal Hammering is the Price of Success." Hammering, he decided, was the wrong word. It was not high enough. He stepped over to the wall and changed it to the new word so that it read: "Eternal _Loyalty_ is the Price of Success." He liked that better; so well, in fact, that he lifted his hand dramatically and swore his life anew, not to hammering but to Loyalty,—loyalty to himself, to Bessie, to Dick and Tayna, and to God! This gave him a feeling of new courage. He turned away as from a disagreeable experience now forever past. His eyes wandered about the room exactly as if he had returned from an absence, taking in detail by detail the familiar, scanty furniture, the hateful spring rocker, the washstand, the bed, the torn, smoke-soiled curtains at the window, the picture of Washington at Valley Forge upon the wall, and the dresser with its cheap speckled mirror. His glance had just paused mystified at the sight of the unopened telegram upon the dresser when there was a knock at the door. With a stride, John turned the key and swung open the door. Bud, the fourteen-year-old call boy of the Sampson Theater, entered; a breathless, self-important youngster with freckles and a stubby pompadour. "Mr. Cohen’s says yer better write a letter ter yer sister," the lad blurted, while his eyes scanned the room and the actor, where he stood reaching in a dazed sort of way for the telegram. "Hey," exclaimed Hampstead, looking up sharply, "my sister?" "Ye-uh," affirmed Bud stoutly. "Mr. Cohen’s got a letter from her, and she wants to know if yer sick ’r anything." "By jove, that’s right, Bud," confessed John with sudden conviction. "I’ve had my mind on something of late, and guess I’ve rather overlooked the folks at home. I’ll write to-day. Awfully kind of you, old chap, to come over. Here!" And Hampstead, now with the telegram in his hand, attempted to cover a feeling of confusion before these bright, peering eyes by a pilgrimage to the closet, from which he tossed Bud a quarter. The lad accepted the quarter thankfully. "Say, Mr. Hampstead," he broke out impulsively, with an embarrassed note in his voice, "I’m sorry you got your notice!" "Got my notice?" asked John a bit sharply. "Yes. Yer let out," announced Bud, with unfeeling directness, though consideration was in his heart. "You been good to me, Mr. Hampstead, and I’m sorry you’re goin’. Some of the others is, too." But John was roused now, thoroughly. "Why, Bud, what are you talking about?" he demanded, turning accusingly to the boy.