At that his father stared for a minute and then burst into a loud laugh. Blinded with tears, the boy turned to the house. After she had gone to bed that night Stubby's mother heard a sound from the alcove at the head of the stairs where her youngest child slept. As the sound kept on she got out of her bed and went to Stubby's cot. “Look here,” she said, awkwardly but not unkindly, “this won't do. We're poor folks, Freddie” (it was only once in a while she called him that), “all we can do to live these times--we can't pay no dog tax.” As Stubby did not speak she added: “I know you've taken to the dog, but just the same you ain't to feel hard to your pa. He can't help it--and neither can I. Things is as they is--and nobody can help it.” As, despite this bit of philosophy Stubby was still gulping back sobs, she added what she thought a master stroke in consolation. “Now you just go right to sleep, and if they come to take this dog away maybe you can pick up another one in the fall.” The sobs suddenly stopped and Stubby stared at her. And what he said after a long stare was: “I guess there ain't no use in you and me talking about it.” “That's right,” said she, relieved; “now you go right off to sleep.” And she left him, never dreaming why Stubby had seen there was no use talking about it. Nor did he talk about it; but a change came over Stubby's funny little person in the next few days. The change was particularly concerned with his jaw, though there was something different, too, in the light in his eyes as he looked straight ahead, and something different in his voice when he said: “Come on, Hero.” He got so he could walk into a store and demand, in a hard little voice: “Want a boy to do anything for you?” and when they said, “Got more boys than we know what to do with, sonny,” Stubby would say, “All right,” and stalk sturdily out again. Sometimes they laughed and said: “What could _you_ do?” and then Stubby would stalk out, but possibly a little less sturdily. Vacation came the next week, and still he had found nothing. His father, however, had been more successful. He found a place where they wanted a boy to work in a yard a couple of hours in the morning. For that Stubby was to get a dollar and a half a week. But that was to be turned in for his “keep.” There were lots of mouths to feed--as Stubby's mother was always calling to her neighbour across the alley. But the yard gave Stubby an idea, and he earned some dimes and one quarter in the next week. Most folks thought he was too little--one kind lady told him he ought to be playing, not working--but there were people who would let him take a big shears and cut grass around flower beds, and things like that. This he had to do afternoons, when he was supposed to be off playing, and when he came home his mother sometimes said some folks had it easy--playing around all day.