It was now the first week in July and Stubby had a dollar and twenty cents. It was getting to the point where he would wake in the night and find himself sitting up in bed, hands clenched. He dreamed dreams about how folks would let him live if he had ninety-nine cents but how he only had ninety-seven and a half, so they were going to shoot him. Then one day he found Mr. Stuart. He was passing the house after having asked three people if they wanted a boy, and they didn't, and seemed so surprised at the idea of their wanting him that Stubby's throat was all tight, when Mr. Stuart sang out: “Say, boy, want a little job?” It seemed at first it must be a joke--or a dream--anybody asking him if he _wanted_ one, but the man was beckoning to him, so he pulled himself together and ran up the steps. “Now here's a little package”--he took something out of the mail box. “It doesn't belong here. It's to go to three-hundred-two Pleasant street. You take it for a dime?” Stubby nodded. As he was going down the steps the man called: “Say, boy, how'd you like a steady job?” For the first minute it seemed pretty mean--making fun of a fellow that way! “This will be here every day. Suppose you come each day, about this time, and take it over there--not mentioning it to anybody.” Stubby felt weak. “Why, all right,” he managed to say. “I'll give you fifty cents a week. That fair?” “Yes, sir,” said Stubby, doing some quick calculation. “Then here goes for the first week”--and he handed him the other forty cents. It was funny how fast the world could change! Stubby wanted to run--he hadn't been doing much running of late. He wanted to go home and get Hero to go with him to Pleasant street, but didn't. No, _sir_, when you had a job you had to 'tend to things! Well, a person could do things, if he had to, thought Stubby. No use saying you couldn't, you _could_, if you had to. He was back in tune with life. He whistled; he turned up his collar in the old rakish way; he threw a stick at a cat. Back home he jumped over the fence instead of going in the gate--lately he had actually been using the gate. And he cried, “Get out of my sight, you cur!” in tones which, as Hero understood things, meant anything but getting out of his sight. He was a little boy again. He slept at night as little boys sleep. He played with Hero along the route--taught him some new tricks. His jaw relaxed from its grown-upishness. It was funny about those Stuarts. Sometimes he saw Mr. Stuart, but never anybody else; the place seemed shut up. But each day the little package was there, and every day he took it to Pleasant street and left it at the door there--that place seemed shut up, too. When it was well into the second week Stubby ventured to say something about the next fifty cents.