It chanced that school had just let out for the noon hour, and down the middle of the street, whistling to the full of his lungs, swinging in a circle around his head a long leather strap with a blue calico-covered book at the end for a weight, swaggered a sturdy specimen of young America. Mr. Biron gazed at him with an envious eye and sighed. Then a thought, sudden and sharp, popped into his head. He hesitated for a moment. But why not? Anything was worth trying. The manager of the White Star was a man of action, so, without wasting further time in debate with himself, he beat a loud tattoo with his knuckles on the window glass. The whistling stopped. He crooked his finger and motioned, and the deed was done. A moment later the ground-glass door opened, and a chunky, red-haired boy, with a belligerent eye, stood expectantly before him. The newcomer placed himself so that the big iron office safe furnished a background for him, and as he stood there with his feet wide apart, his hands in his pockets, he seemed as solidly planted as it. A shaft of noonday sunlight, coming through a side window, struck his hair and made a rubescent halo around his freckled face. The manager of the White Star looked him up and down, and the boy eyed him back look for look. At length Mr. Biron cleared his throat. [Illustration: "'I'D BE GLAD TO DO IT AS A FAVOR,' HE SAID"] "What is your name, my lad?" he asked. "James Joseph McCarthy," answered the boy, in the same quick, phonographic monotone that he had used on his first day at school, when the teacher had asked him the same question. "Ah, yes--do you know my son, Andrew Francis Biron?" "Sure. Most everybody knows Andray Franswa." "And what do you think of--er--André François?" The boy looked at him searchingly. "You oughter know--he's your kid," he said tersely. "I know what _I_ think," said Mr. Biron, "but I want to know what you think. That's what I brought you in for. I want to get some data on the subject." The boy ran his hand through his hair, and his brow puckered, as he struggled to find a phrase by which to sum up his impression of André François. Then he said: "Ah, gee----" he made an abortive effort, out of regard for parental feelings, to mitigate the vast contempt in his voice, "he's just a darn sissy." "Um--I see. Are there any more sissies in town?" "Nope. Not now. There uster be one onest, about a year ago, but he's all right now. We licked him till he got all right." "And do you intend to lick André François until he gets all right?" The scion of the McCarthys looked at him suspiciously for a moment, but seeing in his face rather a desire for honest information than the guile of a parent, he answered: "Nope. Nobody dast to touch him." "Why?" asked Mr. Biron with a gleam of hope, "would he fight?"