Davie, ready for bed, tired with their kindly insistence, wondered if they would come in the night, and pin large checks on his pajama coat! “Well, I won’t borrow, and I won’t sponge on my mother,” David declared grimly to himself. “I’ll show what I can do. I won’t be carried along. I’ll arrive somewhere, some day, on my own two feet, and not on the shoulders of somebody else. I’ll make those fellows darned proud of me yet!” Outside David’s door lay his boyhood, his flaming hopes, his fondest memories. All his life he had meant to be an aviator. He had thought of it, studied for it, and concentrated on it; but his skies were empty now. No majestic forms floated grandly across his horizon. Vanished were the dream-ships which he had meant to make real. Gone were his shining hopes, his resolves to follow in his father’s footsteps. Not for him, in future days, to build ships such as the world had never seen. He determined to destroy all the careful plans and experiments he had so neatly drawn. In the bottom of his trunk were a score of technical books on dirigibles, past and present, bought at long intervals with hard-earned money. For it was the dirigible toward which David’s heart yearned. The great majestic balloons held a charm for him that the busy, flitting airplanes were powerless to wield. But he knew that he had made the right decision; and knowing it, slept well. Reaching home, it took much argument on David’s part before his adoring family was resigned to his change of plans; but he was all the more determined when he saw how worn his mother’s still lovely face had grown. His friend the wholesale grocer was away. However, the manager said that he would be back in a few days and assured David that a good job was waiting for him. On the long, tedious trolley ride home, David had time to think. At school, he could always hop some fellow’s car. Easy and pleasant. He’d never given it a thought, but that was sponging in a way. Well, never again; never! He made a wry face at a cat on a gatepost. Lord! he was slated to be poor—filthy poor, for many a long year. It couldn’t be too many years, though. He must make money. His mother didn’t look right. Of course, the wholesale groceries might give him a good break. Lots of fellows had begun at the very bottom and had soared up. Soared—that brought his mind to the ships again. It would always be like that, he knew. He’d go along, almost contented, working like the devil and getting on in groceries, but underneath he’d always be thinking about the ships, the roar of the engines, the feel of the rushing air. And he couldn’t do that—not if he meant to make a good grocer. A good grocer! Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! Something would have to be done!