Routt shook his hand heartily. “Wint, congratulations!” he said, under his breath. “This’ll be a great thing for you. It will steady you, Wint.” Wint shook his head, some of the sullen anger of the night before returning. He had no wish to be steadied, and he said so. “I can take care of myself,” he told Routt. Jack nodded. “So you can. But you need something to hold you down. And this’ll do it.” He nudged Wint in the ribs, smiling slyly. “Y’ know, you’ve been hitting it too strong lately. You don’t know when to stop, Wint. This will put the brakes on. Make you tend to business.” Wint brushed his hand across Routt’s face abruptly. “Cut it,” he said. “Say, Jack, I want you to do something for me.” “Anything in the world.” “My father is sore. He thinks I was in on this. So he kicked me out last night.” “Kicked you out?” Routt was startled and indignant. “Why, say, that’s--Where did you go? Why didn’t you come over to my place?” Wint said consciously: “No--I went to the Weaver House. They know me there.” Routt looked quickly around to see if any one had heard. “Sh-h-h!” he warned. “Say, that was a fool thing to do. Don’t let any one find it out. You want to walk straight now--” Wint cut in. “I want you to go out home and get my steamer trunk and pack it with some things. There’s a blue suit in my closet. And shirts, and so on. Get my overcoat, too. Mother will show you--or Hetty.” Routt looked at him quickly. “Hetty who?” “Hetty Morfee.” Routt looked at Wint and laughed softly. “Oh--she’s working for you?” “Yes.” “Nice kid, isn’t she?” “Yes. And--as I said--she’ll help you if mother won’t.” Routt nodded. “All right,” he agreed. “I’ll go out this morning. Where’ll I send the trunk? Weaver House?” “I’ll send for it. You just pack it.” Routt touched Wint’s arm. “I’ll do it,” he said again. “But Wint,--for the love of Mike, don’t make a fool of yourself! Thing for you to do is to take hold, run the town right, and make a name for yourself. It’s a great chance, Wint. Make everybody see what you’ve got in you. And it’ll be the making of you, Wint.” The distribution of the morning’s mail to the boxes was ended just then, and the windows opened. Routt broke off and went to get his mail, and Wint, still resentful at Routt’s insistence on the moral advantages of his situation, went to the window. Dave Howells, one of the postal clerks, was there; and before Wint could speak, he had offered his congratulations. These continual good wishes were beginning to irk Wint. He nodded impatiently. “Dave,” he said, “I want you to hold my mail hereafter. Don’t send it to the house.” “Oh, we always put it in your father’s box,” Howells told him. “Well, don’t do that. Hold it. I’ll call for it.” The clerk wanted to ask questions, but decided not to do so. He took out a card and wrote something on it. “I think there’s a letter for you in the box now,” he said. “I’ll give it to you.”