Mr. Nevin was surprised at his own warmth. He was a sort of general-utility man and understudy of several subheads of departments, a position created expressly for him by Mr. Thompson, who had a habit of inventing positions to fit people on the curious theory that it was God who made men and men who made jobs. In admitting to himself that he liked young Leigh, Nevin classified the young man as another of “Thompson's Experiments.” At quitting-time Tommy hastened to find Bill, whose full name, he had ascertained, was William S. Byrnes. Bill was waiting for him. “I'll have to stop at the station and get my valise,” apologized Tommy. “I have a trunk also, but I'd better find out if Mrs. Clayton will take me.” “Get an expressman to take it up; she'll take you,” said Bill. He always spoke with decision when he knew. They stopped at the station, where Tommy did exactly as Bill--the upper-classman--said, and then they walked to the boarding-house. Bill was carrying his dinner-pail and Tommy his dress-suit case. They walked in silence until Tommy shifted the valise. “Heavy?” asked Bill, without volunteering to take his turn carrying it. “No,” said Tommy, “but I wish I was carrying a dinner-pail like yours.” “I'll swap,” said Bill, stopping. “Oh no; I mean I'd like to feel I belonged in the shop.” “With the clothes you've got on?” said Bill. “I can't afford to get any other clothes just yet.” “You might save those for Sunday.” “No money,” said Tommy, and they walked on. He was aware that he was talking and acting like a little boy with a new toy. But, on the other hand, he was very glad to find that the world was not the monster he had feared. There was no need to be perennially on your guard against all your fellow-men. They seemed willing enough to take you for what you frankly acknowledged you were. And the consciousness was not only a great relief, but a great encouragement, by obviating the necessity of fighting with another man's weapons, as happens when a man is trying to be what he thinks you want him to be. They arrived at the boarding-place, a neat little frame house, commonplace as print and as easy to read. Bill took Tommy to the kitchen and introduced him to Mrs. Clayton. “I've brought you another boarder.” Mrs. Clayton looked at Tommy dubiously. “I don't know,” she said. “The front room is--” “The room next to mine will do,” said Bill. “The one Perkins had.” “Well--” she began, vaguely, looking at Tommy's clothes. “How much?” asked Tommy, anxiously. His tone seemed to reassure the landlady. “Eight dollars a week,” she answered. “But when the front room--” “It's as much as I can afford to pay,” said Tommy, quickly. It wouldn't leave much to send home out of the fifteen Thompson said he would pay. Seventeen thousand dollars! And there was need of haste! The tragedy showed in the boy's face. “Of course that includes the dinner,” said Mrs. Clayton, hastily, “same as Mr. Byrnes.”