Words never before had meant quite so much to Tommy. It was a literary revelation, because Tommy was utterly unaware that he was writing his first letter to his own twenty-one years and eighteen weeks! He had not quite finished his peroration when Mr. Thompson came out of his office. Tommy looked up and saw him, saw the man who had written the end of his Dayton chapter. He felt no resentment. Indeed, Mr. Thompson had been more than kind. The fifteen dollars a week was really a gift; Tommy acknowledged to himself that he hadn't given a just equivalent therefor to the Tecumseh Motor Company. And Mr. Thompson also was the man who had made it possible for Tommy to compose that wonderful unwritten letter to Marion, which by crystallizing his own attitude toward life, work, duty, and earthly happiness, had enabled Tommy Leigh to become acquainted with the brand-new Tommy Leigh. Tommy stood up, for Mr. Thompson was walking straight toward him, and smiled expectantly, hoping to receive some order, that he might carry it out in full, now that he knew he had to leave, and, therefore, could obey with an eager willingness unvitiated by hopes of advancement. “Tommy,” said Mr. Thompson, in the voice of an old and intimate friend, “are you game for a quiet evening?” “Yes, sir,” said Tommy, not betraying his curiosity or his fear. “Will you dine with me at my house--seven sharp. We'll have a very quiet time talking, just the two of us.” Mr. Thompson was smiling slightly. Tommy felt a wave of gratitude surging within him. This man, being a gentleman, wished to break the news gently. In his appreciation Tommy in turn felt honor bound to spare Mr. Thompson every embarrassment. “Of course I shall be delighted. But I want to say, Mr. Thompson, that you don't have to--er--” Tommy paused. “To what?” asked Mr. Thompson, puzzled. “To be so nice about telling me that I--I haven't made good with you. You've done more than anybody else in the world would have done, more than I had any reason to expect. And--” “What are you driving at?” interrupted Mr. Thompson. “You've made up your mind to let me go, haven't you?” asked Tommy, bluntly. “Hell, no!” said Thompson. Tommy looked at him, wide-eyed. Thompson went on: “Seven. You know my house?” Tommy nodded as Mr. Thompson passed on. It was all he was able to do. In point of fact he had to ask Martin, the cashier, where Mr. Thompson lived. He didn't finish his letter to Marion. He was too busy dressing for his first dinner in Dayton and trying to keep from singing. Whatever happened eventually, this was a respite. He didn't even attach any importance to Mrs. Clayton's look of awe as she saw Tommy in his dinner clothes, nor to Billy's ironical, “Good-by, old carburetor!” as he left the boarding-house on his way to Mr. Thompson's. CHAPTER VIII