He would stay out till it was late--till it was dark, and the three at home were grown anxious. Then when he felt sure that Grandpa was abed, back he would go, taking the roses to Cis. He would enter the flat "staggerin', like I can hardly stand up." And mourn over his ill-luck as a salesman. And if he had to take a whipping, "Well, I'll yell as hard's I can" (everybody's window was open these soft June nights) "even if I scare Grandpa a little, and I'll make Big Tom quit quick. And anyhow I'd feel awful for a long time if I done what _he_ wants me to, but a lickin', why, it don't last." He felt a return of pride and self-respect. On he rambled, looking at the scenery, and particularly at the higher portions of it, this so as to avoid the eyes of passing people. Luckily for his peace of mind, he did not know that cut flowers need water, or that they would wilt, and be less fresh and beautiful than they were now. So, considering the circumstances, his thoughts were cheerful, for while the coming evening might bring him trouble and tears, the future not so immediate promised praise and love and a clear conscience. "By mornin'--by this time t'-morrow, the hurt'll be over," he reflected, and then without regrets he could go in and look at Mr. Roosevelt, could face Aladdin, too, and Galahad, Jim Hawkins, Mr. Lincoln, Daniel Boone and all his other friends. (He had not read and studied that chapter on Chivalry without results!) Every one stared at the strange little figure in the big, ragged clothes with a sumptuous bouquet of pink rosebuds held so high against his breast, under his folded arms, that only his tousled hair and his gray eyes showed. Some were curious, and swung round as he went by to look after him. Others smiled, for the contrast between the boy and his armful of blossoms was comical. A few looked severe, as if they suspicioned that he had not come by the bouquet honestly. Now and then a boy called to him, or ran alongside. At a corner, two girls caught at one of the buds, missed it, then scampered out of reach, squealing. His chin up, his eyes up, he ignored them all. On and on he sauntered--west, then north. Perhaps he might go as far as that store where New York bought all of its books. Being Sunday, of course, the store would be closed. But it would be fine to have a look in at the windows. From the book shop he would swing east again, for a glimpse of the horse palace. It might just happen that One-Eye would be back! Oh, if only----! "Hey there!"