"Have him chasin' out o' _nights_?" cried Barber, scandalized. "Comin' in all hours off the _street_? I guess _not_! So if you and your Court want this kid t' go t' night school, out he gits from _here_. And that's my last word." He sat down. Mr. Maloney got up, a worried expression on his face. "I'll have to let the matter stand as it is for a while," he admitted quietly. "This year the city's got more public charges than it knows what to do with--so many men out of work, and so much sickness these last months. And as you say, the boy isn't ignorant." When he went, he left the paper behind; and that evening Johnnie read it from the first page to the last, advertisements and all. Big Tom saw him poring over it, but said nothing (the boy's reading on the sly had proved a good thing for the longshoreman). Johnnie, realizing that he was seen, but that his foster father did not roar an objection, or jerk the paper from his hands, or blow out the light, was grateful, and felt suddenly less independent. But what he did not realize was that, by reading as well as he had, he had hurt his own chances of being sent to public school. CHAPTER XV SCOUTS WHEN, toward the latter part of March, the days were so warm that Johnnie was able once more to take short, daily walks, he never went without bringing home a box to split up for kindling. The box was an excuse. And he wanted the excuse, not to ease his conscience about leaving Grandpa alone, but to save himself should Big Tom happen home and find him gone. So far as Grandpa was concerned, the feeble veteran scarcely seemed to know any more whether he was alone or not, there being small difference between the flat without Johnnie and the flat with Johnnie if Johnnie had a book. But also Grandpa always had some one else with him now--some one who comforted his old heart greatly. This was Letitia. Grandpa had always shown much fondness for the old doll. And one day--soon after Cis received the new one--when Johnnie chanced to give Letitia into the hands of the old man, the latter was so happy that Johnnie had not taken Letitia away, and Cis had not. Instead, she gave the old doll to Grandpa. And so it came about that Letitia shared the wheel chair, where she lay in the crook of Grandpa's left arm like a limp infant (she was shedding sawdust at a dreadful rate, what with the neglect she was suffering of late), while her poor eyes fixed themselves on distance. "She don't look like she's happy," Johnnie had declared to Cis more than once. "She looks like she's just standin' it." "Why, Johnnie!" Cis had reproved, "And here you've always said that _I_ was silly about her!" "Who's silly?" Johnnie had demanded, defensive, and blushing furiously. "Grandpa's tickled to have her," Cis had continued.