“No,” Mrs. Baxter said quietly. “You’re not going back to count any more shingles, Willie. How much have you earned?” He swallowed, but spoke bravely. “Thirty-six cents. But I’ve been getting lots faster the last two hours and there’s a good deal of time before six o’clock. Mother--” “No,” she said. “You’re going over to that horrible place where you’ve left your clothes and your watch and all those other things in the two baskets, and you’re going to bring them home at once.” “Mother!” he cried aghast. “Who told you?” “It doesn’t matter. You don’t want your father to find out, do you? Then get those things back here as quickly as you can. They’ll have to be fumigated after being in that den.” “They’ve never been out of the baskets,” he protested hotly, “except just to be looked at. They’re _my_ things, mother, and I had a right to do what I needed to with ’em, didn’t I?” His utterance became difficult. “You and father just _can’t_ understand--and you won’t do anything to help me--” “Willie, you can go to the party,” she said gently. “You didn’t need those frightful clothes at all.” “I do!” he cried. “I _got_ to have ’em! I _can’t_ go in my day clo’es! There’s a reason you wouldn’t understand why I can’t. I just _can’t_!” “Yes,” she said, “you can go to the party.” “I can’t either! Not unless you give me three dollars and twenty-four cents, or unless I can get back to the lumber-yard and earn the rest before--” “No!” And the warm color that had rushed over Mrs. Baxter during Jane’s sensational recital returned with a vengeance. Her eyes flashed. “If you’d rather I sent a policeman for those baskets, I’ll send one. I should prefer to do it--much! And to have that rascal arrested. If you don’t want me to send a policeman you can go for them yourself, but you must start within ten minutes, because if you don’t I’ll telephone headquarters. Ten minutes, Willie, and I mean it!”