“I am not one of your cultivated musicians, but I know what I like. And that is all anybody can know, I guess. Only most people aren't honest enough to say so. I have had a severe headache all day. It was in the back of my head, just where I had one last Thursday; and if I hadn't happened to have some of the pills left over that Doctor Brown brought for me the last time, I don't know what I should have done. One does hate so to give up. I have always said to my husband: 'No, Mr. H., I will _not_ give up; I will _not_ go to bed and acknowledge myself an invalid. Thank goodness I have pride enough left for that.'” Here the doorbell claimed her attention for a moment. “Well, here is Harry Crosman. He is such a good boy, we are all so fond of him. And then for a long time”--very confidentially, this--“he was really almost the only company there was for Mamie, and we were glad to have him drop around on her account. The people in Wauchung are so--so--well, I'm sure you understand. It was pleasant for the dear girl. I don't suppose he is ever going to astonish the world, but we are always glad to see him. Good-evening, Harry.” At this greeting the newcomer took a chair, and found himself just in time to hear Mrs. Higgin-son, keyed up to extra exertions by the music and the company, bring all her artillery to bear on her husband. “Now, Mr. Halloran, I'm just going to appeal to you if Mr. H. isn't working too hard. Don't _you_ think it is time he took a little vacation------” She stopped short, for the long-suffering Mr. H. had turned on her with downright impatience. “Don't let me hear any more of that talk,” he said sharply; then, almost before the last word was out of his mouth, he abruptly excused himself and left the room. He left silence behind him, and some little consternation; and Halloran, seeing on Mrs. Higgin-son's face the signs of a storm, excused himself, too, leaving Crosman to weather it as best he might. CHAPTER III--Tightening the Blockade Mr. Babcock had come in early this morning, depositing a small traveling-bag behind the door of his office, and then looking at his watch to see if Mr. Bigelow were not about due. Somewhat travel-stained was Mr. Babcock, as a glance at the mirror told him; and there was time to wash and change his linen before his senior should arrive. Shortly entered Mr. Bigelow, pausing within the threshold. “Good-morning, Mr. Babcock. Did you find Michigan City still on the map?” Mr. Babcock, giving a last flick at his coat-collar before the mirror, turned, listened, and laughed at his senior's little jest. The stenographer, sitting in her corner by the window, smiled and giggled. Young men at desks in the outer office snickered and chuckled over their books. The round-eyed office-boy tee-heed outright, and then, covered with fright and confusion, disappeared behind the water-cooler as the head of the firm passed on to the inner office.