“Well, I don’t know about that,” Wilfred said in his whimsical, half-serious way. “As soon as I got that pin my mother lost some money, and my sister put some cough medicine in a cake instead of vanilla, and a looking-glass got broken on our way to Bridgeboro and that made things worse, and then I started falling down——” “Oh, nix on that, you didn’t fall down,” said Bert McAlpin. “That’s a closed book.” “Oh, I mean in Bridgeboro, I went kerflop,” said Wilfred; “and my jacket got all torn and I had to stay home from school——” “You don’t call that bad luck, do you?” Connie laughed. “And the Victrola broke,” said Wilfred, “and I lost a collar-button and, let’s see—I didn’t get a radio.” “You make me weary,” laughed Connie. “It’s true,” said Wilfred. “Yes—you make us laugh.” “Well, I’ll tell you something queer,” Wilfred said more seriously. He was making a great hit with the Elks and it pleased him after all that had happened. They seemed proud of him and amused at his whimsical way of talking. “Go on, tell us,” said little Alfred McCord. “Maybe he got ’rested by a cop.” “It happened before I was born,” said Wilfred. “_Good night_, his bad luck began before he was born,” laughed Connie. “My father gave my mother an opal,” said Wilfred, “and right away after that my little brother was kidnapped and we never saw him again—I mean they didn’t.” Something in his voice and manner imposed a silence on the clamorous, admiring group. He did not wait to hear their comments but drew himself aimlessly to his feet and wandered away in that ambling manner which he had acquired. “Gee, I like to just listen to him, don’t you?” Charlie O’Conner observed. “We fell in soft all right,” said Vic Norris. “He’s so blamed easy-going, I don’t know, it just kind of makes you feel sure of him, he’s so kind of—you know.” “Yep,” said Connie decisively. “It’s like when Uncle Jeb shoots,” said Bert McAlpin. “He’s so blamed sure he’s going to hit that he’s kind of lazy about it and he doesn’t seem to take any interest at all when he raises his gun.” “But _biff_,” said Charlie O’Conner. “_Biff_ is right,” said Connie. CHAPTER XIX ADVANCE I would like you to see the letter that Wilfred sent home. Dear Mother and Sis:— To-day I’m using my fountain pen instead of my opera-glass. I’m giving the birds of the air an afternoon off. My pen doesn’t write very good—I guess it’s the opal. But I won’t take it off just for spite. I’m supposed to wear it so I will no matter what happens. I’m afraid I’m not going to drop dead. I feel fine. I can’t find my heart when I put my hand there but I guess it’s there all right. Don’t worry, I’m keeping my promise, safety first that’s what you say. Tom Slade’s all the time asking about you, Sis. He said I didn’t get my disposition from you.