"I think maybe it's more just public opinion," said Minga, rather penetratingly for her rattle brain. "Older people get used to what their set says and does, and it just becomes sort of home life for them and they don't want anything else. They refuse to get out and think outside of what that set thinks and does, because it wouldn't be cosy; it's like going out on a winter trail when everybody is home sitting by the fire. They want to sit by the fire. They don't want to progress." "It wouldn't be 'popular,' I suppose." Sard avoided a bump. "It's funny, but I keep thinking that if any good things are to be accomplished we'll have to get rid of popularity." "Well, I shan't," said Minga. "Popularity? You can't get anywhere in America unless you are popular; but," the little philosopher added solemnly, "isn't it queer, Sard, that--that we all, you and I and all of us, have got to run the world some day whether we want to or not? Everybody else will be dead--all the aunts and fathers and mothers," Minga shivered a little--"and we, we shall have to sign the bills and give the sentences and be responsible." Minga looked dreamingly at the wind-shield and at the cars flashing by them. She clearly did not like the prospect. The older girl nodded. Sard guided her car up to the curb in front of the little Morris bank. "What are you going in for?" Sard flashed a smile. "Well, I--I am going in to pay Mr. Lowden, that's the cashier, some money I borrowed the day I found this man Colter. You see," added Sard casually, "I found him in the gutter up here in Morris and I had no place to take him to nor any money and Mr. Lowden managed for me. He seemed to know what to do." Sard got out and leaned against the car. Her straight, slim personality in its turquoise blue cap and scarf was a lively bit of poised youth; she stood twinkling into Minga's perturbed eyes as she said: "Oh, you'll have to get used to my queer people that I try to rescue," then, "when we go back I'm going to take you to the garage and show Colter to you and then you've got to put on your thinking cap and tell me what has happened to him and what he is!" "Of all things," breathed little Minga with disgust, "and there's a rip in your sleeve, too," she added in tones of injury. "Sard, don't go and get queer and interested in things that awful way that some girls do." Minga was clearly aggrieved. But Sard had run up the bank steps and turned in the direction of the cashier's office. Through the plate glass window she bowed to the president; his massive head and broad low brow and deep-set eyes emphasized a rather unusual type of the quiet country gentleman. Stepping into the partitioned consulting-room the girl found someone already in conference with the cashier. It was Watts Shipman. Sard drew back. "Oh, I'm intruding." She was hesitant. "No, indeed;" both men rose with cordial insistence. "I was just going," said Shipman reassuringly.