"Did yourself a good turn once anyway," said the Captain. "How's that?" The Captain reminded him of his adventure with Beth Van Loon. "That," the big boy chuckled, "was funny." "It might not have been. That fellow might have put his knife through your heart." "But he didn't." The big boy laughed hoarsely. They stopped at a delicatessen. Here Captain Burns purchased half a baked ham, piping hot, a huge loaf of rye bread and a gallon pot of coffee. Arrived at the shack, he spread this crude but wholesome meal out upon the table. He and Johnny drank coffee but ate little. When they had finished, save for the dishes, the board was clear. "Spider," the Captain said, slapping the big boy on the back, "you're a fighter, an eater, and a climber. That's all it takes to make a first class cop. Stick with me and I'll make you one." Spider stuck. And that, as you will see, is why certain things came out as they did in the unwinding of events that were to follow. * * * * * * * * It was with a guilty feeling that Grace Krowl that evening began delving into the personal letters and papers taken from the thin trunk with orange stripes. "It is as if someone were looking over my shoulder," she told herself, "saying, 'See here! Those are my letters! What right have you to read them?' "And yet," she philosophized, "if I am to help them in any way I must know something about these people." So she kept on reading. There were three bundles of letters and a diary. The more she read, the more deeply disgusted she became. "I did not dream there could be such a person as that girl is!" she exclaimed, throwing the letters back into the box and sliding it into a corner out of her sight. "That girl deserves nothing. False to her friends who try to help her, a flirt and a cheat. How--how terrible!" For some time she sat and stared into space. "I suppose," she murmured dejectedly, "that very few of them are worthy of any aid. And yet, there _must_ be some." She took up the box from the big family trunk. In this she read a beautiful sad story of a father, mother and two little girls. Their pictures were all there. So too were the girls' baby books and the father's sharp-shooter's badge. The letters told the story of a brave but futile fight against poverty that had advanced upon them like a storm in the night. "They lost their home," she whispered. "Next they lost their furniture, all those things that had become dear to them. And now, here, last of all, is their trunk. The wreck of the grandest thing God's eyes ever rested upon--a home. "But at least--" She clenched her hands fiercely. "At least they shall have these trophies back. I shall write to the mother and offer them to her without charge.