Buttered Side Down | Page 7

ain't this a grand night!
Evenings like this I used to love to putter around the yard after supper,
sprinkling the grass and weeding the radishes. I'm the greatest kid to
fool around with a hose. And flowers! Say, they just grow for me. You
ought to have seen my pansies and nasturtiums last summer."

The fingers of the Kid Next Door wandered until they found Gertie's.
They clasped them.
"This thing just points one way, little one. It's just as plain as a path
leading up to a cozy little three-room flat up here on the North Side
somewhere. See it? With me and you married, and playing at
housekeeping in a parlor and bedroom and kitchen? And both of us
going down town to work in the morning just the same as we do now.
Only not the same, either."
"Wake up, little boy," said Gertie, prying her fingers away from those
other detaining ones. "I'd fit into a three-room flat like a whale in a
kitchen sink. I'm going back to Beloit, Wisconsin. I've learned my
lesson all right. There's a fellow there waiting for me. I used to think he
was too slow. But say, he's got the nicest little painting and
paper-hanging business you ever saw, and making money. He's
secretary of the K. P.'s back home. They give some swell little dances
during the winter, especially for the married members. In five years
we'll own our home, with a vegetable garden in the back. I'm a little
frog, and it's me for the puddle."
Gus stood up slowly. Gertie felt a little pang of compunction when she
saw what a boy he was.
"I don't know when I've enjoyed a talk like this. I've heard about these
dawn teas, but I never thought I'd go to one," she said.
"Good-night, girlie," interrupted Gus, abruptly. "It's the dreamless
couch for mine. We've got a big sale on in tan and black seconds
to-morrow."

II
THE MAN WHO CAME BACK
There are two ways of doing battle against Disgrace. You may live it
down; or you may run away from it and hide. The first method is

heart-breaking, but sure. The second cannot be relied upon because of
the uncomfortable way Disgrace has of turning up at your heels just
when you think you have eluded her in the last town but one.
Ted Terrill did not choose the first method. He had it thrust upon him.
After Ted had served his term he came back home to visit his mother's
grave, intending to take the next train out. He wore none of the prison
pallor that you read about in books, because he had been shortstop on
the penitentiary all-star baseball team, and famed for the dexterity with
which he could grab up red-hot grounders. The storied lock step and the
clipped hair effect also were missing. The superintendent of Ted's
prison had been one of the reform kind.
You never would have picked Ted for a criminal. He had none of those
interesting phrenological bumps and depressions that usually are shown
to such frank advantage in the Bertillon photographs. Ted had been
assistant cashier in the Citizens' National Bank. In a mad moment he
had attempted a little sleight-of-hand act in which certain Citizens'
National funds were to be transformed into certain glittering shares and
back again so quickly that the examiners couldn't follow it with their
eyes. But Ted was unaccustomed to these
now-you-see-it-and-now-you-don't feats and his hand slipped. The trick
dropped to the floor with an awful clatter.
Ted had been a lovable young kid, six feet high, and blonde, with a
great reputation as a dresser. He had the first yellow plush hat in our
town. It sat on his golden head like a halo. The women all liked Ted.
Mrs. Dankworth, the dashing widow (why will widows persist in being
dashing?), said that he was the only man in our town who knew how to
wear a dress suit. The men were forever slapping him on the back and
asking him to have a little something.
Ted's good looks and his clever tongue and a certain charming Irish
way he had with him caused him to be taken up by the smart set. Now,
if you've never lived in a small town you will be much amused at the
idea of its boasting a smart set. Which proves your ignorance. The
small town smart set is deadly serious about its smartness. It likes to
take six-hour runs down to the city to fit a pair of shoes and hear

Caruso. Its clothes are as well made, and its scandals as crisp, and its
pace as hasty, and its golf club as dull as the clothes, and scandals, and
pace, and golf club