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For neither did Mr. Boner escape. Instead, he came earlier, stayed later, and worked with more furious rapidity than ever. And he was Mr. Boner's successor that is, if he hit the ball and worked hard enough to deserve it. The thought of the little boy whose mother gave him a nickle every time he took his castor oil manfully came to his mind as he sat and gazed out the window.

"You had better turn around and go back where you came from," he called after it softly. He proceeded homeward. As he climbed the boarding-house stairs to his room he felt listless. For four weeks he had climbed those listless stairs. There had been one brief respite the two days of Bloomfield with its easy relaxation. What lay at the end of the road? Whither was he tending? Mr. Boner's shoes?

Some day there would come a change as though the miller had opened up another sluice and a few vigorous splashings and all would be changed even here. He viewed it speculatively, as one outside it all. He suddenly felt that for him it was all over. And he went into Mr. Boner's office. Mr. Boner looked up sidewise. "I've had a 'phone call from home." Mr.

Boner's eyes rolled slightly, showing the whites. "There's some trouble there. I'll have to go." A moment's pause. Mr. Boner cleared his throat. "All right," he said. And then he bent back over his work. He went and got his hat. With his hand on the swinging door he paused and looked back. Not a head was raised. In the air there hovered a droning, a rustling.