day—a girl at the house. She said she liked it. My name 's Larkin."
It proved to be a circulating library novel, "Wedded and Won," which he had borrowed from some one in his boarding-house.
"Oh!—oh, thanks!" she said. "I 'm awful fond of readin', ain't you?"
He laughed unexpectedly. "Well, I ain't such a much. I saw some books over on Third Avenuh 't we ust to read in the barn, one day, an' got two o' them, but I did n't get through the first."
"Did n't yuh?" She smiled at his sudden volubility.
"No. We ust to have great times in the hay loft. They cost five cents each—about Jesse James an' the Indians. We ust to borr' an' lend them—until Buttony Clark joined the Y. M. C. A. He borr'd them all without tellin' us he was burnin' them. What sort d' you like?"
"Oh, any sort," she said gaily, "as long 's it 's a love story. I guess you men don't read love stories much." He shook his head uncertainly and then he smiled a broad grin. She turned the pages of the book. "Except when yuh want to jolly us along," she added.
He hitched up his shoulder and looked troubled.
"I don't know but what yuh look up a few pointers then," she said, and glanced up archly at him.
He shifted uneasily. "Pipp?" he began; "he—"
"Oh, him," she stopped him. "I guess he don't do
