utes, he burrowed into his school books and achieved a standing above that which he had ever known before. He had a shrewd suspicion that his father was waiting for a sight of his first monthly report; and it was not without an inward glow of satisfaction that he brought it home. He had scored over ninety in every subject.
"Good work," Mr. Quinby said briefly, and signed the card and gave it back to him.
The boy frowned. It seemed to him that his father had been expecting a bad record and was all set to lay it against the time given to the Washington Avenue partnership. He said as much to his mother.'
"Bert," his mother sighed, "sometimes I think you've got a few broken corners in your brain. You can see so many things from the wrong angle."
"If I had brought home a rotten report I'd have heard more than two words."
"Many more," his mother admitted cheerfully. "What do you do to your bicycle when it is running perfectly?"
"Nothing; I let it alone."
"Certainly; you tinker with it only when it gets out of order."
He felt that he had been worsted in this fling at logic. However, it was not in his stubborn nature to surrender gracefully.
"It looks funny, anyway," he said, and went
