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But it was too late to stop them. Already the white-robed mob was filling the street in front of Mrs. Grant’s. “Donovan! Donovan!” it yelled; and Larry, with Dick to help him, had to hobble to the window, which Dick threw open.

They didn’t demand a speech; all they wanted was to see him. When he waved awkwardly to the surging mass, a roar broke forth. Then, with the cheer leader to time it, they gave him the Sheddon series.

When the crowd broke up, Dick led the cripple back to his chair, and for quite some little time Larry sat with his head in his hands, staring down at an open book which might have been printed in Sanskrit for all that the words in it meant to him. Dick waited as long as he thought he ought to. Then he said: “How about that ‘workingman’ class line now, Larry?”

Larry looked up, and the good gray eyes were suspiciously bright.

“They’ve broken it down for me, individually, Dick; but it’s here, just the same—you know it is. I had a bit of good luck this afternoon, and for that they’ve taken me in. But there are lots of others who won’t be taken in; little Purdick, and Jungman, and dozens that I could name.”