“Do you think so?” she said indifferently, with a dainty touch of scorn.

Dickie staggered physically from the shock of her speech.  She had been speaking—­was it possible?—­of Jim Greely....

“I mean Mr. James Greely, the son of the president of the Millings National Bank,” he said painstakingly, and a queer confusion came to him that the words were his feet and that neither were under his control.  Also, he was not sure that he had said “Natural,” or “National.”

“I do mean Mr. James Greely,” Sheila’s clear voice came back to him.  “He is, I should think, a very great hero of yours.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Dickie.

Astonished at the abject humility of his tone, Sheila stopped and turned quite around to look at him.  He seemed to be floundering in and out of invisible holes in the snow.  He stepped very high, plunged, put out his hand, and righted himself by her shoulder.  And he stayed there, lurched against her for a moment.  She shook him off and began to run down the hill.  His breath had struck her face.  She knew that he was drunk.

Dickie followed her as fast as he could.  Several times he fell, but, on the whole, he made fairly rapid progress, so that, by the time she dashed into the Hudsons’ gate, he was only a few steps behind her and caught the gate before it shut.  Sheila fled up the steps and beat at the door with her fist.  Dickie was just behind her.

Sylvester himself opened the door.  Back of him pressed Babe.

“Why, say,” she said, “it’s Sheila and she’s got a beau already.  You’re some girl—­”

“Please let me in,” begged Sheila; “I—­I am frightened.  It’s your brother, Dickie—­but I think—­there’s something wrong—­”

Sylvester put his hand on her and pushed her to one side.

He strode out on the small porch.  Dickie wavered before him on the top step.

“I thought I’d make the ac-acquaintance of the young lady,” he began doubtfully.  “I saw her admiring at the stars and I—­”

“Oh, you did!” snarled Hudson.  “All right.  Now go and make acquaintance with the bottom step.”  He thrust a long, hard hand at Dickie’s chest, and the boy fell backward, clattering ruefully down the steps with a rattle of thin knees and elbows.  At the bottom he lay for a minute, painfully huddled in the snow.

“Go in, Miss Sheila,” said Sylvester.  “I’m sorry my son came home to-night and frightened you.  He usually has more sense.  He’ll have more sense next time.”

He ran down the steps, but before he could reach the huddled figure it gathered itself fearfully together and fled, limping and staggering across the yard, through the gate and around the corner of the street.

Hudson came up, breathing hard.

“Where’s Sheila?” he asked sharply.

“She ran upstairs,” said Babe.  “Ain’t it a shame?  What got into Dick?”

“Something that will get kicked out of him good and proper to-morrow,” said his father grimly.