That day Louis switched from the narrow-countered bakery-lunch route to regular standard-gauge restaurants; he ordered clothes like a bookmaker’s bride and he sent a cubic foot of violets to Miss Harris.  At dinner-time he patronized Mr. Gross so tantalizingly that the latter threatened to pull his nose out until it resembled a yard of garden hose.

The whole boarding-house was agog at Mitchell’s good fortune and Miss Harris smiled on him in a manner reminiscent of the good old ante-bookkeeper—­one might say “ante-vellum”—­days.  She hinted that Mr. Gross’s company did not wholly satisfy her soul-hunger, and even confessed that she was lonely; but this was Mitchell’s Rock Island evening, and although the frank surrender in Miss Harris’s eyes caused him to gasp as if he were slowly settling into a barrel of ice-water, he tore himself from her side.

Louis’s batting average would have reached one thousand had it not been for the Monon.  Miss Day, the young lady there, had a vocabulary limited to “Hello,” “Too high,” and “Good-by,” and it became particularly galling to learn that the fellow at James & Naughten’s was pulling down the business, so Mitchell went to Murphy with a proposition which showed that his mental growth had kept pace with his financial advancement.

“You need a new stenographer,” he declared.

“Oh, do I?  Why do I need a new stenographer, Mr. Bones?”

“Well, it would be a good investment, and I know a corker.”

“Who is she?”

“Miss Day, of the Monon.”

“I didn’t know you cared for Miss Day.”

“I don’t.  That’s the reason I want her to work for you.”

Murphy coughed slightly, then he agreed.  “You’re learning the game.  We’ll give her a three-dollar raise, and take her on.”

Shortly thereafter Mitchell began to get acquainted with the new Miss Monon along the right lines, and gave her Thursday nights.  She was a great improvement over Miss Day; she was, in fact, quite different from any of the others.  She was small and winsome, and she didn’t care to run around.  She liked her home, and so did Mitchell after he had called a few times.  Before long he began to look forward eagerly to Thursday nights and Miss Monon’s cozy corner with its red-plush cushions—­reminiscent of chair-cars, to be sure—­and its darkness illumined dimly by red and green signal lamps.  Many a pleasant evening the two spent there, talking of locomotive planished iron, wire nails, and turnbuckles, and the late lunch Miss Monon served beat the system’s regular buffet service a city block.  Of course they lit the red fire in front of James & Naughten’s and turned the green light Mitchell’s way.  He had the right of way on the Monon after that, and other salesmen were side-tracked.