To-day I took a book out and read to Mrs. Hilmer for an hour
     in the sunshine.

And later another statement forwarded this curious drama with pregnant swiftness: 

     Yesterday, I told Mrs. Hilmer about you.

Fred read this sentence over and over again.  To what purpose did Ginger discuss him with Mrs. Hilmer? ...  Surely not altogether in the name of entertainment.

Meanwhile, summer died, hot and palpitant and arid to the end.  And autumn came gently with cool, foggy mornings and days of sunshine mellowed like old gold.  Fred Starratt rose in rapid succession to the position of pantryman, head waiter to the attendants, assistant bookkeeper in the office.  He was given more and more freedom.  Indeed, between the working intervals, undisturbed by even a formal surveillance, he and Monet fell to taking walks far afield.  He found the shorter days more tolerable.  With dusk coming on rapidly, it was easier to accept the inflexible rule that required everyone to be in bed and locked up by seven o’clock.

New faces made their appearance in Ward 6, old ones vanished.  Clancy made a get-away sometime in September just before the construction camp broke up.  Fordham tried also, but was unsuccessful, and got a month in the bull pen for his pains.  These adventures stirred everyone to vague restlessness.  Fred began to speculate on chances, talking them over with Monet.  But the boy seemed listless and depressed, without enthusiasm for anything.  He brooded a great deal apart.  Finally one day Fred asked him what was troubling him.

“I miss my music,” he said, briefly.

Fred prodded further.  His need was, of course, for a violin.

“We’ll write Ginger,” Fred decided at once.

It had seemed quite a matter of course until he sat down with pen in hand and then he had a feeling that this last demand was excessive.  He fancied she would achieve it someway, and he was not mistaken.  The violin came and, everything considered, it was not a bad one.  Monet’s joy was pathetic.  Fred wrote back their thanks.  “How did you manage it?” he asked.

Her reply was brief and significant:  “You forget I know all kinds of people.”

From the moment the violin arrived Monet was a changed man.  Suddenly he became full of nervous reactions to everything about him.  He lost all his sluggish indifference, he talked of flight now with fascinating ardor.

“When shall it be?  Let us get out quickly.  We can make our way easily with this!” he would cry, tapping the violin lovingly.  “While I play on street corners you can collect the dimes and nickels.”

Monet had meant to be absurd, of course, but Fred was finding nothing absurd or impossible these days.  The youth’s laughing suggestions flamed him with a sudden yearning for vagabondage.  He wanted, himself, to be up and off.  But by this time October was upon them, ushered in by extraordinary rainfall.  The coming rain gave him pause.  He used to look searchingly at Monet’s delicate face, and finally one day, in answer to the oft-repeated question, Fred replied: