He knew that Newton would not pucker up his mouth and screw his eyes to keep the tears in, like a girl; and he was quite sure that the boy would not reproach him for having been so careless.  He might not seem to care very much, but he would be terribly disappointed; that was the worst of it all, next to owing money that he had no hope of paying.  Indeed, he hardly knew which hurt him more than the other, for the disgrace of debt, as he called it, was all his own, but the bitter disappointment was on Newton too.

The latter listened in silence till his father had finished, and his boyish face was preternaturally thoughtful.

“I’ve seen boys make just such mistakes at the blackboard,” he observed in a tone of melancholy reflection.  “And they generally catch it afterwards too,” he added.  “It’s natural.”

“I’ve ‘caught it,’” Overholt answered.  “You have too, my dear boy, though you didn’t make the mistake—­that’s not just.”

“Well, father, I don’t know what we’re going to do, but something has got to be done right away, and we’ve got to find out what it is.”

“Thank goodness you’re not a girl!” cried Overholt fervently.

“I’m glad too; only, if I were one, I should most likely die young and go to heaven, and you’d have me off your mind all right.  The girls always do in storybooks.”

He made this startling and general observation quite naturally.  Of course girls died and went to heaven when there was nothing to eat; he secretly thought it would be better if more of them did, even without starvation.

“Let’s work, anyhow,” he added, as his father said nothing.  “Maybe we’ll think of something while we’re building that railroad depot.  Don’t you suppose that now you’ve got so far the Motor would keep while you taught, and you could go at it again in the vacations?  That’s an idea, father, come now!”

He was already in his place before the board on which the little City was built, and his eyes were fixed on the lines his father had drawn as a plan for the station and the diverging tracks.  But Overholt did not sit down.  His usual place was opposite the Motor, where he could see it, but he did not want to look at it now.

“Change seats with me, boy,” he said.  “I cannot stand the sight of it.  I suppose I’m imaginative.  All this has upset me a good deal.”

He wished he had the lad’s nerves, the solid nerves of hungry and sleepy thirteen.  Newton got up at once and changed places, and for a few minutes Overholt tried to concentrate his mind on the little City, but it was of no use.  If he did not think of the Motor, he thought of what was much worse, for the little streets and models of the familiar places brought back the cruel memory of happier things so vividly that it was torment.  All his faculties of sensation were tense and vibrating; he could hear his wife’s gentle and happy voice, her young girl’s voice, when he looked at the little bench