up this m i - if it is yours, why - I hope you'll -"

    "Of course it's mine," said Soapy.

    The ex-umbrella mahe poli hurried to help a well-dressed woman across the street.

    Soapy walked eastward. He threw the umbrella angrily into a pit. He was angry with the mes and carry clubs. Because he waed, they seemed tard him as a king who .

    At last Soapy reae of the avehe east where it was not so owards Madisohe home instins evehe home is a park bench.

    But o er Soapy stopped before an old church. Through one window a soft light glowed, where, no doubt, the anist played a Suhere came to Soapy's ears sweet music that d held him at the iron fence.

    The moon was shining; d pedestrians were few; birds twittered sleepily uhe roof. Ahat the aed Soapy to the iron fence, for he had khe days wheaihings as mothers and roses and ambitions and friends.

    The ihe musid the old church produced a sudden and we in Soapy's soul. He saw with horror the pit into which he had falle of his degraded days, dead hopes aies.

    And also irong impulse moved him to battle with his desperate fate. He would pull himself out of this pit; he would make a man of himself agaiime; he was youhose sweet a up a revolution in him. Tomorrow he would be somebody in the world. He would -

    Soapy felt a hand on his arm. He looked quid into the broad faan.

    "What are you doing here?" asked the poli.

    "Nothing," said Soapy.

    "Then e along," said the poli.