I suppose," he asked, as he looked over his glasses for the last time, "that you don't want me to say anything about it ?" "Not until--" "You 're sure.

I know.

Well, good news is awful hard to keep--but I 'll do my best.

Run along." And Fairchild "ran." Whistling and happy, he turned out of the office of the Sampler and into the street, his coat open, his big cap high on his head, regardless of the sweep of the cold wind and the fine snow that it carried on its icy breath.

Through town he went, bumping into pedestrians now and then, and apologizing in a vacant, absent manner.
The waiting of months was over, and Fairchild at last was beginning to see his dreams come true.