hastily, "but he's more of an athlete than a student, I guess--"

"Sure," Susan agreed again. "And a lot he knows about office work,
NOT," she mused. "I'll bet he gets a good salary?"

"Three hundred and fifty," supplied Miss Thornton.

"Oh, well, that's not so much, considering. He must get that much
allowance, too. What a snap! Thorny, what do you bet the girls all
go crazy about him!"

"All except one. I wouldn't thank you for him."

"All except TWO!" Susan went smiling back to her desk, a little more
excited than she cared to show. She snapped off her light, and swept
pens and blotters into a drawer, pulling open another drawer to get
her purse and gloves. By this time the office was deserted, and
Susan could take her time at the little mirror nailed inside the
closet door.

A little cramped, a little chilly, she presently went out into the
gusty September twilight of Front Street. In an hour the wind would
die away. Now it was sweeping great swirls of dust and chaff into
the eyes of home-going men and women. Susan, like all San
Franciscans, was used to it. She bent her head, sank her hands in
her coat-pockets, and walked fast.

Sometimes she could walk home, but not to-night, in the teeth of
this wind. She got a seat on the "dummy" of a cable-car. A man stood
on the step, holding on to the perpendicular rod just before her,