ENNIE ZINN had one pride in his

B fragment of life: his name was ins

scribed on the monument in Town Hall Square as "One of the Brave Citizens of Belmont who Served under Their Country's Flag in the War to Make the World Safe for Democracy." Insignificant though he was, only a part of a man, with a leg gone and something queer in his head that he could not explain, yet Bennie was a hero. The monument said so, and his name, Benjamin Zinn, was recorded among the nation's defenders on the monument.

Bennie Zinn had only one worry in life, although he might have had many worries, you would think, to look at the boy. His unhappiness was caused by this fact: the board of the wooden memorial on which his name stood out in black letters was not sound. A little at a time the rotten board was crumbling; the paint had flaked from one end of it already, and you could rub away fragments of the wood with your finger. The name was prematurely mutilated by the tooth of time, for though the monument was new, erected shortly after the armistice, it had been run up in a hurry at a period when shoddy material and slipshod work were the order of the day. Poor paint, poor workmanship, and inferior lumber made even a temporary monument unfit to last out its time. No doubt the board carrying Bennie's

name had been touched by rot when it was hammered into place.

Of course a prosperous little city like Belmont did not mean to leave this structure of sham marble standing long. Plans had been made to erect a dignified and permanent memorial to the heroes of the World War, and a considerable sum had been pledged to cover the cost. Part of the delay in beginning work was caused by uncertainty as to what form the memorial should take. should take. A dozen schemes had been proposed, ranging from a bronze statue of heroic proportions to a community house for recreation and social gatherings.

A committee of prominent citizens had been formed, mostly men of affairs; for of course such men, used to handling big contracts and large sums of money, could be trusted to get the best results. There was Judge Price, president of the executive board of the monument committee, who was all that the exalted word "judge" conveys; a dignified man of severe aspect, humanized by an occasional twinkle of humor in his gray eyes, carrying his sixty years with erect firmness, his Roman-senatorial features reminiscent of the best traditions of the republic.

Almost as impressive in a patriarchal way was Silas Bragg, elder of the First Presbyterian Church and president of the First National Bank. Well above middle height, he resembled a Hebrew

prophet with his flowing, grizzled beard, shaved only to leave the firm upper lip free, his aquiline nose, his piercing eyes under shaggy brows. He wore a silk hat and a frock-coat, as befitted the habit of the banker of his generation, and his manner was, like his clothes, formal, distinguished, a trifle old-fashioned. Like his fellowcommitteemen, Silas Bragg was an enterprising man of affairs, having an interest in many kinds of sound business, grain and flour, shoe manufacturing, even a marble quarry in Vermont.

Everett Keene, the real-estate man, was certain to be mentioned when the leading citizens of Belmont, or indeed of Harrison County, were enumerated. He had made a fortune in subdividing the large acreage he held in and about the city of Belmont, but there was nothing pretentious about his trim, well tailored figure, his thoughtful, sharp-featured face, or his alert businesslike manner. His greenish eyes had the same appraising glance for every one, capitalist or cab-driver, a little cold, perhaps, but democratic in being equally cool to all. No one had ever beaten him in a business deal.

Chris Blower, a fine, big, florid man, was of the self-made type that is America's proudest boast. Beginning life as a mule-driver in a brick-yard, he had steadily worked his way upward until to-day he owned the yard he had once worked in at a dollar a day. Not only that, but he controlled several other brick manufacturing establishments in other parts of the State, and had options on many brick-clay properties that might well lead to a dominating position in his field. All this he had accomplished despite his lack of school education, for he had learned to write as a boy in order to sign the pay

roll. He was regarded as a bluff, honest fellow, fearless and outspoken.

Wendell Morris, the last of the directors of the executive board, was an amiable chap, whose very mustache seemed to smile at you, so agreeably did it curl upward. Morris had not worked for his money, but had inherited large shares in a contracting firm that built bridges, roads, sewers, and warehouses, and paid satisfactory dividends. Its war camp contracts had been specially profitable. He was a little, spectacled fellow, was Wendell Morris, who looked as if he might collect early editions for a pastime. As a matter of fact, he was a collector of Washington portraits and had almost a hundred snuff-boxes, plates, rare prints, and even bottles and jugs adorned with likenesses of the Father of his Country.

It was to these committeemen that Bennie Zinn appealed rather breathlessly whenever they happened to pass the corner of Main Street, where it was his pleasure to stand and watch the cars go by. Indeed, Bennie's day was divided between that busy corner and the bench in the square opposite the monument, his monument. For Bennie's working days were over. Of course the committeemen were nice to the boy, and put him off as gently as they could.

"Yes, yes, Bennie," said Wendell Morris, "we 'll fix up that board pretty soon. Just you give us time. Rome was n't built in a day, you know."

"Thanks, Mr. Morris. what Judge Price said Rome, I mean.”

That's just that about

"Well, then, you see it must be so; for Judge Price knows everything, Bennie."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Well,

I must be going. I'm awful' busy to-day, Mr. Morris."

And the boy hobbled away swiftly to his bench on the square facing his monument. To his distress, he noticed that the last letter of his name was almost obliterated. Before long it would read "Benjamin Zin," quite another name. The committeemen did not realize how serious the matter was.

82

Chris Blower passed across the square, blotting out a large area of sunlight with his shadow. He looked at Bennie out of the corner of his eye, and hastened his stride. But there was no escaping the agile, one-legged boy, who propelled himself on brisk crutches like a grasshopper.

"Hey, Mr. Blower! Wait a minute, please. There's something I've got to show you."

Chris Blower did not stop until the lad plucked him by the sleeve, then he wheeled sharply.

"Of course. You 've lost a leg; I can see that. But you can drive a delivery wagon, with one leg to the bad. Why don't you deliver groceries for your father, like you did before you was drafted?"

"I tried it for a while, Mr. Blower, but it's no good. I can drive all right, but I don't seem to remember the streets any more. And I forget who ordered things and take them to the wrong houses. People got so mad about it that dad took me off the wagon."

"Yes, yes; I remember now. You got a wallop on the nut, or was it this here shell shock? Anyhow, it made you weak in the upper story," remarked the sympathetic Chris Blower.

"Yes, that's it. Dad says the Dutchies knocked out the little sense God gave me. I guess dad 's right.

"Well, Bennie, I 'm sorry for you." Chris Blower eyed the boy with a softened expression in his blue eyes. "Sure, I 'm awfully sorry for you. It

"It won't take but just a minute, Mr. Blower. Please come back and give that monument the once-over. It's terrible. My name is most wore off. The board is so rotten."

"Oh, rats!" Blower snorted with disgust. "Don't you see I 'm busy? Listen, boy: nobody stops to read those names, anyhow. What difference does it make?" He tried to shake himself loose, but observing that people stared with amusement, he assumed a kindlier tone. "What are you doing here, Bennie? Why ain't you working?"

"Oh, Mr. Blower, I'd like to work, honest, I would; but there don't seem to be no place for me."

much more than a half-wit. Here, Bennie, here's a quarter. Go get yourself some cigarettes with it. So long now! I've got to go."

"Oh, thanks, Mr. Blower. You're my friend all right."

As Chris Blower moved ponderously away, he felt a glow of virtue at having been kind to this poor boy.

"Lucky his old man can look after the kid," he mused. "He 'd sure be no more than a bum if old Zinn was n't taking care of him. Or maybe they 'd lock him up in a' asylum. I'm glad I give him that quarter."

Meanwhile Bennie was hobbling across Main Street toward the drugstore, where for twenty-five cents one could get a pack of cigarettes, a slab