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might bear better fruit if it took place in private. What kind of fruit it would bear she could not imagine, but she had great faith in Darnay. She took up her sewing and sat down by the kitchen fire and waited patiently, wondering what was happening and what was being said. She hoped Sandy was making a good impression, but he would, she was almost sure of that, for Sandy had nice manners and took pains to make people like him. It was this desire that people should like him that was really the base of all the trouble, for Sandy would rather tell a lie and make a good impression than tell the truth and make a bad one.
    The interview lasted for nearly an hour, and Sandy came out of the studio with pink cheeks and glowing eyes.
    â€œHe’s great, Sue,” declared Sandy.
    Sue had known that before. “What have you decided?” she asked with her usual practical common sense.
    â€œI’m to have supper with you,” said Sandy, “and then I’m to go straight home and speak to Father. Mr. Darnay says he’ll help me to get into a veterinary college—he knows a man who’s the head of one in England—but he says I must speak to Father myself.”
    â€œThat’s fine,” exclaimed Sue.
    They sat down and had supper together. Sandy was full of excitement and optimism. Already he saw himself a vet tending sick horses and curing them of diseases that defied the efforts of every other vet in the country.
    â€œThen you’ll speak to Father tonight,” Sue said as she saw him off at the door.
    Sandy hesitated. “Maybe I’ll wait till Sunday,” he said doubtfully. “There’s more time on Sunday. It would be a pity to spoil everything by speaking too soon. There’s plenty of time. I’m not to leave school till Easter.”
    â€œSpeak to him tonight,” Sue told him. “Get it all settled.”
    â€œWell, we’ll see,” said Sandy vaguely, and he walked off slowly up the hill.
    He had to wait for some minutes before the bus hove in sight, and during this cold wait his spirits sank. He began to visualize the interview with his father and to make up his mind what he would say. He knew quite well that the interview would be a very unpleasant one, and he hated unpleasantness. I can’t , thought Sandy miserably. I’ll have to wait a bit and get him in a good mood—perhaps Sunday—or next week sometime. I’ll wait.
    When he got out of the bus at the Market Cross his spirits had risen again, for he had decided to put off the unpleasant interview indefinitely, and the mere fact that this unpleasantness had receded into the distance was a relief to his mind. He walked home up the High Street, and as he walked his pocket jingled in a most delightful way, for Mr. Darnay had given him five shillings to spend on something he wanted. What did he want?
    He stopped dead outside the window of the saddler’s shop. The shop was closed, of course, but there in the window was the air rifle that he had wanted for months. “Yours for 5 shillings,” said the notice in large letters, and below, in smaller letters, was added, “and 1 shilling weekly.”
    Sandy’s eyes gleamed. He could buy the air rifle now, or at any rate he could buy it tomorrow. It would be his very own. He had the five shillings in his pocket. The weekly payment of one shilling did not bother him much, for he would manage that somehow—he could save up his pocket money or borrow from Grace.
    The next day was Saturday, and Sandy was off to the saddler’s directly after breakfast. He was much relieved to see that the rifle was still in the window, for his dreams had been haunted by the fear that somebody else might walk in and buy it before he could get there. Mr. Hogg, the saddler, was in the shop himself and received Sandy with a smile.
    â€œAye, it’s a nice wee gun,” he said. “I’ll get it out of the window for