“His name is Latham, Jeffrey Latham, and he comes from Poughkeepsie. He’s a sort of a cripple. One leg’s shorter than the other. He says he was born that way. He seems a nice sort of fellow, and I was mighty glad that Gary didn’t get his room from him.”
“Cripple, eh? That’s hard lines. What class is he in?”
“Lower Middle, same as me.”
“Then we’re all Middlers here. Is the young lady your sister, Hazard?”
“Yes. Hope’s going to High School when it starts. It’s her first year.”
“Is your father here?” asked Poke.
“No, he’s dead,” answered Jim. “Died about three years ago. That’s why we’re here doing this. Everything went smash when dad died.”
“Too bad,” said Poke sympathetically. “Never mind the rest of those pictures. You’ve done enough already. Besides, I’m going to knock off work and get ready for supper.”
“There aren’t many more to go up,” said Jim. “I’ll stick ’em under this bed.”
“Don’t forget that we must telegraph this evening, Poke,” said Gil. “We can telephone to the office from here.”