Breakfast was a melancholy meal, for under the pretense of merriment and nonchalance lay dubiety and dread. To Russell it seemed that he had awakened to a Roman holiday for which he was cast in the rôle of the Christian Martyr. After breakfast, with a long two hours ahead of them, he and Jimmy walked over to the Sign of the Football. Stick was already busy, for trade was brisk to-day, and promised to be brisker. The counter was fairly piled with pennants of Alton and Kenly colors, with small gray-and-gold megaphones and with arm-bands of the rival hues. Russell took his place behind the counter with his partner and managed to forget for a short time the impending fate. But after he had made the wrong change twice he decided to let Stick manage alone. Jimmy had gone to the back of the store where Mr. J. Warren Pulsifer seemed unusually busy and unusually cheerful. Out on the street again, Jimmy chuckled and, in reply to Russell’s unspoken question, said:
“Well, J. Warren’s got his release, and the old boy’s as happy as a lark!”
“His release?” echoed the other.
“Yes, he’s going out of business, Rus. Packing up right now. Monday you’ll have the place to yourself.”
“But, how—why—”
“That’s what I wanted to know,” chuckled Jimmy. “Well, J. Warren says that what happened Thursday night settled it. Says he thought it all over carefully and decided that Aunt Mary—or whatever her name was—wouldn’t want him to continue the business after it had become dangerous. Aunt Mary, he says, was very tender-hearted, and he knows that she wouldn’t approve of his getting beaten up merely to keep to the terms of the will. It sounds sort of weak to me, but he’s perfectly satisfied with his reasoning, and he’s the doctor! Funny, isn’t it?”
Russell laughed for the first time that day. “Funny? I should say so!” Then he sobered suddenly. “Look here, though, Jimmy, that puts the whole place on us! What about the rent?”
“Well, J. Warren’s lease isn’t up until the first of the year, so you fellows will have six weeks, nearly, to look around. But if it was me, I’d take the whole premises, Rus.”
Russell was thoughtfully silent for several minutes. Then he nodded resolutely. “That’s what we’ll do, Jimmy,” he declared. “Something tells me that the Sign of the Football is going to be a success. Of course, it will mean nearly twice as much rent, and we’ll have to sign a lease for a whole year, but—still—”
“Nothing venture, nothing have,” said Jimmy gayly. “The store’s going to be a winner, Rus. Accept that from yours truly. You’ve tied the can to old Crocker, and he won’t trouble you again, I’ll bet. From now on you’ll have clear sailing, old son. Such is the prediction of James W. Austen. The W, Rus, stands for Wisdom!”