Chapter 30: Daniel Burton’s “Job”

Dorothy came at ten, or, to be strictly accurate, at five minutes past ten. The additional five minutes had been consumed by her going out of her way around the block so that she might see if Keith were visible in one of the McGuires’ windows. He was visible—and when she went up the Burton walk at five minutes past ten, her step was confident and her face eager; and there was about her manner none of the furtive, nervous questioning that had marked her coming the day before.

“Good-morning, Susan,” she began cheerily, as Susan answered her ring.
“Did Mr. Burton say he would see me?”
“He did. And Mr. Keith is over to the McGuires’ all safe, so you don’t have to worry about him.” Susan’s eyes were still mutinous, her voice still coldly disapproving.

“Yes, I know he is,” nodded Miss Dorothy with a bright smile.

“Oh, you do!”

“Yes. Well, that is—er—I—” Under Susan’s uncompromising frigidity
Miss Dorothy’s stammering tongue came to a painful pause.
“Humph!” vouchsafed Susan. “Well, come in, an’ I’ll tell Mr. DANIEL
Burton you’re here.”
That the emphasis on “Daniel” was not lost was shown by the sudden broad smile that chased away the confusion on Miss Dorothy’s face, as Susan led the way to the living-room. Two minutes later Daniel Burton, thinner, paler, and more worn-looking than Dorothy had ever seen him before, entered the room and held out a cordial hand.

“Good-morning, Miss Dorothy. I’m glad to see you,” he said. “What is it, —Red Cross, Y.M.C.A., Smileage Books?” The whimsical smile on his lips only served to emphasize the somber pain in his eyes.

“Not any of them. Then Susan didn’t tell you?”

“Not a word. Sit down, please.”

“Thank you. Then I shall have to begin at the beginning,” sighed the girl a little constrainedly as she took the chair he offered her. “I—I have a certain project that I want to carry out, Mr. Burton, and I—I want your help.”

“Why, of course—certainly. I shall be glad to, I know.” Daniel Burton’s hand had already reached for his check-book. “Any project of yours, Miss Dorothy—! How much do you want?”

But Miss Dorothy lifted her hand, palm outward.

“Thank you, Mr. Burton; but not any—in money, just yet. Oh, it’ll take money, probably, to get it started, before it’s on a self-supporting basis, I suppose. But it isn’t money I want to-day, Mr. Burton. It—it’s yourself.”

The man gave a short, dry laugh, not untinged with bitterness.

“I’m afraid I can’t endorse either your taste or your judgment there, Miss Dorothy. You’ve come for a poor stick. I can’t imagine myself as being much benefit to any sort of project. However, I shall be glad to hear about it, of course. What is it?”

And Miss Dorothy told him. With her eyes shining, and her voice quivering with eagerness, she told the story as she had told it to Susan the afternoon before, but with even greater elaboration of detail.

“And so now, Mr. Burton, you—you will help, won’t you?” she begged, in closing.

“Help! But my dear girl, how?”

“Take charge. Be the head and shoulders, the backbone of the whole thing. Oh, yes, I know it’s a whole lot to ask,” she hurried on, as she saw the dawning dismay and refusal in his face. “But I thought, for the sake of the cause—”