up now. Now that he has the guitar, he’ll be back, and tonight will do it. Mr. Widmer whistled, moving about the shop.

A van drove up outside, and Mr. Frank Henderson climbed out, a kit of hammers and nails and a saw in his hands. He went round the van and took out a couple of dozen fresh-cut new pieces of raw, good-smelling timber.

“Morning, Frank,” called Mr. Widmer. “How’s the carpentry business?”

“Picking up this morning,” said Frank. He sorted out the good yellow wood and the bright steel nails. “Got a job.”

“Where?”
“Miss Bidwell’s.”

“Yes?” Mr. Widmer felt his heart begin the familiar pounding.
“Yes. She ’phoned an hour ago. Wants me to build a new set of steps on to her front porch. Wants it done today.”

Mr. Widmer stood looking at the carpenter’s hands, at the hammers and nails, and the good, fresh, clean wood. The sun was rising higher and the day was bright.

“Here,” said Mr. Widmer, picking up some of the wood. “Let me help.”

They walked together, carrying the fine timber, across the green lawn, under the trees, toward the waiting house and the waiting, stepless porch. And they were smiling.

The End