not. He’ll be back tonight.”
She went out.

Tonight will do it, thought Mr. Widmer. Tonight, just one more night. He’s not the sort to give up now. Now that he has the guitar, he’ll be back, and tonight will do it. Mr. Widmer whistled, moving about the store.

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

“Morning, Frank,” called Mr. Widmer. “How’s the carpentry business?”
“Picking up this morning,” said Frank. He sorted out the good, yellow lumber 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 onto her front porch. Wants it done today.”

Mr. Widmer stood looking at the carpenter’s hands, at the hammer and nails, and the good fresh clean lumber. The sun was rising higher every minute now and the day was bright.
“Here,” said Mr. Widmer, picking up some of the wood. “Let me help.”

They walked across the brick street and over the lawn of Miss Bidwell’s house together, carrying the planks and the saw and the nails.

The end