J.W. had not remembered the Institute incident.  But he recalled that Alma was at Cartwright that summer, and he had seen her at church occasionally since he came home from college.  She was living in town and working in some store or other he knew, but that was all.

“What did you find out?” he asked Joe.

“I found out enough so that Alma has a better job, and things are going easier at home.  But that was just a starter.  My brave John Wesley, do you remember your college sociology and economics and civics and all the rest?  Never mind confessing; you don’t; I didn’t either.  But I began to review ’em in actual business practice.  First I told the right merchant what sort of a bookkeeper I had found slaving away for ten dollars a week on the dark, smelly balcony of the Racket—­and he’s given Alma a job at twenty in a sun-lighted office.  Then I told Mr. Peters of the Racket what I had done, and why.  He didn’t like it, but it will do him good.  That made me feel able to settle anything, and I’m looking around for my next joy as journeyman rescuer and expert business adjuster.  Honest, J.W., I’ve not seen near all there is to see, but I’m swamped already.  You’ve got to come along, you and some others, and see for yourself what’s the matter with Main Street.”

Not all at once, but before very long, J.W. shared Joe’s aroused interest.  Pastor Drury was with them, of course; and the three called into consultation a few other capable and trustworthy men and women.  Marcia Dayne had come home for a few weeks’ holiday, and at once enlisted.  Alma Wetherell was able to give some highly significant suggestions.

There was no noise of trumpets, and no publicity of any sort.  Mr. Drury insisted that what they needed first and most was not newspaper attention, and not even organization, but exact information.  So for many days a group of puzzled and increasingly astonished people set about the study of their own town’s principal street, as though they had never seen it before.  And, in truth, they never had.

It was no different from all other small town business districts.  The Gem Theater vied with the Star and the Orpheum in lavish display of gaudy posters advertising pictures that were “coming to-morrow,” and in two weeks of observation the investigators learned what sort of moving pictures Delafield demanded, or, at least what sort it got.  They took note of the Amethyst Coterie’s Saturday night dances—­“Wardrobe, 50 cents, Ladies Free”—­and of the boys and girls who patronized the place.  The various cigar and pocket-billiards combinations were quietly observed, some of the observers learning for the first time that young men are so determined to get together that they are not to be deterred by dirt or bad air or foul and brainless talk.