The next day he bestirred himself, went to Berry the florist who he happened to know was in need of a clerk, got the burly Irishman’s consent to give the girl a job at excellent wages, right away, the sooner the better.  Ted opened his mouth to ask for an advance of salary but thought better of it before the words came out.  Madeline might not like to have anybody know she was up against it like that.  He would have to see to that part of it himself somehow.

“You’re a good customer, Mr. Holiday,” the genial florist was saying.  “I’m tickled to be obligin’ ye and mesilf at the same time.  Anything in the flower line, to-day, Mr. Holiday?  Some roses now or violets?  Got some Jim dandies just in.  Beauties, I’m tellin’ you.  Want to see ’em?”

Ted hesitated.  His exchecquer was low, very low.  The first of the month was also far away—­too far, considering all things.  His bill at Berry’s already passed the bounds of wisdom and the possibility of being paid in full out of the next month’s allowance without horribly crippling the debtor.  It was exceedingly annoying to have to forfeit that ten dollars to Uncle Phil every month for that darned automobile business which it seemed as if he never would get free of one way or another.  He certainly ought not to buy any more flowers this month.

Still, there was the hop to-night.  Elsie was going with him.  He had run a race with three other applicants for the privilege of escorting her and being victor it behooved him to prove he appreciated his gains.  He didn’t want Elsie to think he was a tight-wad, or worse still suspect him of being broke.  He fell, let Berry open the show case, debated seriously the respective merits of roses and violets, having reluctantly relinquished orchids as a little too ruinous even for a ruined young man.

“If they are for Miss Hathaway,” murmured a pretty, sympathetic clerk in his ear, “Mr. Delany sent roses this morning and she likes violets best.  I’ve heard her say so.”

That settled it.  Ted Holiday wasn’t going to be beaten by a poor fish like Ned Delany.  The violets were bought and duly charged along with those other too numerous items on Ted Holiday’s account.  Going home Ted wrote a cheerful, friendly letter to Madeline Taylor reporting his success in getting her a job and enclosing a check for twenty live dollars, “just to tide you over,” he had put in lightly, forbearing to mention that the gift made his bank balance even lighter, so light in fact that it approached complete invisibility.  He added that he was sorry things were in a mess for her but they would clear up soon, bound to, you know.  And nix on the wish-I-were-dead-stuff!  It was really a jolly old world as she would say herself when her luck turned.  He remained hers sincerely and so forth.