The girl was chattering happily. She adored Douglas Fairbanks. She
knew a girl who had written for his picture but who didn't get one.
She wouldn't do a thing like that. "Did they really say things when
they moved their lips?"
"I think they do," said Willy Cameron. "When that chap was talking
over the telephone I could tell what he was saying by-- Look here,
what did you mean when you said you knew of a place that has a secret
telephone?"
"I was only talking."
"No house has any business with a secret telephone," he said
virtuously.
"Oh, forget it. I say a lot of things I don't mean." He was a
little puzzled and rather curious, but not at all disturbed.
"Well, how did you get to know about it?"
"I tell you I was only talking."
He let it drop at that. The street crowds held and interested him.
He liked to speculate about them; what life meant to them, in work
and love and play; to what they were going on such hurrying feet.
A country boy, the haste of the city impressed him.
"Why do they hurry so?" he demanded, almost irritably.
"Hurrying home, most of them, because they've got to get up in the
morning and go to work."
"Do you ever wonder about the homes they are hurrying to?"
"Me? I don't wonder.
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