Late September had come, with the Street, after its summer indolence taking
up the burden of the year. At eight-thirty and at one the school bell
called the children. Little girls in pig-tails, carrying freshly sharpened
pencils, went primly toward the school, gathering, comet fashion, a tail of
unwilling brothers as they went.

An occasional football hurtled through the air. Le Moyne had promised the
baseball club a football outfit, rumor said, but would not coach them
himself this year. A story was going about that Mr. Le Moyne intended to
go away.

The Street had been furiously busy for a month. The cobblestones had gone,
and from curb to curb stretched smooth asphalt. The fascination of writing
on it with chalk still obsessed the children. Every few yards was a
hop-scotch diagram. Generally speaking, too, the Street had put up new
curtains, and even, here and there, had added a coat of paint.

To this general excitement the strange case of Mr. Le Moyne had added its
quota. One day he was in the gas office, making out statements that were
absolutely ridiculous. (What with no baking all last month, and every
Sunday spent in the country, nobody could have used that amount of gas.
They could come and take their old meter out!) And the next there was the
news that Mr. Le Moyne had been only taking a holiday in the gas
office,--paying off old scores, the barytone at Mrs. McKee's hazarded!--and
that he was really a very great surgeon and had saved Dr. Max Wilson.