By Eena Ferber
Chet Ball was painting a wooden chicken yellow. Thewooden chicken was mounted on a six-by-twelve board. Theboard was mounted on four tiny wheels. The whole wouldeventually be pulled on a string guided by the plump， moisthand of some blissful six-year-old.
You got the incongruity of it the instant your eye fell uponChet Ball. Chet’s shoulders alone would have loomed largein contrast with any wooden toy ever devised， including theTrojan horse. Everything about him， from the big， bluntfingeredhands that held the ridiculous chick to the greatmuscular pillar of his neck， was in direct opposition to his task，his surroundings， and his attitude.
Chet’s proper milieu was Chicago， Illinois （the West Side）；his job that of lineman for the Gas， Light and Power Company；his normal working position astride the top of a telegraph polesupported in his perilous perch by a lineman’s leather belt andthe kindly fates， both of which are likely to trick you in anemergency.
Yet now he lolled back among his pillows， dabblingcomplacently at the absurd yellow toy. A deion of hissurroundings would sound like Pages 3 to 17 of a novel by Mrs.
Humphry Ward. The place was all greensward， and terraces，and sun dials， and beeches， and even those rhododendronswithout which no English novel or country estate is complete.
The presence of Chet Ball among his pillows and somehundreds similarly disposed revealed to you at once the factthat this particular English estate was now transformed intoReconstruction Hospital No. 9.
The painting of the chicken quite finished （including twobeady black paint eyes） Chet was momentarily at a loss. MissKate had not told him to stop painting when the chicken wascompleted. Miss Kate was at the other end of the sunny gardenwalk， bending over a wheel-chair. So Chet went on painting，placidly. One by one， with meticulous nicety， he painted all hisfinger nails a bright and cheery yellow. Then he did the wholeof his left thumb， and was starting on the second joint of theindex finger when Miss Kate came up behind him and took thebrush gently from his strong hands.
“You shouldn’t have painted your fingers，” she said.
Chet surveyed them with pride. “They look swell.”
Miss Kate did not argue the point. She put the freshlypainted wooden chicken on the table to dry in the sun. Hereyes fell upon a letter bearing an American postmark andaddressed to Sergeant Chester Ball， with a lot of cryptic figuresand letters strung out after it， such as A.E.F. and Co. 11.
“Here’s a letter for you！” She infused a lot of Glad into hervoice. But Chet only cast a languid eye upon it and said， “Yeh？”
“I’ll read it to you， shall I？ It’s a nice fat One.”
Chet sat back， indifferent， negatively acquiescent. AndMiss Kate began to read in her clear young voice， there in thesunshine and scent of the centuries-old English garden.
It marked an epoch in Chet’s life—that letter. But beforewe can appreciate it We’ll have to know Chester Ball in hisChicago days.
Your true lineman has a daredevil way with the women，as have all men whose calling is a hazardous one. Chetwas a crack workman. He could shinny up a pole， strap hisemergency belt， open his tool kit， wield his pliers with expertdeftness， and climb down again in record time. It was hispleasure—and seemingly the pleasure and privilege of alllineman’s gangs the world over—to whistle blithely and to callimpudently to any passing petticoat that caught his fancy.
Perched three feet from the top of the high pole he wouldcling， protected， seemingly， by some force working in directdefiance of the law of gravity. And now and then， by way ofbrightening the tedium of their job he and his gang wouldcall to a girl passing in the street below， “Hoo-Hoo！ Hello，sweetheart！”
There was nothing vicious in it， Chet would have come tothe aid of beauty in distress as quickly as Don Quixote. Anyman with a blue shirt as clean， and a shave as smooth， anda haircut as round as Chet Ball’s has no meanness in him.
A certain dare-deviltry went hand in hand with his work—acalling in which a careless load dispatcher， a cut wire， or afaulty strap may mean instant death. Usually the girls laughedand called back to them or went on more quickly， the colour intheir cheeks a little higher.
But not Anastasia Rourke. Early the first morning of a twoweeks’
job on the new plant of the Western Castings CompanyChet Ball， glancing down from his dizzy perch atop an electriclight pole， espied Miss Anastasia Rourke going to work. Hedidn’t know her name nor anything about her， except thatshe was pretty. You could see that from a distance even moreremote than Chet’s. But you couldn’t know that Stasia was alady not to be trifled with. We know her name was Rourke， buthe didn’t.
So then： “Hoo-Hoo！” he had called. “Hello， sweetheart！ Waitfor me and I’ll be down.”
Stasia Rourke had lifted her face to where he perched sohigh above the streets. Her cheeks were five shades pinker thanwas their wont， which would make them border on the red.