
<p align="center">
<script type="text/javascript"><!--
google_ad_client = "pub-5844598359620998";
google_ad_width = 728;
google_ad_height = 90;
google_ad_format = "728x90_as";
google_ad_type = "text_image";
//2007-05-03: books-txt
google_ad_channel = "5958809296";
//-->
</script>
<script type="text/javascript"
  src="http://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/show_ads.js">
</script>
</p>

<p align="center"><img src="/pga-australia.jpg" width="80" height="75" alt=""></p>


<table width="90%" border="1" summary="" bgcolor="#ccff99">
  <tr>
    <td align="center"><b>This site is full of FREE ebooks - Check them out at our Home page 
      - <a href="http://gutenberg.net.au" target="_blank">Project Gutenberg Australia</a></b></td>
  </tr>
</table>
<pre>




Title: Forgive Us Our Trespasses (1937)
Author: Lloyd C. Douglas
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.: 0608561.txt
Language:  English
Date first posted: November 2006
Date most recently updated: November 2006

This eBook was produced by: Don Lainson dlainson@sympatico.ca

Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editions
which are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright notice
is included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particular
paper edition.

Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this
file.

This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online at
http://gutenberg.net.au/licence.html

To contact Project Gutenberg of Australia go to http://gutenberg.net.au

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Title: Forgive Us Our Trespasses (1937)
Author: Lloyd C. Douglas






CHAPTER I


The new-laid harvest straw beneath the faded red carpet rustled
crisply under Martha's shapeless felt slippers as she padded across
the living-room to the cluttered mantel.

With the quizzical grimace of long-neglected astigmatism she
adjusted the steel-bowed spectacles that had been her mother's, had
of a notion peddler for two dozen eggs and a pound of butter.

The wooden-wheeled clock--a noisy but amazingly accurate and
exquisitely ornamented product of old Ferd's, while laid up one
winter with a broken leg that had kept him two months sober--
clacked irascibly at Martha that another blistering August morning
was nearly five hours old.  High time, indeed, that the day's work
began.  Not much wonder the Millers were poor.

Dragging her slipper-heels to the door of the spare bedroom which,
in spite of her continued protests, Susan and Greta had insisted on
occupying of late, Martha vigorously rattled the latch.

Glumly appeased by assurances from within, she returned to the
dingy kitchen and peered into the kettle to see if there was enough
water to prime the parching pump under the pear tree.

Then, kettle in hand, she plodded to the foot of the narrow stairs,
and petulantly called:

"Julia!"

                        *  *  *  *  *

Outstretched on velvet moss so soft and deep it yielded to every
curve of her supple young body, Julia knew that if she stirred, the
least bit, she would never be able to recapture the complete
satisfaction of this luxurious languor.

Doubtless it was too much to expect that an experience so strangely
sweet could be quite real.  Sooner or later, something or somebody
would invade her peace.  A tall giraffe would saunter up and thrust
his long nose into the top of the banana tree.  Giraffes ate
bananas, didn't they? . . .  Or a big man with a blue coat and
shiny buttons would order her off. . . .  Or there would be a
peremptory summons from afar to come at once!

Julia's unbuckled consciousness was already troubled by the
persistent echo of a distant call.  It had seemed to come from the
depths of this tropical forest--a faint but urgent cry for help.
The voice had sounded tired, plaintive, persecuted--just like
Martha's.

But what would Martha be doing away out here in . . . in Tasmania?
Julia now readily identified her location by recalling a picture in
The Pictorial Atlas, her omnivorous memory obliging her with
phrases from the adjacent descriptive text:  "Mountains heavily
forested . . . magnificent scenery . . . peaks of crystalline rock
showing pink and blue . . . frequent showers . . . luxuriant
vegetation."  If this wasn't Tasmania, it was someplace else too
far off for Martha to find.  Martha never went anywhere, not even
to Ligonier on Saturdays.  She always saw them off, standing there
under the big maple, mopping her tanned forehead with the corner of
her brown apron.

"Wish you was a-goin' along, Mat," Hiram would drawl, conscious
that he only, by virtue of his clumsy championship of her dour
eccentricities, could nickname her without rebuke.

"No," Martha would reply, sacrificially, "somebody's got to stay on
th' place--what with them young turkeys and all."

Whoever was calling, Julia had an uneasy sense of guilt over her
failure to respond.  Whether required to go or not, she at least
should have the courtesy to answer.  Of course, if it did actually
turn out to be Martha--a most improbable event--she would have to
obey.  One always came when Martha called.  Sometimes one came
scowling and grumbling, but one always came.

Martha had an uncanny instinct for knowing when one must on no
account be disturbed.  Had one reached the most exciting episode in
a story, Martha needed a few dry chips immediately to revive an
expiring fire.  Let the sunset be at that phase where vermilion was
beginning to be laced with purple, Martha's accusing voice inquired
from the kitchen door whether one expected to gather the eggs, or
must she go out later and do it herself in the dark and all? . . .
But this couldn't be Martha!

In just a moment, now, Julia would reply to the entreaty.  She
would draw a deep breath--though deep breaths were rather
disconcerting, lately, for they seemed to make her plump round
breasts so much more mature than she was, herself--and try to
exhale "Coming!" so effortlessly as not to disturb this delightful
lethargy.  She would wait until the cry sounded a little more
distinctly, and then she would answer, "Yes, Martha . . .  Coming!"

Evidently someone else had gone to the rescue, for everything was
blissfully quiet again.  That was good.  So nice not to be
bothered.  Julia sighed contentedly as a big drop of warm dew
dripped from the tip of a sheltering fern-frond and rolled slowly
down her cheek.

She opened one eye cautiously--a mere tiny slit--to make sure the
tall, slim, slanting date-palm was still there.  It was; plainly
visible through the vertical bars of her long black lashes.

Was this the one in the Elementary Geography or the Child's Natural
History?  No--it couldn't be; for the date-palm in the Geography
had a grey monkey in the top, and the one in the Natural History
was being climbed by a brown boy with arms as long as his legs, and
sharp heels, scampering up out of the tiresome paragraph that read:
"The Malay is of pigmy stature, averaging 148-149 cm., with black
skin and short woolly hair." . . .  No--this date-palm must be the
one in the magic-lantern lecture, last winter, over at Hinebaugh's
Schoolhouse.

As for the dripping rubber trees, with the waxy leaves that shaded
her like hands folded above her eyes, Julia could locate them
certainly.  They were from the little conservatory at Fort
Wayne . . . out in Spring Fountain Park . . . the day she didn't go
to the show.  And here they were in this immense conservatory--for
this really was a conservatory.  Julia smiled over her silly
mistake. She had fancied herself out in the open . . . in Tasmania,
maybe; and all the time she had been lying here on the moss in this
conservatory, exactly like the one in Spring Fountain Park--only
twenty times bigger!

But there was no mistaking those moist rubber trees.  She had sat
under them for a whole hour on a sticky green iron bench, that day
last summer, when their family--all but Martha, what with the plums
and all--had gone to Barnum and Bailey's circus; only she hadn't
seen the show.  She had indignantly left them standing there
giggling foolishly on the crowded courthouse steps, craning their
necks to follow the last of the little elephants at the tail of the
pompous parade--the little elephants whose bulbous, bobbing,
nodding heads seemed to be saying, "Yes, yes--we're coming.". . .
(Yes, Martha . . .  Coming!)

Hiram and Elmer had been so noisy and silly, and had attracted so
much unpleasant comment, that she had suddenly rebelled against the
further humiliation of going out to the show-grounds with them.

"Aw--come on!" Elmer had shouted, against the deafening shrieks of
the steam calliope.  "Don't be a sissy!"

"S'matter with yuh?" growled Hiram.  "'Shamed o' yer folks?"

Greta was laughing uproariously over Susan's comment, "Wouldn't it
kill yuh, Gret? . . .  Father a-scoldin' the boys fer drinkin' so
much, and him just able to stand up."

Julia had been very sorry for her father that day, swaying
unsteadily in the broiling sun as he morosely watched the clanking,
jingling, garish, pungent parade--his tanned face screwed up into
tight little wrinkles, his shaggy grey hair curled in tight little
ringlets on his temples, his blue eyes, deep-set, swimming with
vertigo.  She couldn't bear to see him ridiculed.  He belonged to
her.

"Please, Greta!"

Greta had grinned, and cracked her chewing-gum.

Julia had been strongly impulsed to slip her arm through her
father's, and make off with him; to offer him a hand exactly like
his, only smaller and not so brown; to smile into his eyes with
eyes exactly like them, only younger and not so weary; to take him
along with her--anywhere to be away from these unfeeling people who
were not related to either of them except by the mere unfortunate
accident that they all happened to belong to the same family.  At
that very moment, however, he had turned on her reproachfully,
stifled a hiccough that hinted at impending nausea, and muttered,
"You'd better let yourself go and have some fun once."

"Fun?"

"Yes: their kind o' fun.  It won't do you no good to be haughty.
You might as well cave in--an' like it!  I done it!  So kin you!  I
even larnt to talk like 'em.  If you don't want to be lonesome all
yer life, you'd better--"

That quite settled it! . . .  Promising to meet them at the
Pennsylvania Station at seven-fifteen (they had left old Florrie
and the dilapidated surrey at Larwill and had come the rest of the
way by rail), Julia had slipped through the sweaty crowd, her
cheeks aflame.

Three blocks away she took the street-car--No. 52, a policeman had
told her--an almost empty little green street-car that banged its
bell furiously at the now demobilizing throng, demanding it to drag
its roly-poly, waddling wife and gawky children and their yellow
balloons and pink popcorn balls off the rails; had ground dizzily
around sharp corners, and lost its few passengers--all but Julia--
finally reaching almost open country, where it took the bit between
its teeth, tucked its chin against its neck, and galloped over a
rusty, hummocky track, the trolley-wheel singing a painfully shrill
note, until it brought up with a jerk at the shabby station-shed in
Spring Fountain Park.

The grass was seared and badly trampled, and the dahlias were dusty
and frowsy in their prim round beds.  A black-lettered board
pointed an index-finger toward "The Conservatory."

Julia had had the steamy, sweaty, stuffy, little greenhouse all to
herself, that afternoon.  Everybody else had gone to the circus.
She had sat there on the sticky iron bench, hoping it wouldn't come
off on her new pink gingham, dreamily transporting herself to the
equatorial regions where all this rank, lush, stifled vegetation
belonged, finding a strange kinship with it.  She sympathized with
these cramped, dwarfed, imprisoned rubber trees, and the gigantic
ferns with dejected, drooping arms and wings.

And now, to Julia's annoyance, the cry for help was repeated.  It
came from just outside the conservatory door, this time.  Would
she, or would she not, come immediately?

The huge dome of the conservatory lifted and disappeared.  It was
exactly like the glass cover that protected the plate of soggy
doughnuts from the flies on the high counter in Ruggles's
Restaurant and Pool Hall at Cromwell. . . .  Martha had taken the
conservatory by the handle, and lifted it off.  One could hear what
she was saying now, ever so distinctly.  Would she come, this
instant, and help get breakfast for Susan and Greta, who, as she
very well knew, had promised to be ready at half-past five to go
with the other huckleberry-pickers to Wadham's marsh?  And wasn't
it little enough for her to do, seeing she had begged off from the
berryin' to study her algebry, or whatever it was, so she would be
prepared for that there County Institute, week after next, which
everybody knew she hadn't any right to waste their money on--even
if it was her'n, a-teachin' silly paintin' lessons to women as
ought to been a-keepin' their children's buttons on--what with them
so hard-up and all?  And didn't she have any natural feelin's of--"

"Yes, Martha.  I'm COMING!"

Julia sat up, drenched with perspiration, stretched, inhaled an
unsatisfactory draught of sultry, humid air, and gazed out through
the east window at a chrome yellow sun that already threatened to
break an August record.  Next Thursday's Ligonier Weekly Banner
would probably say, in big black headlines, "HOTTEST DAY FOR TEN
YEARS! . . .  Highest Temperature Since 1885 Recorded on August
the--"

August the whath? . . .  August the tenth?  Her birthday!  Would
anyone else remember?

She reached out a long, slender hand for her stockings, dangling
over the back of a chair, and tugged them on.  After all, shouldn't
she be glad she had a good excuse not to go into Wadham's snake-
infested huckleberry marsh and have her arms and legs scratched
with briars and nettles while she fought deer-flies with an
exasperation close to tears, and shuddered with loathing at the
sight of enormous caterpillars, and wiped the slimy cobwebs out of
her eyes with sun-blistered, juice-smeared wrists? . . .  Blessings
on the pesky algebra!

"J-u-l-i-a!"

"Yes, Martha.  I'm coming!"

                        *  *  *  *  *

Her entrance into the grim little dining-room was effected with
much difficulty.  She could have wished that her first appearance
before her household, as an adult in good and regular standing,
might have been somewhat more impressive.

Circumstances had decreed that Julia must bump her way crabwise
through the obstinate swinging-door from the smoky kitchen with a
precariously poised platter of bacon in one hand and the big
battered coffee-pot in the other, while the family, glancing up
from its first round of fried mush and sorghum molasses--with which
munitions Martha had preceded her--wondered, not without
warrantable anxiety, whether she would make port with all her
cargo.

It was not to be expected that her lazy and surly brothers, much
less absent-minded old Ferd--whose fork trembled in a long, slim
hand that had been obviously intended for more esteemed employment
than shingling barns and blowing stumps--would spring to her
rescue.  That would have been "a-puttin' on style," an affectation
held in snarling contempt by Hiram and Elmer.  Indeed, their
sentiment on this subject was commonly shared by the entire male
species, so far as she had been able to observe.

As for Greta, who, at twenty-two, had already well developed an
impish talent for the enjoyment of other people's discomfiture; and
as for Susan, whose twenty-seven virginal years and one hundred and
sixty-seven pounds gave such alarming promise of unarrestable
progress in both dimensions that she was frankly envious of her
willowy young sister, Julia's predicament was clearly no concern of
theirs.

Martha, seated with her angular back to the door, which now
capitulated with a savage swish and a sullen bang, cleared a place
at her elbow for the brown-stained coffee-pot, and dutifully
remarked that this was Julia's eighteenth birthday.

While still in her teens, Martha had accidentally lost an upper
canine.  Morbidly self-conscious, her misfortune had worried her
grievously; but there had been no necessity for replacing the
missing tooth.  By skilful practice, Martha had been able to
conceal this disfigurement with the corner of her lip, a technique
which had produced a meticulousness of articulation oddly
inconsistent with the slovenly elisions and shockingly bad syntax
demanded by her righteous passion to avoid "a-puttin' on airs."

"Yes; your little sister," reiterated Martha, her choice of a
pronoun indicating the maternal relationship she sustained to the
family, "is came of age."

Brief, bucolic felicitations from the boys were mumbled through the
mush, to which old Ferd--so stung with remorse over having no gift
for her that he did not even raise his eyes--added solemnly that
Martha could always be depended on to remember the days.

Depositing her awkward burdens, Julia stiffened to a martial
stance, brought her full red lips to a determined pucker, tossed
her curly head airily, and swept the breakfast-table with a look of
pretended challenge, as if to say that she was quite grown up now
and they must all have a care how they treated her.

A moment later she was repentantly reflecting that previous
experiences might have warned her against indulging in this bit of
playful pantomime.  Julia's sporadic efforts to dramatize some
situation for the amusement of her family had been uniformly
unsuccessful.  It would have been very pleasant, she often thought,
to belong to a household quick to interpret and enjoy a little good-
natured clowning.  It was not that their stodginess and lack of
sparkle evoked her contempt: she was too na�ve to be contemptuous.
Indeed, she had never known--except in Little Women, long since
read to rags and learned by heart--any such family as the
rollicking, bantering, make-believe crew that constituted her ideal
home.

On one's birthday, however, it might reasonably be hoped that the
family would waive its habitual taciturnity, and humour a whim; so,
quite recklessly overplaying her premeditated skit, Julia glared at
her brothers and sisters with a mock severity signifying her newly
acquired dignity.  But they had already returned to their bacon and
mush; and, noting that no one of them--not even her father--showed
signs of sharing her mood, she doffed her archness, rubbed a damp
wisp of blue-black hair from her low forehead with the back of a
shapely wrist--astonishingly like old Ferd's, only daintier--and
slipped into her accustomed place on the end of the pine bench
beside Susan.

"Reckon you'll be too cocky to live with, now yer old enough t' be
yer own boss," observed Hiram, who, on second thought, had decided
not to leave Julia under the impression that he, at least, was too
thick-witted to have taken note of her brief charade.

Equally unwilling to be considered incapable of clever deduction,
Greta remarked to her plate that Julia would probably be leaving
home, one of these days, to go on the stage.

Old Ferd hitched about in his chair, and for a moment Julia thought
he was going to offer a comment.

"Julia's always been a-playin' she was somethin' else besides what
she is," said Susan.

"Well--she ain't harmed no one by a-doin' that," growled Ferd.
"She come by it honestly enough.  When I was her age, or
thereabouts--"

"More coffee, paw?" inquired Martha, loudly, as if he were deaf.

"It's sure a-goin' to be a scorcher, Gret," observed Susan,--
fanning her goitre with the bib of her apron, and peering through
the open doorway toward the road.

"There goes old Len Bausermann with his pick 'n' shovel," reported
Elmer, following his plump sister's eyes to the highway.

"He'll be a-diggin' Granny Hartsock's grave today," explained
Hiram, without turning to look.

"A saint," murmured Martha, unctuously, "if they ever was one."

"Who--Len?" chaffed Elmer.  "That consarned old chicken-thief?"

Susan and Greta laughed immoderately.  Martha, easily offended when
her piety was ridiculed, drew down the corners of her mouth, and
pouted.  Elmer explored a defective wisdom-tooth with a pointed
quill, and grinned.

Old Ferd knew they didn't care to hear his story--none of them but
Julia.  He could always be sure of an attentive listener in Julia,
though sometimes she asked too many questions.

The family's rude indifference occasioned him no surprise.  He had
been on the defensive for so long in a home to which he contributed
almost nothing, his small earnings claimed by Jake Heffel, that he
had no right to be indignant over such discourtesies.  He poured
the thin coffee into his saucer with a shaky hand, crumbled bread
into it, and sprinkled the dish with brown sugar, intent upon his
occupation.  Julia, toying absently with her food, studied his deep-
lined, mobile face, confident that she was following his
reminiscences as closely as if he had been given encouragement to
recite them.

He was, she knew, skipping hurriedly over the Dresden part of it;
the part that most interested her; the part that really mattered.
She had never been able to construct a very clear picture of his
boyhood home.  The blurry impression she had of it was an
accumulated synthesis of chance remarks accidentally dropped, and
laconic answers to her importunate queries in the rare moments when
he seemed willing to talk about his youth.

He would be out in his tiny shop under the big maple, standing at
his home-made lathe, turning wooden pins for the mending of Squire
Craig's harrow-teeth.  The fine hickory shavings would come
writhing and screaming from the point of his blue-hot chisel.  He
would pretend not to notice her, sitting on the old tool-chest,
intently watching him.

"Let me treadle it, father.  I like to."

The huge oak balance-wheel overhead would lumber to a creaking
stop.

"Mind you don't get yer foot caught under it, now!"

Julia would snuggle it between his arms and stand so close, her
back to his breast, pumping the broad pedal that made the patched
belt go snapping and crackling on the great wooden fly-wheel,
threatening to bring it down on their heads; her father's warm,
hairy forearm, tense on the chisel, moist with sweat and powdered
with fine sawdust, brushing her cheek, almost as if he caressed
her.

Panting with exertion, she would look up over her shoulder, and
smile, when he signalled her to stop.

"You're more like her every day, Julia!" he would murmur, as the
machinery idled to a standstill.

"Because my hair dips down to a point here in the middle?"

"That--and the deep dimple in your chin."

"And she had the same kind of eyes that we have."

"Exactly; that's where we got 'em."

"The others don't have them, father. . . .  Funny--isn't it?"

Thus drawn together in these brief intimacies, there would be some
talk about her Grandmother Mueller--Ferd had changed his name to
Miller, when coming to Indiana, because the people invariably
mispronounced it; or was that the exact reason, Julia often
wondered, when she had grown up--Grandmother Mueller who always
seemed to be a mere slip of a girl, stooping over the flower-beds
in the garden that was so--

"How big was it, father--honestly: big as our potato-patch?"

He would chuckle derisively.

"Our potato-patch!  Huh!  Six--eight--ten times as big!"

Then there would be some vigorous prodding of memory for more
information about the house.  It was a great, rambling, stone house
with tall, broad chimneys and many gables.  Yes--his own room had a
gable, and there was a window-seat with a rose-coloured velvet
cushion.  Wrens nested in a little box under the eaves, and when it
stormed, the branch of an elm swept the diamond-shaped panes of the
mullioned window.

"And was there honestly a fountain in the middle of a big pool,
father?"

"Yes--and lily-pads."

"And really goldfish, like you said?"

"Yes, daughter--but don't you think you'd better go and help Martha
now?"

"And you would feed them in the mornings--and they always knew when
you were coming, and swam close to the edge to meet you?"

Of late Julia was becoming painfully aware of their lost heritage.
Her day-dreams were bounded by the high stone wall, made warm and
friendly by the tall hollyhocks his mother loved.  On summer
afternoons she fancied herself sitting in the rose-arbour, hard-by
the large, half-timbered workshop and studio where distinguished
guests were so often entertained to tea.

"Tea!--in a shop!" she had exclaimed, the first time he had told
her about it.

"But it wasn't a little shop like this here, Julia.  Seems to me
like it had five or six big rooms.  I disremember, exactly.  The
people came to see the carvings; almost every afternoon, somebody.
And there would be exhibitions, couple o' times a year.  Lots o'
people came then, from long distances, Paris and London."

"Would they talk to you, father?"

"I was just a young feller."

"Going to school?"

"No--I had a tutor. . . .  But I was always a-hangin' around the
shop, and I can't remember when I wasn't a-playin' with chisels,
and a-makin' things. . . .  Once I heard a Count--I disremember his
name--a-tellin' somebody that Mueller on a rood screen made it
worth more 'n' its weight in gold."

And there was a river.

Julia felt almost certain, as she sat watching her father's slow
motions with his spoon, oblivious of the dull prattle of his
family's table-talk, that he was dreaming of that river.  You went
through a thick oaken door set in the garden wall.  The door had
heavy wrought-iron hinges, and was always locked o' nights with a
key that must have weighed all of a pound.  You went through the
door, and there was the river.  The banks were rounded and grassy,
and a long row of tall poplars grew on our side, "their leaves
always a-flutterin' whether there was any wind or not."  He
disremembered the name of the river, but "one of the swans was
called 'William Tell.'"  There were boats, too; a couple o' canoes
and a dory and a punt with a red and blue canopy--


"How much did Lafe Shock git fer his gol-danged shoats?" Elmer was
inquiring of Hiram.

"Four cents, I heared," rumbled Hiram, puffing at his sputtering
pipe.  "'Bout enough to pay fer th' corn he'd chucked into 'em."

"Corn--hell!" scoffed Elmer.  "Them shoats never seen a grain o'
corn.  All they ever et was swill!"

"Lot o' good the Shock swill woulda done' em," sneered Greta.

"They was so gol-danged poor," expatiated Elmer, "that I bet Lafe
had to soak 'em afore they'd hold slop."

--and a punt with a red and blue canopy; and, sometimes, in the
evening, his mother sat in the punt, with her guitar, and sang
ballads to him, very sweetly.  No--his father never joined them.
No--he disremembered what the songs were.

Now Julia was at sea with her father, standing beside him as he
stoked his way, with blistered hands, on a slow boat; she was
landing with him, bewilderedly, at Castle Garden.  Much had
happened since the swans and the ballads in the evening; but it was
quite impossible to recover intervening events.  His father had
whipped him savagely when he was sixteen.  He wouldn't tell her
why; but it had something to do with his mother.  She had cried
desperately, and that night he ran away.  The tutor had helped him
get away.  The tutor had gone away, too, that same night.

Judging by the confident tightening of his lips, Julia knew he was
in New York now, apprenticed to Lamb's Studios.  Four years of that
passed in a few seconds.  Now he was hard at work on the big walnut
eagle--his first important assignment--that was to be poised on a
lectern for Saint John's in Philadelphia.  Lamb's had taken him in
on the strength of the Mueller tradition, and had given him every
possible encouragement, undisguisedly rejoicing in his budding
talent.  Every day he was improving his skill; every night he was
poring over his new books, determined to perfect his English.

Then came the war.  Julia saw the clouds gathering on the seamed
old face.  It was all over now.  He had gone back to Lamb's in a
faded uniform topped by the absurd little cap with the stiff visor
that he still wore, rather rakishly, on Decoration Day--a day Julia
dreaded, for he always marched unsteadily, and joked a good deal,
when he should have been silent and dignified.

Now he had returned to the Lamb Studios, stubbly, fuddled, and
pungent, after a fortnight's spree.  All was forgiven.  Soldiers
would be soldiers.  Lamb's were disappointed, but hopeful.  Why,
Mr. Joseph Lamb, himself!--(Ferd had been too proud of that
recognition to keep it a secret, even if its implications were not
to his own credit)--Mr. Joseph Lamb, himself, had pleaded with him
to straighten up, and be a man.  Surely, nobody could have asked
for a better friend, Ferd often remarked, than "Mr. Joseph," who,
it was said, had given up his plans to enter the ministry because
he thought he could do more for religion by adding something to its
beauty.  "Mr. Joseph Lamb was a great artist!" Ferd would say.
"Yes SIR!"

No--it wasn't the fault of Lamb's Studios if he had drunk himself
practically into the gutter at a time when a returned soldier's
dissipation was easily pardoned, but not so easily capitalized in a
profession demanding the utmost steadiness of eye and hand.  Ferd
was so proud of his erstwhile craftsmanship and its stern exactions
that he was willing to admit his own inability to meet its
requirements, shamelessly confessing the cause of his failure, as
if his very drunkenness, at twenty-four, was to be talked about in
tones of respect, seeing it had been important enough to collide
successfully with an esteemed art.

So--that chapter was finished, then, and her father had ceased
being an artist.  Julia recognized the exact moment when he "took
to the road" en route to Pennsylvania in quest of a distant cousin
who owned "a bit of a truck-farm."  Oddly enough, no exigency of
poverty had ever induced him to part with the books he had bought
in the golden days when he was so brilliantly succeeding at Lamb's.
He had stored them in New York; had kept himself sober long enough
to save the money required for their transportation to his new
home; for, now, he had a home.  He had married the plump, shy,
awkward, yellow-haired daughter of an improvident neighbour who
indifferently operated a small sawmill, "mortgaged, by Golly, down
to the last cleat in the old pulley-belt."

Julia knew how it always amused him to repeat that phrase.  He
smiled, now, and glanced up furtively to make sure the family's
attention was occupied.  She dodged his eyes and took no further
risks with them until she was sure he was in "pardnership" with his
unthrifty father-in-law, who, hearing rumours of advantages to be
had by moving to Northern Indiana, "where everybody was a-makin'
big money loggin' and gettin' out railroad ties," had suggested the
immediate migration of his populous, penniless tribe.

Ferd grinned again, rather wryly.  Julia was not quite sure where
we were in the story, now.  Perhaps he was thinking about something
he had never told her--something not very pleasant, perhaps;
something not much to our credit, she feared.

He had taken along to Indiana their simple, mostly homemade,
household gear, the precious books--English classics--which were to
become a veritable Godsend to Julia!--and his only military trophy,
his little brown jug.  Occasionally, of a late Saturday night in
Heffel's Saloon in Cromwell, when Ferd and his cronies had passed
from the bragging stage to the distinctly maudlin, nose-trumpeting
phase of bland confessions and remorses over their respective might-
have-beens, he would pull himself together long enough to make a
pathetic joke of his own disaster.

"Yep"--Ferd would say, grinning drunkenly through his tears--"that
was my only military trophy--that there little brown jug."

He glanced up now, out of the tail of his eye, and found Julia
regarding him with rapt interest.  A bit disconcerted by this
intense scrutiny (sometimes Julia's penetrating knowledge of his
moods and meditations annoyed him, just a little), he pushed back
his chair, and muttered, partly to himself, partly to her:

"Yep--that's the way it goes."

He gnawed off a large bite of Horseshoe chewing-tobacco from the
plug he had rummaged from the depth of his overall-pocket, and,
without a backward glance, strolled out through the doorway toward
his shop.

Perhaps he would continue his reminiscences while he worked on the
Snell baby's pine coffin; but he had already covered everything in
his story that had any interest for Julia.  Except for such minor
episodes as the births of his five children, and the death of
Minnie, six years ago, his history was an unpunctuated monotony of
trivial jobs--building corncribs, replacing timbers in the forebay
at Austin's gristmill, planing and hanging Squire Craig's screen-
doors every April, and stowing them in the loft of the woodhouse
every November--a chronicle as sterile of novelty as the legendary
minstrel's redundant report that now another locust came and
carried away another grain of corn.

Julia wondered, sometimes, whether her father ever missed her
mother.  It was obvious that he did not grieve for her.  Minnie's
biological contribution to Julia's character was no more in
evidence than the influence of a hen on a golden pheasant's egg.
Julia was all Ferd's.

Minnie had been an ignorant, whining, colourless, unimaginative
creature, her quite astounding bulk disproving the adage that stout
people are invariably optimistic.  Save for the fact that she had
been an economical housekeeper (as she had plenty of reason to be),
and was thought to put up the best green-tomato pickles in the Oak
Grove neighbourhood, nothing important was remembered of her; not
even by her own kin.

A litter of empty, overturned, glass fruit-jars on her grave in the
Baptist Cemetery which, on the anniversaries of her death, the
melancholy Martha stuffed with garden flowers, ironically testified
to Minnie's previous relation to other natural objects in a world
where she had dully foozled a chance to present society with a
rehabilitated wood-carver of exceptional virtuosity, and had
contented herself with the excellence of her piccalilli.

                        *  *  *  *  *

A clatter of wheels and harness drew Greta to the door.

"Fer Gosh sakes, Sue, if Bob ain't came with the hay-ladders on!
Jolt the very stuffin' out of yuh!"  She turned to the abstracted
Julia.  "You'd better come, too, Miss Stuck-up!  Here's that
Schrofe boy what's so crazy about yuh. . . .  Hoo-hoo, Bob!  We'll
be out in a jiffy!"

"Mebby you better go, Julia," advised Martha, maternally.

Julia demurred.  It was little enough time she had to review her
algebra, even if she studied every minute.

Old Ferd, returning for a tin of water to cool his grindstone,
arrived in time to take a hand in the argument.

"Give her a chance, Martha.  I'd like to see one of us do somethin'
to make our name a little more important than it's been."

Martha picked up a double handful of dishes with a decisiveness of
manner that promised an impressive exit, to be followed presently
by a great clatter of pots and pans off stage.

"Well--all I got t' say is--"

But the threatened tantrum was played to a thinning house, Ferd had
found his tin cup, and was off with it.  Susan and Greta were on
the way to the wagon.  The boys slouched toward the barn.  Julia
carried her plate to the kitchen, where Martha was sniffing
ostentatiously, and vanished with a promise to make the beds, her
sister's plaintive whine trailing her all the way upstairs.
"'Pears like nobody in this house cares what I think about
anything.  Just a hired girl . . . without any pay."

                        *  *  *  *  *

Standing before the severely plain but expertly crafted walnut desk
that her father had given her, last Christmas, Julia unlocked a
drawer and re-read the precious document it contained.

The desk had become a symbol of the considerable difference between
herself and her brothers and sisters.  A source of anxiety and
embarrassment at first, the desk had come to be a refuge and an
inspiration.

On Christmas morning, having presented each member of the family
with a fine, large orange, Ferd had made a mysterious trip through
the snow to his shop, returning shortly with the desk.  Julia's
exclamations of delight had intensified the sullen silence.  At
supper, that evening, Greta's smouldering indignation blazed forth
in an irascible comment to which Ferd quietly replied:

"She's the only one in this family that would have any use fer a
desk.  If any o' the rest o' yuh ever needs one, mebby I'll 'tend
to it."

This sarcastic explanation of the gift did little to conciliate
them.  So much constraint was traceable to the episode that Martha
told Julia she had better take her new desk upstairs and keep it
out of sight.  Susan added that she, for one, would never darken
the door of Julia's room while it was there.

But, however painful the situation, at the outset, it developed for
Julia a privacy she had never enjoyed before.  By common consent,
the family left her to herself, implying, a dozen times a day, that
she considered the rest of them inferior, twisting her every remark
into allusions to their ignorance.

"What shall I do, father?" she inquired one day, in the shop.
"They're always trying to act as if they're not as smart as I am."

Ferd grinned, and blew the sawdust off his chisel-handle.

"They don't have t' put on, very much, t' play that."

"But it makes me so miserable!"

"Well--don't cry. . . .  That's what yuh get fer a-bein' smart.
Smart people's always miserable.  Old man Solomon said that--er
somethin' about like it."

"Was he miserable?" asked Julia, with a tearful little smile.

"Gosh, yes!  He was the smartest man that ever lived!"  Ferd sat
down on the tool-chest, laid a dusty hand on her knee, and grinned
mysteriously.  "Julia, are yuh sure you've found all the drawers in
that there little desk?  One of 'em ain't got no handle."

Her eyes brightened.

"No," she whispered, excitedly, "I haven't found it.  Will you show
me?"

He had found it for her the next time the family was out of the
house--a narrow drawer set in the centre of a row of six open
pigeon-holes and faced by a little pilaster carved to imitate a
longitudinal section of a Corinthian column.

"That there's it," pointed Ferd, hugely enjoying Julia's flutter of
excitement.  "No--it don't come out that way," he said, when she
had unsuccessfully grappled with the ornament which defied the best
efforts of her finger-tips.  "Nobody could ever get it out a-doin'
that."

"Do show me, father!"

He had proceeded then in leisurely fashion, immensely relishing her
suspense, to demonstrate the strange magic of the secret drawer.

"Now, if you ever want to put anythin' out of sight, Julia,"
commented Ferd, with a comradely wink, "you'll know how to do it;
and it'll take a heap o' tinkerin' with this here desk fer anybody
else but you to find out how that drawer opens."

Julia was ecstatic.

Her close inspection of the desk had led to another discovery: Ferd
had carved the name "Mueller" on the bevelled edge of the little
receptacle for ink-bottles and pens.

"I'm so glad you did that, father.  That makes the desk still more
valuable, doesn't it?"

Ferd flushed with pride.

"It's the only time, Julia, since I cut the name under the wing of
an eagle that holds the Bible in a big church in Philadelphia.
It's the way my father cut his name--and his father--and his
father's father. . . .  It's a good name, daughter."

Standing now before the desk, Julia withdrew a document--much too
long to fit into the secret drawer--bearing the impressive seal of
the Great State of Indiana and signed with an affected flourish by
the Noble County Superintendent of Public Instruction, authorizing
her to teach an ungraded school for the term of One Year.  Beside
it, in the long envelope, was the covering letter containing a
pressing suggestion that the recipient plan to attend a five-day
Institute to be held in Albion, the county seat, in late August,
chiefly for the benefit of inexperienced teachers.

"Please, God," whispered Julia, wistfully but shyly, for they were
not very well acquainted, "let me have a school!"

Nobody in the Miller family exhibited any piety but Martha, who was
presumed to have enough for all.  Martha's conversation was
sprinkled with scriptural allusions, her stock of texts featuring
the punitive phrases promising the ultimate rebuke of the proud,
the "froward" (whoever they were), and the stiff of neck.  Julia,
gifted in parody, occasionally employed these solemn exhortations
herself, with ex tempore improvisations and amendments which amused
her, and sometimes frightened her, too; for, she reflected, if
there really was a hell, surely the fabricator of any such
flippancies was reserving a warm berth.

When Martha, in her thin, flat voice, carolled from the kitchen,
"I'm washed in the blood of the Lamb," Julia invariably shuddered,
swallowed hard, and muttered, "Ugh!--how nasty!"

"Please let me have the Schrofe School," wheedled Julia, clutching
her precious credentials tightly in one hand and with the other
pressing her eyes hard to make sure they were closed firmly enough
to satisfy the requirements of Deity, who was sure to be suspicious
of her sincerity, "so I won't have to come home except on Sundays.
But--any school will do.  Please, dear God, let me hear from one of
them pretty soon.  It would be so nice to have word on my birthday.
Please!"

Somewhat startled by the inflection of this final word of entreaty,
which hinted at an intimacy with the Almighty which, she was aware,
impertinently presumed upon a very sketchy relationship, Julia
added, humbly "--Unless, of course, it should not be in accordance
with Thy Holy Will."

                        *  *  *  *  *

"What have yuh got yer Sunday hat 'n' dress on fer?" inquired
Martha, when, a half-hour later, Julia passed through the kitchen,
book and slate in hand, pausing to remark that she was going down
by the creek where it was cooler.

"I thought I might walk over to Oak Grove, when I am tired
studying, and see if there is any mail--about a school, you know."

"Mighty sight o' studyin' you'll get done with that on yer mind.
Better to a-gone berryin', like I told yuh.  Anyways, all the
schools are a-took by now.  'Pears to me like--"

Without waiting for the rest of it, Julia walked out of the
kitchen, quickened her steps immediately she was out of sight over
the slope behind the barn, tossed her algebra and slate into the
grass at the foot of the big willow that overhung the stream,
climbed to the highway, and set out at a swinging stride toward the
village two miles to the west--two miles by the road, but subject
to considerable discount if one cut across Squire Craig's stubble-
field, just beyond the Baptist Church, and took the path through
the woods along the widening river, pent by the Austin milldam.

There were two high fences and a padlocked gate to climb, and
occasionally the Squire's ill-tempered ram contested the audacity
of trespassers, but Julia was impatient to peer into the tiny pane
of dirty glass--No. 8--in the Post Office which occupied a few
square feet in the front end of Baber's General Store.

Halfway across the stubble-field, Julia's steps became shorter and
less confident.

Seated, with his back to her, on the top rail of the fence that
bounded the woods, was a young stranger, fashionably dressed, his
shoulders slumped as if he were lost in serious thought; in
trouble, perhaps.

Julia reflected that if he were to straighten himself out to full
length he would be very tall.

The stranger's perch must be quite uncomfortable.  Julia surmised
that he would not remain there long.  If she dallied, he might
proceed, unconscious of her approach.  She stopped, toying with the
idea of retracing her steps, but the sun beat pitilessly upon the
dazzling yellow field, and the cool maples promised a relief
irresistible.  Her heart quickened as her pace slowed.  She pulled
off her dowdy hat, made of cheap lace over a wire frame, and patted
the damp curls at her hot temples.

Now the young stranger had turned, and, over his shoulder, was
regarding her arrival with frank interest.  He stepped down from
the fence, on the grove side, consulted his watch, and smiled.  It
was almost as if he had been waiting for her, thought Julia; as if
they had arranged to meet, and she was late.  Had he decided to
play, she wondered, that they were keeping an engagement?  Could it
be possible that there was anyone in the world like that?  It would
be such fun.

Would he not think her a bit stupid if she stared stonily into his
friendly eyes, pretending to be offended, pretending to be haughty?
Was it not one's duty to be cordial to strangers?  Even Martha,
prude that she was, believed that one might be "entertaining angels
unawares."

Julia had never seen that sort of a smile on a boy's face.  It
signified nothing but a proffer of friendliness from one young
human being to another.  It left out of consideration the
negligible fact that they were not of the same sex.  How different
from the awkward, crooked grin of the typical gum-chewing youngster
who manoeuvred to one's side at a boisterous barn-dance and paid one
a clumsy compliment while turning to wink at some equally boorish
bystander, as if to say, "I'm a-tryin' to see how fer I c'n git
with her!"--as if their relationship implied that she was willing
it should be rated an obscenity.  She had often been half-ashamed
she was a girl.

Julia was within a few yards of the fence, now, making no pretence
of indifference to the presence of the tall, athletic chap who
awaited her, watch still in hand.

His smile was so disarming that her red lips parted in an honest
recognition of the first of its kind she had ever seen worn by a
contemporary male.  Her ingenuous response to it was quite free of
self-consciousness or embarrassment.  Toward this handsome, urbane,
self-possessed boy--clearly not of her world at all, so far as
outward appearances went--she sensed a strange kinship which, she
believed, it would have been unworthy of her to deny either to
herself or to him.

It was what she had been longing for, all her life, wasn't it?
Hadn't she dreamed of an acquaintance with some congenial spirit in
whose company she might be . . . herself?  Why dissemble?  She owed
something to that dream.

"It's much cooler over here," he said, offering her both hands,
when, having lightly climbed to the top of the fence, she sat
facing him, fanning her flushed cheeks with her crumpled, frumpy
hat.

"I know," said Julia.

She took his hands without hesitation or coyness, and joined him.

"But we must keep an eye out for my Uncle Jasper's pet sheep, Otto
the Seventh," he said, as they fell into step on the path.  "Otto
has a vile disposition, and the run of this grove."

"Yes," said Julia, "I know."

He ventured a sidelong glance, as if to inquire whether his new
friend had exhausted her conversational possibilities, and met an
enigmatic smile.

"Had I kept you waiting long?" she asked, with an earnestness that
puzzled him.

He turned about and faced her so soberly that Julia repented her
whimsical audacity.  Did nobody in the world know how to take a
little joke?  Was she the only one, after all, who had any instinct
for impromptu drama?  She took a step forward.  He detained her
with a light touch on her arm.

"Yes," he said, rather huskily, "I have been waiting a long
time . . . for you."

"Don't spoil it," said Julia, entreatingly.  "We were only playing,
weren't we?"



CHAPTER II


For the first time in the history of the Schrofe School it was
being taught without benefit of whips and dunce-caps.

The innovation caused some stir.  Discipline had been much less
savage in recent years under a succession of female teachers, but
the present policy of complete disarmament was viewed with anxiety.

"Fer the girl's own sake," agreed the younger mothers, whose
support of her had been swiftly won by the affectionate interest
bestowed on their little tots, "them bigger boys oughta be kept in
hand.  They'll run her out afore Thanksgivin'."

Ham Ditzler, who had put in six exciting winters behind that desk,
more than a decade earlier, and now divided his time between odd
jobs of plasterin', paperin', paintin', an' butcherin', in the
employ of his erstwhile pupils--("danged degradin' work")--offered
to bet (amount of wager unspecified) that the Miller girl would
never finish out her term, a prediction which came true, though not
for lack of firmness in her schoolroom.

Abner Schrofe, Chairman of the Board of Trustees, when joined in
his barn by the four other members, one rainy Sunday forenoon in
early October, silently shucked corn during their recital of the
public's apprehension based on criticisms offered by the veteran
pedagogue.

Upon the conclusion of their remarks, Chairman Schrofe listed
heavily to starboard and deftly poured a considerable quantity of
tobacco-juice down a convenient rat-hole, thus setting himself at
liberty to express the opinion--conciliatorily phrased in terms
consonant with the dignity of his office--that Ham Ditzler was
nothin' but a damned old sore-head.

Encountering no opposition to this statement, not even from Zeke
Trumbull, Ham's son-in-law, with whom he made his home, Abner
further deposed that there was more brains in Julia Miller's little
finger than Ham Ditzler had in his hull body, adding that he would
respectfully entertain a motion a-sayin' it to be th' sense of this
here board, duly and properly assembled, that Miss Miller's
services was "sadisfactory."

Hez Brumbaugh said he would so move, and suggested that the
Chairman inform Miss Miller of their action.

Jake Waters, who since last spring had owed Abner the final Eight
Dollars on a Guernsey heifer, 'lowed that Ham Ditzler--after all's
said and done, and a-takin' him by and large--was purty much of a
gol-darned old blatherskike whose idears wasn't wuth hell-room.

At Zeke's suggestion, this was taken by consent.  He modestly
demurred, however, when delegated to convey this sentiment to his
father-in-law, feeling that it would have "more weight" coming from
someone else.  The decorum of the board being slightly disturbed by
this remark, it grinningly adjourned to the hog-pen to inspect the
new "Poland-Chiny" sow that Abner had purchased at the recent
Whitley County Fair.

"Please, Mr. Schrofe," pleaded Julia, next morning, after Abner,
delightedly to have an official errand at the schoolhouse, had told
her he was on his way to settle Mr. Ditzler's hash, "leave him to
me.  Don't hurt him.  I'll think of some way to accomplish the same
thing without humiliating him."

Ham, already silenced by a hint from Zeke to the effect that if he
knowed which side his bread was buttered on he would let up on the
Miller girl, bewilderedly accepted her invitation to make a little
talk to the school on the afternoon of Columbus Day, on which
occasion he astounded himself and the assembled mothers by
confessing the difficulty that an old-timer has in a-keepin' up
with th' march o' progress.

An able craftsman of home-made philosophy, Ham spent many
meditative hours evolving what he thought was a brand-new theory
for the achievement of this here thing they calls success,
chattering so volubly about his discovery that it became a
community joke.

His convictions on this subject were never better expressed than on
the late afternoon of an eventful day in May when, riding home from
a service at the Oak Grove Baptist Church in company with Zeke and
Lola and their swollen-eyed little daughter Goldie, Ham observed:

"It all goes fer t' show that this here thing they calls success is
the fruit of self-confydence.

"If yuh know yer bigger 'n' yer job, and c'n drop the dang thing
whenever yuh like and do somethin' better, the people yer a-workin'
fer seems t' know it without yer a-tellin' 'em.  They take orders
as if they was a-spoke by Jehovah, so long as they know yuh know
there's sumethin' in prospec' fer yuh a dang sight more important
than a-foolin' away yer time with the likes o' them!

"If a teacher, f'rinstance, thinks he's got about all that's a-
comin' to him, and has to mind his p's and q's er the Board'll set
on him, he just natcherly has t' whale hell outa the brats to make
'em behave.

"If he c'n get along without rules er whips er threatenin's, it's
because th' scholars knows that he don't have t' care a tinker's
damn whether he keeps his job er not, seein' he c'n leave 'em, if
they don't like it, and do somethin' better. . . .  And I bet
that's the secret o' success in all th' walks o' life, in ev'ry day
an' generation."

Ham leaned far out of the open surrey, where he shared the back
seat with Goldie, and improved his impaired articulation by
relieving himself of a large quid of tobacco, wiped his stubbly
lips with the back of a brown hand, and continued:

"You take this here parson, over in Wayne, what's been a-sayin'
lately that th' story about Jonah ain't so, d'yuh reckon they'd let
him stay there and be as honest as that if they didn't know the
hull town knows as how he's had an invite to a big church in
Chicago?  Not by a dang sight!  They just grin when he goes after
the Old Testyment fer a-sayin' that th' Lord God drownded all them
heathens fer spite . . . 'cause they know that if they holler he'll
tell 'em t' take their danged ol' church b' th' bell-clapper, 'n'
go t' hell!"

"Sh!--Pap!" admonished Lola, without turning.  "What kinda talk . . .
right afore little Goldie, too!"

"Well--I wisht I'd a-heared some talk like that when I was about
her size," muttered Ham, remorsefully.  "Mebby I'd amounted to
somethin'."

"I wonder," inquired Zeke, "why didn't this here smart preacher in
Wayne take that there bigger job in Chi?"

Ham was fidgety with eagerness to explain.

"Now yer a-gettin' to it!  That just goes fer t' show how smart
this feller is!  If he went to Chicago, where mebby he'd be exac'ly
the size of his job, er mebby a little smaller, he wouldn't be able
t' tell 'em where t' get off at.  He likes a-bein' where he c'n
tell 'em, if they object t' his preachin', that they c'n take their
danged ol' church b' th' bell-clapper, 'n'--"

"Pap--that'll do now!" snapped Lola, adding, growlingly, "Can't we
never talk about nothin' else but things as riles Pap and makes him
swear, right afore little Goldie?"

"All the same," finished Ham, doggedly reverting to his original
proposition, "if Julia Miller hadn't 'lowed, all th' time she was a-
teachin', that she was a-goin' away purty soon t' be a rich man's
wife, I bet she'd a-had t' larn them sassy young rake-hells all over
th' schoolhouse, five times a day!"

Little Goldie wept noisily.

"Shet up, Pap!" commanded Lola.  "Hain't yuh got no proper feelin's
at all?"

                        *  *  *  *  *

Sometimes, during those early autumn days, Julia's happiness almost
suffocated her.  As often, it terrified her.  Was Martha's grim and
hateful philosophy correct?  Did people always have to pay the
piper?  Was this ecstasy the sort of thing you inevitably had to
settle for with interest compounded?

Sudden waves of black depression briefly but increasingly inundated
her dream-world.  Was she living in a fool's paradise?  Would the
clock presently strike twelve, and send the prancing horses
scampering back to rejoin their fellow-mice?  Nonsense!  She must
pull out of this!  How silly!  Was ever anyone more fortunate than
she?

She became very sensitive on the subject of her happiness, eager to
keep her radiant spirits within bounds so that Fate would at least
give her credit for all the humility and gratitude she would
muster.  Diligently occupied with the unaccustomed task of
disciplining her emotions, sternly warning them to keep their
distance from her eyes, her lips, her voice, her hands and feet,
Julia was unaware of the outward effect of these suppressions.

"Julia has growed up, almost overnight," muttered old Ferd.

"Who'd a-thought that Julia Miller would age so fast?" remarked
Mrs. Abner Schrofe.  "She's a WOMAN!"

The effect of Julia's self-discipline in the cause of propitiating
Nemesis was an unconscious exhibition of that magnetic and
covetable type of personal poise not to be had cheaper than at the
price of a stoical imprisonment of kinetic energy bruising its
fists against the bars and pleading for its right to shout and
dance and sing.

Eager to offer any forfeit to fend off the Day of Judgment, Julia
had decided to room and board at home, involving a daily tramp of
nearly six miles.  It was a very real sacrifice, in anticipation;
for, in looking forward to her new work, its most alluring promise
had been the escape it offered from an irksome home environment.

School had been in progress barely a week, however, before Julia
began to doubt the efficacy of her splendid sacrifice.  The
atmosphere at home had improved.  The boys were shaving now, every
other day, in honour of the young school-mistress who appeared at
their breakfast-table trimly clad for her day's work.  Susan and
Greta crimped their hair, starched their aprons, and conceded the
boarder a right to the exclusive use of her own trinkets.  Her
father's gratitude for the money she had engaged to pay touched
her.  Martha's awkward tenderness and solicitude slightly
embarrassed her.  What a difference a little money made in the
general line-up of human relations!  Julia smiled, with new
understanding, over the story that had gone the rounds about Widow
Mercer, who lived near Bippus, ten miles east.

Mr. Mercer, an enthusiastic Maccabee, had left her Two Thousand
Dollars in fraternal insurance.  There were four sons, all
concerned that this large fortune should not be dissipated.  They
suggested that their mother divide the money among them, and spend
her time living in their homes as an honoured guest.

"No," she had replied, quietly.  "'Pears to me like an elderly lady
with Two Thousand Dollars would be a much more interestin' guest
than an old woman with nothin'."

It made all the difference in the world, money did!

One day you were "Julia? . . .  Julia! . . .  JULIA!!  Come here,
this instant, like I told yuh, and peel these potatoes!"

One short week later you were "Julia, you just let Susan peel them
potatoes, and you go set down till supper's ready."

Nor was this refreshing change at home Julia's chief ground for
satisfaction.  She was grateful for the opportunity to be
alone, two hours daily, with her enchanting memories and high
expectations.  The vigorous walk quickened her imagination.  Fully
a third of the trip to school was taken through tall timber on a
picturesque wagon-road that negligently waived the right o' way to
close-meshed clumps of flaming sumac, and an occasional obdurate
oak--a narrow ribbon of a road, carpeted with freshly fallen
leaves, frost-sensitized to autumnal rays filtered through the
livelier half of the prism, and crisp under her nimble feet.

On the return journey, Julia was always the school-teacher, it
being part of her discipline to restrict her thoughts to her
professional obligations.

On the early morning trip, however, she was all Zandy's!  Her
capacity increased for the vivid recovery of her deliriously happy
experiences with him.  To the very minutia of detail, Julia
reconstructed every tone, posture, and gesture associated with
those dreamy, unreal afternoons under the shade of the river-
willows behind the Baptist Cemetery, not more than a dozen yards
from her mother's grave, and the few almost painfully rapturous
hours that had transfigured dull and dusty little Albion into the
City Delectable!

The first half-mile of the out-bound trip, which brought her to the
Baptist Church, where she turned to the left on the busy Larwill
Pike, was invariably taken, at that early hour, without
encountering any traffic, either on foot or wheel.

Except for the shrill scream of some excited water-bird on the
river, and the lonesome clangor of a cow-bell registering the
impatience of horns entangled in a wild grapevine down in the glen,
there would be no sound but the rhythmic crunch of frosty gravel
under her competent heels.

Julia's precious recollections proceeded in orderly sequence.
Sometimes--let her do her utmost to concentrate on the opening
chapter of the almost incredible story--her memory would insist on
turning whole handfuls of pages; but, tugging herself free of the
culminating episodes that mattered most, she would pursue events
chronologically.  She always wanted to be through with the early
part of the story before she reached the busier mile of pike, for
the full enjoyment of their first encounter demanded a few merry
roulades of bantering laughter--her own: Zandy had been so serious.
And, besides, she liked to be in the thick of the dark woods when
she arrived at the Albion part of it! . . .  Dear, dear Zandy!  How
tender!  How precious!

Julia's reminiscences always began at the fence where they had met
on the morning of her birthday.  Now they were ambling slowly
through the grove.  They had left the path, and were wandering
toward the river.  She was still en route to the Post Office, but
they were off the path.

"You have a first name, too?"  (I have told him mine.)

"Alexander."

"Quite long and dignified."  (I think I must not do that, any more.
He doesn't like teasing.  He is so serious.)

"So was my grandfather.  It was his name.  Everyone calls me Zandy.
My sister began it when she was a little tot, and I was a baby."

"Do they call you Zandy at Dartmouth, too?"

"Mmm."  (Zandy says "Mmm" when he means yes; not "Umm-humm," the
way our people do.  Martha thinks it queer when I say "Mmm.")
"College students are not very formal.  Even the profs have
nicknames."

"Do they know it?"

"In time.  They don't seem to care.  We had a big Scot in Math,
last year, with an enormous moustache.  He discovered that he was
'The Walrus', and pared it down.  When that didn't help, he shaved
it off."

"And then he wasn't a walrus, any more?"

"Oh, yes, he was still a walrus. . . .  I say, Julia, I'm going to
like you, most awfully."  (I knew, then, that it was true.  Zandy
was going to like me.  He couldn't have said it, that way, and not
mean it.)

"What is your sister's name?"  (I think it better we should talk
about his sister.  I'm afraid my face is red, and my heart is just
pounding!)

"Alison. . . .  She's married."

"Does she live in Cincinnati, too?"

"She lives in a Pullman car.  Her husband is Roland Forsythe."

"The famous tenor?"

"Mmm . . . and tanker."

"You mean he drinks?"

"Like a fish."

"Is that why your sister goes along?"

"Exactly--but Alison doesn't mind.  She likes excitement.  And she
thinks Providence has appointed her to keep a great artist sober.
She married him for that."

"And she can't?"

"Not much of the time."

"But how can he sing?"

"You don't have to be sober to sing?  A good many people never do
sing unless they're--"

"It doesn't always work that way.  Some people get glum and mean."

"Roland doesn't.  He's mean when he's sober.  But it'll get him,
some day.  Leaky heart."

"How I hate it!"  (I almost tell him why, for he's sure to find
out.)

Now they had reached the gate at the farther side of the woods, and
Julia had climbed it, leaving Zandy to wait her return from the
Post Office.  She had discouraged his going along, reluctant to
amuse the loafers who would be sitting in front of Eph Mumaugh's
blacksmith shop. . . .  Now she was back.

"Look, Zandy!"  (How natural it seemed to call him Zandy.)  "I've
got a school!--the Schrofe one!--the one I wanted!"  (He takes the
letter, and our hands touch.)

"Writes like a ten-year-old boy, doesn't he?"

"He probably never went to school much."

"I'll bet he can multiply bushels by dollars."  (We are down at the
river, again, sitting on the grass.)

"That's where I'm weak . . . figures.  I think algebra's awful!"
(I tell him all about having to go to Albion for the Institute.)

"I'll help you.  It's easy. . . .  Explain it to you in an hour."

"Will you, honestly?"  (Zandy gives my hand a little pat.  That was
the first time.)

"This afternoon!"

"But I mustn't take your time.  You'll be busy!"

"What would I be busy at?  It'll save my life."  (His father is
sore at him because he's decided to be a writer, instead of making
nails, and he's changed his course in college, and his father has
sent him to the country, all summer, as a punishment, instead of
taking him along to Europe, as he had promised.)

                        *  *  *  *  *

Most of the early part of the story would have been covered by the
time Julia reached the woods.  She had walked rapidly on the pike,
and could afford to take the rest of the trip more leisurely.

Now they were sitting on the river-bank behind the Baptist
Cemetery.  It was Thursday, late afternoon.  They had known each
other three days.  She was reclining against the bole of a maple,
using the opened algebra to protect her back from the rough bark.
Zandy had just finished reading her the Rub�iy�t.  What a wonderful
voice he had!  So tender!  Her eyes were wet.

"Let me have it a minute.  I want to see that verse about--"

She reached for the book.

He took her hand.

"Anybody would know at a glance, Julia, that you were meant for
some kind of creative art."

"How would they?"

"Your thumb!"

"What's funny about my thumb?" she had asked, searching his deep-
set grey-green eyes.

"Bends back so far. . . .  Open your hand, dear. . . .  Wide. . . .
See?"

"Does yours? . . .  Let me look . . .  Why, the very idea! . . .
Is that what makes you think you can write? . . .  Our hands are
very much alike, aren't they?"

A little shiver of excitement always came over Julia when she
reached this part of the story.

"We're alike in more ways than that, precious!"

She had made a little effort to retrieve her hands.  Zandy had
taken both of them in one of his.  When he kissed her, she did not
resist.  How everlastingly right it seemed!  She had shared his
kiss, a bit clumsily.  They were both quite stampeded for a moment.
She hoped he would kiss her again: perhaps she could do better.  It
was rather embarrassing to feel that one had been so awkward.  She
had done much better, the next time, maybe because it was not so
hurried. . . .  Zandy's kisses!  They made your heart so big there
wasn't room in your chest to breathe!

He had walked back with her, that day, until they could see the
chimney of her house.  When she stopped, meaning that he mustn't
come any farther, he said, "What are you doing, tonight?"

                        *  *  *  *  *

It proved to be an eventful evening.  Julia volunteered to
accompany Martha to prayer-meeting.  At the door of the church,
however, she said, "I think I'll run over to the Post Office,
first. . . .  I've a letter that should be mailed to Albion, about
my room, you know."

"I thought you had did that," said Martha.  "You'll not be back
afore meetin' is out!"

But Martha seemed relieved.  Julia knew that her sister preferred
not to have other members of the family present when she testified
to the submissiveness of her burden-bearing.  It reflected no
credit on her home, where, it was implied, she took all the hard
knocks with little to show for them but a chastened spirit.

"You'll not go through them dark woods, will yuh?" Martha
cautioned.  Julia promised.

Zandy was waiting for her, by the fence where she had first met
him.  He kissed her lips, her eyes, her hair. . . .  They were made
for each other, weren't they? . . .  They would plan to spend their
lives together. . . .  Why not? . . .  Didn't she love him? . . .

Someone was blowing out the malodorous kerosene lamps in the church
when Julia returned across the stubble-field with Zandy, the shrill
rendition of "God Be With You Till We Meet Again" warning them
their tryst was over.  They stopped in the darkness for a final
embrace.

"It won't be long now, sweetheart."

"Oh, Zandy; I'm so happy!"

The little group on the church porch was separating, Martha's prim
voice conspicuous above the others.

They walked home almost in silence, Martha mentally putting into
rehearsal the testimony she meant to give, next time; Julia
wondering what Martha would be saying if she knew that Zandy Craig
was going along with her to Albion where they were to be MARRIED!

Late in the night, Julia, wide-awake but calm, wondered if she were
playing the game squarely with everybody; with her father, with
Martha, with Zandy's father, who made nails and was so gruff and
domineering; with Zandy's mother, who already had a girl selected
for him. . . .  But, as Zandy had said, they had their own lives to
live.  Her father, her sister, his father, his mother--had they not
been given a chance to live their lives, as they liked? . . .
Maybe not. . . .  It was all very confusing.  Life was complicated.

"We will do what our hearts tell us is exactly right, darling,"
Zandy had said.  "Nobody in the world has a right to keep us apart.
We will keep it a secret, now, but, one of these days, when they
see how happy we are, and how right it all was, they will be glad."

                        *  *  *  *  *

Old Ferd remarked at supper, one Saturday evening in early
November, that he had met Abner Schrofe, that afternoon.

"Ab says," reported Ferd, proudly, "that Julia is the best teacher
they ever had.  I'm a-goin' to tell her when she comes down.  It's
no more 'n' right she should hear it . . .  What's a-keepin' her?"

"She's been a-lyin' down most o' th' afternoon, paw," said Martha.
"I'm afeard that long walk every day is a-pullin' Julia down, now
it's come rainy.  She hasn't looked good fer quite a spell."

"She was a-cryin' when I looked in to call her t' supper," said
Greta.  "Funny fer Julia to be a-cryin'."

"I'll go up," said Martha.  "Here, Susan, dish them turnips."

Julia recognized her sister's step on the stairs, raised up on one
elbow, dabbed at her eyes with a soggy little handkerchief, tucked
a letter under her pillow.

"No--I'm quite all right, Martha.  Working pretty hard, you know.
Just . . . sort of unstrung.  No--I don't believe I could eat a
bite, not now.  Maybe, after a while.  Run along.  It's nothing."

Martha clumped down the stairs, and the letter was unfolded again.

"What a misfortune, darling, if things are as you fear.  If it had
happened a little later--wouldn't we have been glad?  Maybe it
isn't that.  Try not to worry.

"All one hears about now is the big game with the Chicago Athletic
Club on Thanksgiving.  Father and mother are coming East for it.
How I wish you could be here!  Big doings!

"If it's what you think, darling, can you go on, a little while, as
if nothing had happened?  How long?  Maybe I can have a heart-to-
heart with my father.  But he's pretty hard, you know.  Savage old
thing, when disappointed.  I'm afraid he'd take me out of college.
That would set us back.  If I can get through this year, the rest
will be easy."

                        *  *  *  *  *

Julia had fainted at the Friday afternoon programme with which
school closed for the Christmas holidays.  The room was packed with
visitors and stuffy with festal decorations.  When the exercises
were all but over, Julia crumpled in a pathetic heap on the floor.
Young Jason Schrofe, whose attentions she had regarded so casually
that he had quite lost hope, drove her home in his sleigh.

"That settles it," said old Ferd.  "She's not a-goin' to tramp
through them snowdrifts any more. . . .  You must find a place to
board, Julia, closer by th' school."

She smiled wanly and shook her head.  She would be all right.  No
use wasting the money.

She had hoped that the cruel exertion might . . . somehow . . .
solve the problem.  In any event, the long walk daily helped to
distract her mind.  She might go mad, otherwise. . . .  How long
would it be until people noticed? . . .  What would those all-
knowing young mothers think of her fainting? . . .  How much
torture could she stand in these cruel stays?

"It fairly breaks my heart, darling," Zandy had written.  "There
you are, worrying your dear little head off; and here I am,
starting home for the holidays, unable to bear even a wee bit of
your trouble . . . and discomfort, too, I suppose.  I don't know
much about such things."

"The dear boy," thought Julia.  "He doesn't know, of course.  He
probably thinks a woman just knows it's going to happen, on a
certain day, and--when the time comes--it happens.  And I don't
know much more about it, except that I'm afraid I can't keep it a
secret much longer . . . not even for Zandy's dear sake."

                        *  *  *  *  *

Zandy was in line for the Perkins Medal in oratory.  On no account
must that event be jeopardized. . . .  Could Julia, he wondered,
manage to carry on until the oratorical contest was over?  February
third, it was.  How about it, Julia, darling?

Julia would certainly try.  Zandy must not be disqualified for that
medal.  Perhaps his father would be that much more kind, if he won
it.  But, dear boy, let's arrange to tell them the very minute the
contest is over!  It's getting serious!  Please!

It so happened that on the very night when Zandy was laboriously
composing a letter which began, "My dear Father Miller (for I
really want to call you Father Miller, because your Julia is my
wife; though I'm afraid you will be annoyed, a little, that we
haven't told you earlier about our wedding)"--Greta had whispered
to Susan, and Susan, white-faced, had whispered to Martha, and
Martha, trembling with fear and indignation, had entered Julia's
room without knocking.

Julia was outstretched, her dark-circled eyes were closed, her
hands lay supine, palms upward, on the counterpane.  Martha looked
at her for a long time before she spoke.  She swallowed, noisily.

"You might as well make a clean breast of it," said Martha,
hoarsely.  Julia opened her eyes and smiled.

"In the drawer of my desk, Martha.  Here's the key.  That long
paper.  That's it.  My marriage licence."

"So you run off and got married, did yuh?"

"Well--not exactly . . . run off.  We were married during the
County Institute."

"And you was in Albion, a-livin' with a man, while we thought you
was a-goin' to that school that cost all o' Thirty Dollars!"

"He was my husband--and it was my money."

"Humph!  He don't seem to set much store by yuh . . . a-leavin' yuh
to face the music.  What's his name?"  Martha adjusted her steel-
bowed spectacles, and stooped under the lamp.  "Alexander Craig . . .
who's that?  You don't mean t' say it's that rich Craig's boy
what was here last summer a-visitin' at the Squire's?"

Julia nodded.

"It's a heap the Craigs would do fer a Miller!  You wait till your
father hears o' this.  He'll make that young rascal sweat!  He'll
have th' law on him!"

So--at long last, Julia had no further need to punish her
desperately ill-treated body.  Ungirded--physically, mentally--she
felt that her worst troubles were behind her.  They could say what
they liked, they could do what they would--she had made her last
agonizing trip to the schoolhouse.  There was some comfort in that,
at least.

Old Ferd was torn between grief and anger.  He wanted to pour out
his rage without delay.  He would write to that lousy whelp and
tell him, for once, what somebody should have told him long ago--
that he was a low-lived coward, a dirty blackguard, and--and--if he
ever darkened their door, except to bring the money to pay for
Julia's sickness, he would be pitched out! . . .  And he did write
that, and more, pounded a stamp on the envelope with a fist that
looked amazingly like Julia's, only not so white, and stalked, half-
blind with hate, to the Post Office, where he was regarded with
fresh interest, the loafers in corduroy coats and felt boots
noting his state of mind and winking at one another out of the
tails of their eyes.  He was aware of it.  Everybody knew, damn
them! . . . There was a letter for Julia.  She always got the mail,
herself. . . .  He would tear it up, and throw it in the river.
The sleety gale sobered him, somewhat, on the way home.  He did
not destroy the letter.

                        *  *  *  *  *

"A couple of years from now, darling," wrote Zandy, a week later,
"we will have forgotten all about this.  At the moment, things do
look pretty dark, don't they?  I was all ready to come when I had
the letter from your father.  He is in a great temper; hardly to be
blamed, of course; talked of shooting.  Anyone else but your
father, I would debate that subject with him.  But all I could do
for you now would be to stir up a tremendous row and probably make
everything more difficult for you.

"I postponed writing to my father until last Saturday; couldn't
think up just the right way to approach the matter.  He is always
so autocratic and hair-triggery.  I did the best I could to make
him see things.  There is a wire from him this afternoon, hundred
words, saying he is done with me.  That, of course, only means he
is very sore.  He may come around all right.  But not very soon.
You have no idea how stubborn he can be.

"So--meantime, I can't stay in school.  My mind is too upset,
anyway.  I shall be out of funds, too.  In fact, I'm out of funds
now.  The month's allowance is just due, and he isn't even going to
send that.  I've made up my mind to bum my way through to the
Coast.  This twenty is all the money I have but five dollars.  You
can depend on me to send you some more as soon as I have it.  Don't
be discouraged, dear.  I intend to succeed.  Success is more a gift
than an achievement.  Some people are born to succeed.  I am one of
them.  You will share.  Keep that in mind through these hard days.
I shall soon send for you, and we will be happy together forever."

                        *  *  *  *  *

With confidence unshaken, for there was a peculiar contagion
associated with Zandy's optimism that gave her courage, Julia
watched the last of the snow disappear.

Everything was going to come out all right, as Zandy had predicted.
He had started West to find work and make a little home.  Then he
would send for her . . . for THEM!

Every few days there came another postal card . . . from Detroit,
Chicago, Davenport, Denver, Spokane.  Zandy was on the way.

Presently the lilacs were opening, and the air was vibrant with the
hum of all sorts of awakened winged things.  Julia could hear the
occasional scream of her father's chisel doing a shrill aria to the
accompanying rumble of the big wooden fly-wheel.

"Poor old darling," she thought, tenderly.  "He's worried about me,
and trying to keep his hands busy . . . dear, shaky, old hands."

"What's father making, Martha?"

"Will yuh let on yer surprised when he gives it t' yuh?"

"Mmm--but maybe you'd better not tell me if it's a secret."

"A little cradle," whispered Martha.  "Mind yuh don't let on."

Julia wept a few happy tears.  Her father had forgiven her, then.
That was ever so much better.  It would come out all right, as
Zandy had said.

When Doctor Engle came, next day, he was shortly after joined by
Doctor Marshall, a specialist from Fort Wayne.  Jason Schrofe had
driven him up from Larwill.

Doctor Marshall had quiet blue eyes and wore a brown suit that
fitted him.  He did not talk much, and hardly asked any questions
at all.  Julia had great confidence in him and felt no shyness in
his strong, competent hands.

The charge was twenty-five dollars, and when Julia had counted it
out--after Doctor Engle had handed her the pocket-book from her
desk--she was pleased to find that there was just enough; a twenty,
a two, and three ones.  Doctor Marshall looked at the money and the
empty pocket-book, and said not to bother about paying it until she
was well.  He would send her a bill, some day.

"Thank you," said Julia, gratefully.  "I'll pay you as soon as I'm
up."

"That will be soon enough," said Doctor Marshall.  Martha came and
sat on the edge of the bed, after the doctors were gone, holding
Julia's throbbing fingers.  Martha had shown the doctors out, and
Julia had heard them talking, downstairs, for a disturbingly long
time.  Martha's face, always an open book, was troubled.  It
twitched, as it did when she was worried.

"What is it, Martha?  You talked to them.  Do they think I'm very
sick?  They don't think I'm going to--they don't think maybe I'm
not going to get well, do they?"  Julia's words came slowly, and as
from a considerable distance.

Martha pressed her bony knuckles hard against her cheek and swayed
slowly back and forth.

"They're a-doin' everythin' they knows how, Julia.  We must all put
our trust in th' Lord 'n' His precious promises. . . .  Can't yuh
let yerself just rest on His Blessed Name?"

Julia turned her face away and stared hard at the white wall, her
eyes wide, frightened.

"Would yuh like Brother Miner t' come over from Cromwell 'n' talk
t' yuh, Julia?  It might be quite comfortin'."

Julia shook her head, and there was a little convulsive shudder of
her shoulders.  Sighing audibly, Martha drew up the sheet over the
quivering shoulders, laid the back of her rough hand against the
hot neck, and quietly left the room.

A violent storm was rising in Julia's breast--a devastating tornado
of rebellion.  Why had Fate played this ghastly trick on her?  What
had she ever done to earn this dull tragedy?  What chance had she
had from the beginning?  Why had Destiny set her down in this
stupid house--her mother a whining fool, her father a shabby old
drunkard, her brothers and sisters nothing but clods and dolts?

And that wasn't the worst of it!  Fate had opened the door a little
way and pointed toward liberty.  Love--great love--had come!  Why
hadn't Fate left her to the tiresome little drudgeries that were
the common lot of people badly born?  Why this mocking glimpse of
freedom?

In her broken-dyked passion, Julia's scorn swept over everything
and everybody associated with her disaster.  Her father!  What
right had this drunken old man and his slatternly wife to bring her
into the world at all?  And this smug, surly, ignorant,
superstitious old sister--calmly inviting her, in this hour of
break-up, to like it! . . . to put her trust in the Lord!  Mighty
little He cared!  Nobody cared!  Least of all--the Lord!  If He saw
it, at all, He probably grinned!  Another good joke!--saith the
Lord.

Martha was back now, seated again on the edge of the bed, wetting
her thumb and leafing the thin pages of a book.  Julia dully turned
her eyes and recognized the cheap little Bible she had earned for
faithful attendance at Sunday School when she was nine or ten.
Martha was doubtless hunting for some more of those precious
promises.  What a dull, uninteresting old thing those precious
promises had made of her!

Clearing her throat and settling her spectacles more firmly on her
thin nose, Martha held up the Bible at an angle that would better
the light on the fine print.  "No, please, Martha," muttered Julia.
"Not now--please!"

"I'll just leave it here, then," said Martha, regretfully.  "Mebby
it'll be a sort o' comfort just t' have it under yer pillow."

She was gone now, leaving Julia with the precious promises within
easy reach.  But the storm was by no means spent.  With white-
knuckled little fists and tightly clenched teeth, rigid lips wide
apart, Julia stared up defiantly.  In a moment she gave way to the
passionate indignation that was all but driving her mad.  The
precious promises!  Bah! . . .  God--and the Bible--and prayer--and
the angels--and miracles--and faith that would remove mountains!
Bah! . . .  She groped under the pillow, clutched the book, opened
it in the middle, utterly blind with hot tears and crazed with
desperate anger, and began to claw at the pages with her nails.
She buried all her fingers in the book, and tore, and ripped, and
crumpled, making snarling little mutterings deep in her throat.

"THAT! . . .  AND THAT! . . . FOR YOU!" she panted.  (Rip!)  "AND
THAT! . . .  AND THIS! . . .  FOR YOUR . . . (Crunch!) . . .
PRECIOUS . . . PROMISES! . . .  LOOK! . . .  IF YOU CAN SEE . . .
YOU CRUEL THING . . . WHAT I'M DOING TO YOUR HOLY WORD! . . .
NOW!  THERE! . . .  SEND ME TO HELL!"

Completely spent by her exertion, Julia lay as one dead under the
litter of ragged, crumpled desecration, her shuddering sobs all but
subsided; and, fatigued beyond endurance, drifted away from the
shameful scene, and slept.

When she woke there was a dim light burning on the table.  Her
father was sitting on the low rocking-chair by the bed, elbows on
knees, his fingers tangled in his shaggy grey hair.  Remembering
dully, she felt about on the counterpane.  Nothing there.  So it
was only a bad dream, after all.  That was good.  Her fingers
touched a rumpled scrap of paper.  It was not a dream.  She laid
her hand on the torn paper and closed on it.

Roused by her stirring, Ferd glanced up, and their eyes met.
Julia's were inquisitive.

Ferd shook his head, and smiled wanly.

"It's all right, Julia.  I cleared it up.  Nobody seen it.  Guess
you was a little out o' yer mind fer a spell."

"I'm dreadfully sorry, father," she murmured, penitently.  "It
was . . . an awful thing to do."

Old Ferd caressed the white hand nearest him.  With the other,
Julia absently rolled the fragment she had found into a tight
little ball.

She fell to wondering whether there was anything still legible on
the scrap; and, if so, whether it would be some frightful forecast
of doom for sinners.  Well--she deserved it, didn't she?  She
recalled her curiosity about the sentimental mottoes that came on
thin, narrow, sticky strips of paper wrapped around cheap taffy at
the County Fair. . . .  Funny how people took stock in the silly
fortunes told that way. . . .  She remembered a discussion between
Martha and Becky Slemmer, one day, over the "messages" they had had
by tossing the Bible open at random and reading the first verse at
the top of the page. . . .  Martha had come by many a precious
promise accidentally . . . poor Martha. . . .  Becky had laughed
over some of hers, and Martha had hush-hushed her, warningly.
Becky said you couldn't make much out of it, anyway.  One time,
after a big quarrel with Zelma in which they had bit, scratched,
and pulled hair, she had gone to the Bible for guidance, and the
magic verse at the top of the column said, "She is loud and
stubborn."  Becky was sure, at first, that the Lord referred to her
sister, but she wondered afterward.  Martha said:  "No--Becky.  The
Lord wouldn't send a message t' Zelma through you.  He must 'a'
meant somethin' personal."

"Shall I get yuh a cold drink, Julia?" Ferd was inquiring.

"Please, father . . . and turn up the light a little, won't you,
before you go down?"

                        *  *  *  *  *

"You're ever so much better this morning," said Doctor Engle,
cheerily.

Julia smiled contentedly, and nodded.

"You're overcoming this toxine, Julia."

"What's toxine, doctor?" she inquired, interestedly.

"Poison."

"Yes," said Julia, thoughtfully, "I have overcome it."

"Well--maybe not all of it yet," he cautioned, stroking his cheek,
"but--"

Julia's dry lips puckered determinedly, and she nodded her head
with an air of deep conviction.

"All of it," she said, firmly, "all the poison is gone."

That afternoon, to Martha's astonishment and disapproval, Julia
demanded pen, ink, paper, and privacy.  Protestingly, the weary and
worried woman propped her sister up with pillows, and closed the
door.

Summoning all her depleted energy, Julia wrote a long letter
addressed to her unborn child.  The writing was uneven and
sprawling, and the lines sagged at the right end, more and more,
until the last ones ran nearly off the pages in a pitiful little
toboggan toward the corner.

Everything she knew about Dresden was in it; high pride for the
things that were Dresden; high hopes for the heir to the Dresden
tradition.

Everything she knew about Zandy was in it; poor, bewildered Zandy,
so frightfully misunderstood, and showing up so badly when he
really had it in his heart to do the right thing.

"I'm going to hide this letter, and hope that you find it, some
day, in case anything happens to me.  You'll not find it, perhaps,
until you're big enough to want to take things to pieces and see
how they were put together.  I hope you won't find it even then.  I
hope you won't find it until you're old enough to have had a few
harder bumps than just falling out of your cradle.

"I've discovered a secret.  It's going to take me through what I
have to face.  If I live, it's going to make me over into something
else than I've been.  If I die, I'll die happy.  I'm going to tell
you what I've found.  It's the only thing I have to leave you.  If
you'll take it, and make use of it, you may need no other fortune."

It was a difficult letter to write.  The uncanny experience that
had been hers, during the preceding eighteen hours, was not easy to
explain.  But Julia did the best she could, and with the last
physical resource left from the fatigue of writing, she groped her
way dizzily to the little walnut desk, with a great effort opened
the secret drawer, deposited her letter, and returned to her bed,
exhausted.

                        *  *  *  *  *

After her grinding agony was over, Julia slept, and woke, and
slept, and dreamed.

In the late afternoon, she became slightly delirious.  Martha
caught fragments of it, and wept quietly. . . .  Roses overhanging
a trellis at the doorway of a little bungalow . . . Zandy being
welcomed with outstretched arms that quickly fell inert from
fatigue. . . .  Then--there was a garden . . . a high, grey, stone
wall . . . and in the wall there was a door . . . and beyond the
door, a river. . . .  Martha sobbed chokingly, and turned the iced
towel on the hot forehead. . . .  And on the river there was a
punt . . . with a red and blue canopy . . . and the sound of a
tender voice, singing . . . and a guitar.

When she awoke again, it was almost dark.  It was apparent to the
watchers that Julia was mildly curious about the presence of the
whole family.

Doctor Engle was seated at the bedside with his fingers on her
wrist.  Her father stood stiffly beside him, his hands clenched.
Martha slowly waved a palm-leaf fan, supporting her weary weight on
outspread fingers laid against the head of the bed.  Susan and
Greta stood at the foot, staring wide-eyed.  Hiram and Elmer were
in the doorway.

Julia's eyes slowly travelled over the group, finally coming to
rest on old Ferd whom she inspected with gravity.  She attempted a
little smile for him--a solicitous little smile that seemed to say,
"What a lot of trouble I'm making you.  So sorry."  Ferd couldn't
face the stiff little smile any longer; closed his eyes, walked to
the window, wept.

Julia had kept her secret too long.  Through hot, parched lips she
asked Martha if she would please take care of the baby.  Greta drew
a sudden racking sob, and sank to the floor.  Susan raised her up
and tugged her out into the hall.

"His name," murmured Julia, valiantly battling with the oncoming
fog, "is Alexander Ferdinand. . . .  But--Martha--if that's too
long a name . . . for such a little boy . . . you may call him
Zandy."

                        *  *  *  *  *

It was late afternoon.  They had just returned from the service at
Oak Grove Baptist Church, and its sequel in the Cemetery.  The long
row of hitching-racks had been quite inadequate.  Barely a third of
the people had been able to enter the church.

Martha had whispered to the undertaker, and he had laid one of the
sprays on their mother's grave, hard-by.  Jason Schrofe, observing
that his flowers had been chosen for this tribute, tarried, after
the others had moved away, and replaced it.

Susan and Greta were busying themselves in the kitchen,
sympathetically assisted by neighbours whose voices, restrained but
endeavouring to be cheerful, drifted up the stairs where Martha,
having laid her borrowed bonnet and veil on Julia's primly made,
white-counterpaned bed, was stooping over the cradle.

Old Ferd tiptoed into the room, and Martha glanced up.

"Look at them long fingers," she said.  "Like her'n."

Ferd handed her a yellow envelope.

"One o' the Schrofe boys fetched this over from Cromwell."

Martha opened it, read it through, silently, her lips forming the
words, and gave it back.  Ferd stared hard at the message from
Seattle.


COURAGE DARLING IT WILL NOT BE LONG NOW GOOD JOB ZANDY


He tossed the telegram on Julia's bed, and stumbled out of the
room, whimpering like a punished child.

                        *  *  *  *  *

That night--as if the Millers had not already furnished enough
sensation to satisfy the community--Ferd hanged himself from a
rafter in the vacant stall next to Florrie.

Hiram had gone out to throw down some straw, and saw It, from the
mow-ladder, slowly revolving.  Martha, hearing a hoarse shout, ran
from the kitchen and found her brother retching violently.  It
seemed a long time before they found a box high enough to stand on.

"I was a-feared o' this, all along," groaned Martha.

Greta kept screaming, hysterically, while she tugged at the rope of
the dinner-bell that clanged ominously from its perch on the roof
of the milkhouse.

The barnyard filled with neighbours carrying lanterns.  Milt
Mumaugh volunteered to drive to Albion for the coroner, and put his
three-year-old roan mare to a gallop.

It was a warm night, but they felt chilly and built a fire to sit
by while they waited.  About midnight, the wives of the watchers
served sandwiches, cake, and coffee.

Abner Schrofe and Doc Engle sat on the doorstep of old Ferd's shop,
smoking and slapping mosquitoes.

"Baby a-goin' t' live, Doc?"

"Looks like it. . . .  Poor little devil. . . .  Maybe better off
if it died. . . .  Not much of a future for it, I'm afraid."

"Well--as fer that," drawled Abner, "yuh never c'n tell."



CHAPTER III


"And now, Ferdinand"--Reverend Miles Brumm pursed a public smile--
"perhaps you had better mount your new pony, and see how he sits."

"Please, Uncle Miles, I don't want to."

Ferdinand's voice was barely audible, but to the congregation
assembled in the parsonage barn-lot there was no mistaking the
determined shake of his curly head.

Consternation prevailed in the audience, composed of half the
children in Zanesdale, and what Mr. Brumm would have considered on
Sunday morning as "a goodly company" of adults.

A medley of encouragement, ridicule, insufferable patronage, and
downright contempt volleyed at the embarrassed boy.

"Aw, gwan!  Ride him!" . . . "Don't be scairt of him, Ferdinand; he
won't throw yuh!" . . . "He's yourn, hain't he?  Git on 'im!" . . .
"Shucks!--feared of a Shetland pony!" . . . "Yeah--tame as a
kitten!"

Ferdinand hung his head, abstractedly crushed an ant with his bare
toes, and was painfully conscious of the rapid beating of a bulging
vein in his neck.

"Bet he cost a hundred dollars!" appraised Nathan Himes, who had
joined the procession when it passed his drugstore.

"Hundred dollars!" scoffed Bill Trask, the station agent; "that
there saddle 'n' bridle cost more 'n' a hundred dollars!"

"My land!" exclaimed Sophie Trask, proudly relaying her husband's
versatility to the huddle of women by the big gate, "Mr. Trask says
the saddle and bridle alone must 'a' cost more than a hundred
dollars!  What must the pony be worth?"

Nobody paid any attention to the comment except young Mrs. Himes
(her as was one o' them Sheriff Effendorfer girls from over beyond
Maples; so stuck up--all of 'em--their noses was out o' joint),
who, behind her hand, remarked to Clara Sellars, the lately-from-
Wayne peroxide-blonde milliner (less said the better), that the
Trasks always knew so much, to which Miss Sellars replied, in a
disgusted undertone, "Don't they give yuh a pain?"

Mr. Brumm, aware of the unanimous curiosity about the pony, to
which his young nephew had now added spice by his reluctance to
exhibit a natural interest in it, felt himself in an awkward
situation.  He had been unprepared for the episode that had plunged
his family into the public eye.  No chance had been given him to
collect his thoughts or confer with Ferdinand in private.

It was the lad's tenth birthday.  At breakfast he had received a
large, inexpensive pocket-knife from his uncle, a sticky, acrid-
smelling, red-and-green Child's Illustrated Bible from his aunt,
and three lead-pencils in a slim pasteboard box from Angela.  He
had put down the apple he was munching, and had gone about, as the
custom was, dutifully kissing the donors--Uncle Miles, first; for
Uncle Miles was always served first with whatever happened to be in
distribution; and then Aunt Martha, who moistened a finger and
brushed back the unruly lock that dipped to a point in the centre;
and then Angela, whom he tried to kiss on the cheek, for Angela's
kisses were wet, and he had a disinclination toward them which he
hoped she would realize, one of these days, without too much injury
to her feelings.

At that mellow moment--for, however stiffly the family ties were
habitually starched, there were festal occasions when something
like spontaneous affection had its innings--there was a vigorous
rap at the kitchen door.  Straightening his frayed cravat, Mr.
Brumm had answered the summons.  A stranger's business-like voice
was heard.

"Mr. Brumm? . . .  How do you do, sir? . . .  Very well, sir. . . .
My name is Thompson.  I'm from Chicago; that is, I'm from the
Winnetka Stock Farm.  Our people has had orders to deliver a pony
here for Master Craig--"

Through the open door came the rumble of many voices.  Angela wiped
her shapely lips on her sleeve and hurried to the window.
Ferdinand stared hard at Aunt Martha, listening intently.

"He lives with you, don't he? . . .  It's a birthday gift from his
father. . . .  It's Mr. Craig's instructions from Seattle. . . .
I've just got in with it, expressed from our place in Winnetka. . . .
The pony's out here in your lot, delivered in good shape, as
you'll see, and if you, or the young gentleman, will sign these
papers, I can catch the nine-seventeen back to the city. . . .
Right here you are, sir, on that line; and here, too, if you
please.  Thanks! . . .  Quite a crowd we gathered up, coming
through the village, eh?  Guess it's the first time a pony ever
came to this town on a passenger train."

Aunt Martha had taken off her brown apron and joined her husband at
the back door, nervously smoothing her hair with both hands.

Ferdinand, blinking rapidly, and tapping his front teeth with a
restless thumb, squeezed past his aunt, and ventured out upon the
back porch, quite overawed by the gathering crowd.

Uncle Miles, with a pumped-up air of heartiness, as if he himself
were being presented with a thoroughbred Shetland pony by his
admiring fellow-townsmen, breezed forth to the barnyard,
delightedly intoning, "Well--well--indeed! . . .  A great surprise,
I'm sure! . . .  A pony! . . .  Well--well!"

It was the crowd that remembered the pony was Ferdinand's.

"Heigh!  Ferdinand!  Come on out!  Look what yuh got!"

"Must I, Aunt Martha?" asked Ferdinand, his face twitching.

"Of course, silly!" shouted Angela, clutching his hand and dragging
him along.

"Fancy that great big boy having to be tugged out of the house to
see a pony!" scoffed Clara Sellars.

"He's only a kid," explained Mrs. Himes.  "Awful big for his age;
tall as his half-sister, and she must be all of fourteen.  I s'pose
he's just shy of so many people."

Very much embarrassed, Ferdinand allowed himself to be propelled
through the crowd.  He drew a stiff, reluctant smile, reached out a
slim hand, stroked the pony's velvet muzzle, and was generously
rewarded for the tentative caress, the pony sniffing inquisitively
at his pockets and licking his hands.

"Aw--look--ain't that cute?"  The women cooed appreciatively, and
beamed on Aunt Martha, who had joined them, murmuring apologies for
her looks and all.  They told her she looked quite all right, they
were sure.

Miss Sellars, pretending interest in the half-finished sweater that
Mrs. Himes was carrying under her arm, whispered, "Did yuh ever see
such an old frump?"

"Awful pious, I guess."

"Can't people be pious without--"

"No," said Mrs. Himes, "Sh!--Listen!"

"Well--Ferdinand--" said Uncle Miles.

"No, Uncle Miles."  His deep-set, grey-green eyes were perplexed,
and his face was contorted as he gnawed his lips.  He stepped back,
and glanced about as if looking for a way of escape.

Mr. Brumm wiped his brow with a large handkerchief.  It would
hardly do to send these parishioners of his away with so great a
mystery to discuss.

"Don't you like your pony?" he stammered, in a tone that affected
to express the general surprise.

"Of course!"  Ferdinand's voice was husky under the strain.  "But I
mustn't have it!  I can't have it!  You know why!"  Hot tears
sprang to his eyes, and he scurried through the speechless crowd,
disappearing into the house.

"Ferdinand's a little nervous and excited," explained Mrs. Brumm,
primly, but obviously shaken by the unfortunate event.  "He wasn't
expecting a pony, you know, and what with so many good friends
coming along, and all--"

"That's it--that's it," said Mr. Brumm, who, upon Ferdinand's
retreat, had moved toward his wife to learn what explanation she
was offering for this strange conduct.  "Ferdinand will be quite
himself, presently."

"Yeah--I bet there's a skeleton in the Brumms' closet, all right,
all right!" muttered Miss Sellars.  "They're badly fussed--both of
'em!"

                        *  *  *  *  *

Ferdinand, face downward on his bed, could hear the children's
excited shouts as they took turns riding the pony about the barn-
lot. . . .  It sounded now as if they had taken him out into
the road.  "Please let me next, Angela!" . . . "I said first,
Angela!" . . . "These stirrups is too high!"

He heard his uncle's heavy footsteps on the stairs.

"Now, my boy, what's the trouble?"  Uncle Miles was serious.

Ferdinand stifled a racking sob.

"You know I can't take anything from HIM! . . .  Sure--I love the
pony, and I want it awfully . . . but I wouldn't take anything from
HIM--NOT IF HE GAVE ME A MILLION TRILLION DOLLARS!"

"But you didn't have to show off like that before all our people!
What do you suppose they'll think?"

"I don't care what they think," growled Ferdinand into the damp
pillow.  "It's none of their business, is it?"

"They'll make it their business to find out."

Uncle Miles sat down on the edge of the bed, Ferdinand moving over
with a great effort to make him room.

"You are a strange child, Ferdinand, to feel this way about your
father."  Uncle Miles laid a hand on the twitching shoulder.  "I
hardly thought it possible for a child of your years to be capable
of as much hatred as you--"

"But YOU hate him, don't you, Uncle Miles?  Aunt Martha hates him!"

"Hate is an ugly word, Ferdinand.  Neither your Aunt Martha nor I
hate anybody in the whole wide world--not even your erring father.
Whatever mistakes he may have made in letting your young mother
suffer and be misunderstood and maligned . . . and die . . . it
will do you no good to carry a grudge--especially now that he wants
to be friendly."

At this, Ferdinand broke down completely, and cried piteously.

"He waited for ten years! . . .  Not one word from him! . . .  Even
if you and Aunt Martha did hate him, I kept hoping he would write
to me when I got big enough to read. . . .  But I swore, last
Christmas morning, I would hate him . . .  forever!"

"On Christmas morning!"  Uncle Miles was horrified.  "What a day to
choose for a pledge to everlasting hate!"

"Good as any," grumbled Ferdinand.

Uncle Miles took a turn or two up and down the room, tugging at his
black burnsides.

"Well--if you're sure you don't want the pony"--Uncle Miles's tone
was conciliatory--"we'll sell it.  Perhaps that would be more
prudent, anyway.  You've shown pretty good judgment for a small
boy.  We can't afford a pony, and our people know it.  You would
only make the other children envious.  It's out of keeping with
everything else we have. . . .  Suppose we sell the pony, and put
the money in bank for your college education: how's that?"

"But--Uncle Miles!"--Ferdinand's voice rose shrilly.  "That's all
the same, isn't it?  I don't want anything he's got!  I won't have
his ponies, or saddles, or colleges, or anything!  He same as
killed my mother!  Aunt Martha said so!  I'm going to write and
tell him so!  You see if I don't!"

"Now--now!" soothed Uncle Miles.  "You wouldn't do that."

He patted Ferdinand on the head and walked slowly out of the room
and down the hall to his study, where he slumped into the shabby
morris chair by the window and meditatively twisted the burnsides
into pencil-points.

Every three months since his marriage to Martha Miller, seven years
ago, he had received a draft for two hundred and fifty dollars from
his prosperous brother-in-law.  It exceeded his salary.

Indeed, his decision to marry Martha Miller--which he tried later
to tell himself was based on the fact that she, albeit unsightly
and eccentric, was an excellent housekeeper, a paragon of piety,
and singularly devoted to his motherless little Angela--had been
hastened upon her confiding to him that the baby Ferdinand was
something other than a liability.

"It's very sacrificial of you, Miss Miller," he had said, that
April afternoon on his return to the Miller home for a brief
glimpse of Angela, who, since the revival he had conducted at the
Oak Grove Baptist Church in November, had been happily in Martha's
care--"it's very fine of you to have assumed, so cheerfully, the
burden of your unfortunate sister's child: very unselfish, indeed!"

Martha had smiled, cryptically.

"I must be honest with yuh, Brother Brumm.  Of course, I would 'a'
took care o' Julia's baby, like I promised, even if young Craig had
disowned it. . . .  But--he remembers."

"Indeed? . . .  Does him credit, I must say. . . .  Does he
remember substantially, may I ask, Miss Martha?"

"Two hundred and fifty every quarter."  Martha seemed satisfied
with the effect of her announcement.  "Reg'lar as the clock."

"A thousand dollars a year, Martha, for the keep of a baby?"

Martha nodded, smiled, folded her arms, rocked gently.

"I had a promise from Craig"--she leaned forward and lowered her
voice confidentially--"shortly after our poor Julia passed away.
He had wrote a-sayin' was there anything he could do, though at the
minute he hadn't much to do with, he said, and I reckon that was
true. . . .  Give the devil his due, I always say--"

"I'm sure you would, Martha!"

He recalled Martha's prompt reaction to the note of tenderness in
his voice.  She had smiled appreciatively, puckered her lips self-
deprecatingly, touched her hair, rather gingerly; for it was the
first time she had done it up over a rat--not one of the larger
rats, to be sure, such as the bulky Susan affected; a mere mouse,
indeed, compared to Susan's--and was obviously not quite at ease
with her greying foretop so heavily shadowing her eyes.

"But--and so--then--Oh, yes; then I wrote him as how poor Julia had
gave me th' baby t' bring up, and that I meant t' do so, well as I
could.  If he ever wanted t' send me anything toward its keep, all
well and good, I said, but the baby was mine.  I told him as how it
was Julia's last words, and it was, almost.  I asked him t' promise
he would never try t' take little Alexander away from me, or even
write to him when he grew big enough t' understand; fer it might
make him discontented and all . . . AND HE PROMISED!"

"Alexander?  I thought the child's name was Ferdinand."

"Well, you see Julia had wrote a letter, a couple o' days afore she
died, and if the baby was a boy it was to be Alexander.  So Craig
always calls him Alexander. . . .  We just couldn't; not after what
he'd done, 'n' all. . . .  Anyways, that's the baby's other name."

Mr. Brumm had proposed marriage to Martha, that evening, and had
been accepted with a coyness he had hardly suspected her capable of
in the face of her nun-like, ascetic piety.

On the day of their wedding in December--Mr. Brumm had just
returned aglow over the quite brilliant success of his three weeks'
revival at Partridge Crossing, Illinois--certain small items of
business were under discussion.  He and Martha were out walking in
the snow on the highway, safe from the hostile curiosity of the
family in whose opinion that slick feller Brumm was a-tryin' t' lay
his miracle-workin' hands on th' baby's money, an indictment they
had hinted at, in his presence, and freely discussed within easy
earshot.

Martha had beamed over the prompt victory she had won in gaining
his consent to look for a settled pastorate and discontinue his
itinerant evangelistic career.  Her solicitude over his endurance
of cold beds, unwholesome food, and long journeys touched him, even
if--as he suspected--there was another reason, quite as good, for
her request.  As the wife of a minister, Martha hoped to enjoy
whatever refracted glory shone upon that office.  There would be
small comfort sitting at home, unrecognized, with the care of two
small children--Angela was seven, Ferdinand three--while her
crusading spouse spent blocks of weeks in distant parts.

With this triumph scored, Martha was prepared to be generous when
Miles (it was becoming easier to call him Miles) suggested that he
would deeply appreciate it if their future negotiations with
Alexander Craig might be conducted by himself.  It would be much
more pleasant, all 'round, if he, as head of the household--and
would not little Ferdinand be the same as his own son, now?--were
entrusted with this business.

Pursuant to that agreement, Martha had promptly written to Seattle
notifying her young brother-in-law of her marriage and stating that
hereafter Mr. Brumm was to be considered custodian of the child's
funds, adding that the arrangement would undoubtedly make Mr. Brumm
even more interested in little Alexander.  She hadn't said why.

Shortly before little Ferdinand was eight, Mr. Brumm had received a
letter from Craig--they had always referred to him as Craig; not
Mr. Craig, which would have denoted an unearned respect for him, or
Alexander, which would have seemed more friendly than they felt--
inquiring whether it would be considered a violation of his
covenant if he wrote to his son on the occasion of his next
birthday.  The letter was typed on the expensively embossed
stationery of The Puget Sound--Editorial Department.

Mr. Brumm, who enjoyed letting himself go, a bit, with a pen, had
written a reply which, after many revisions, pleased him.

"We live very simply here, as becomes the family of a village
clergyman, on small pay, ministering to a by no means well-to-do
community composed of persons who for the most part make their own
clothes and grow their own food.  Your son's wants are few.  As you
are aware, we have thought it imprudent to inform him of your
benefactions.  Did he know that we are receiving generous amounts
of money on his account, it would unquestionably alter his relation
to our household, both in his mind and ours.  It would make for
constraint, and, perhaps, a breakdown of the discipline which every
small boy, however tractable, requires."

There was a great deal more of it, running into all of four pages,
redundantly cautioning Mr. Craig that any affectionate gesture
toward his son, at this time, would make the child restless in his
humble home, and reminding Mr. Craig of his promise to Mrs. Brumm
"never to disturb the existing relationship while she lives."

Mr. Brumm had had no reply to that letter which, he felt, deserved
adequate recognition, considering the amount of time and labour he
had spent on its composition.  The quarterly remittances continued
to arrive unaccompanied by any personal message.  On each occasion,
Mr. Brumm receipted with a brief note, reporting on the boy's
health and advancement in school, always optimistically.  As for
young Ferdinand's opinion of his father, they had tried to shape it
properly by making the relationship seem as remote as possible.
How else, indeed, were they to insure the child's contentment?

Reflecting on it now, in the light of this morning's dismaying
episode, Mr. Brumm wondered if they had not slightly overdone their
efforts to portray Craig as a selfish, cowardly scapegrace who had
fled in terror from the gravest of obligations.  He was aware that
Martha had spared no ugly words in recounting for Ferdinand the
pitiful details of a tragedy which had become an obsession in her
cramped mind.  Would this hot-headed boy actually write to his
father, provoking an open breach, perhaps an investigation?  It was
a comfort to remember that Ferdinand did not know his father's
address beyond the bare fact that he lived in Seattle.  But was
that a comfort?  Mr. Brumm wondered if a letter addressed to
Alexander Craig, Seattle, might not be delivered.

                        *  *  *  *  *

Meantime, while Mr. Brumm toyed absently with his beard, there was
a dull rumble of conversation drifting in from Ferdinand's room,
where Aunt Martha was endeavouring to set everything right.  From
the boy's protests, it was to be gathered that she was not meeting
with much success.

"I was just a-sayin' to Ferdinand"--Aunt Martha rose from the low
rocking-chair, and leaned against the foot of the bed as Uncle
Miles strolled in--"that we mustn't have any more fuss now about
this pony business.  It's gone plenty far enough!"

"Well," said Uncle Miles casually, "we'll think it over and decide
what's the best thing to do.  Ferdinand's going to be reasonable, I
feel sure."

His shoes squeaked as he went downstairs.  Aunt Martha sighed
audibly, and followed him.  Ferdinand, fatigued by the emotional
storm, yawned, stretched, slept.

After a brief conference in the kitchen, Uncle Miles harnessed the
glossy bay mare to the jump-seat buggy, while Aunt Martha, in their
downstairs bedroom, changed to her white lawn with the black spray.

"Angela," she called, "your father 'n' me are a-goin' to make a
call on Sister Sprecker."

In deference to Ferdinand's distress, Angela had cheerfully
consented that the pony should be stabled, and was sitting on one
foot in the porch swing deeply absorbed in The Last Days of
Pompeii, which, after many unsuccessful attempts, she was devouring
with interest.  The book was lowered to her lap for a moment.  Odd--
making a visit on Saturday afternoon.  Father always reserved
Saturday for study.

Aunt Martha did not explain that she herself was to be left with
Sister Sprecker, who lived on the pike halfway to Bluffton, while
Uncle Miles continued to town for the purpose of sending a
telegram, which he could not prudently dispatch from Zanesdale,
inquiring of the Winnetka Stock Farm whether they would buy back
the pony and equipment.  She tiptoed upstairs, and returned to the
front screen-door, bonneted and black-mitted for her journey.

"Ferdinand's asleep, Angela.  He's been so stirred up 'n' all.  Get
him a piece when he comes down.  We mayn't be back much afore
sundown.  You peel th' potatoes, 'n' make a good fire about five
o'clock."

Briefly disengaging herself from panic-stricken Pompeii, Angela
mumbled acquiescence and hoped they would have a good time.

She was a flaxen-haired, large-eyed, precocious youngster whom her
father regarded as a valuable asset in his profession.  A great
deal of attention had been paid to Angela when she was a mere tiny
tot by the adoring widows and elderly maidens in whose indulgent
care she had been lodged, in at least a score of small towns, while
her father was pursuing his evangelistic ministry, previous to his
second marriage.

Sometimes she sat beside him in the pulpit, an enraptured and
undeniably touching picture of cherubic innocence.  Not
infrequently she was adverted to, with a tender gesture, when the
preacher spoke feelingly of the uninquisitive faith to be found at
its best in the heart of a child.

At eight, Angela had sung, "I'll Meet Mother Over There," in a
sweet, unaffected, little voice that had utterly devastated with
emotion the large crowd on the last night of Mr. Brumm's memorable
revival at Unger, shortly after accepting their call.

More than a hundred souls were saved during that revival; and at
least a score, already saved, experienced the second blessing.
Little Angela herself had publicly professed a receipt of the
second blessing, on that final night of the revival, somewhat to
her parent's confusion; for this degree, while not explicitly
restricted to an adult constituency, had not--at least within his
own purview--been undertaken by anyone of Angela's immature years.
There was nothing he could do about it, however; certainly not at
the moment, seeing with what a spontaneous wave of hysterical
exultation the child's bland announcement was accepted.  In fact,
it was Angela's second blessing that had brought the month's "big
meetin'" to an almost painfully triumphant crescendo insuring her
father's standing in the community for five successful years.

As was to be expected, Angela, thereafter, was looked to, on
occasions when emotion ran high, for a tender song, a fervid
testimony, a sugary little prayer--demands which she met so
adequately that even she herself could not have failed to realize
the value of her talent, had she been infinitely more reticent than
she was.  Everybody predicted a bright future for Angela.  It went
without debate that she could expect to be mightily used by the
Lord.  Aunt Martha occasionally hinted to her husband that it would
be a pity if Angela's head should be turned by so much praise; but,
observing that his smug smile left something unsaid on the subject
of envy, she did not venture to press the matter.

No endeavour had been made to capitalize Ferdinand's piety which
was of a much less showy type.  He had displayed no prophetic
gifts.  At Christmas and on Children's Day he spoke short pieces
and participated in dialogues, always without enthusiasm or promise
of future distinction either as an apostle or platform orator.
Privately he despised these exhibitions, and consented to be a
party to them only when his loyalty to his uncle was challenged.
Especially did he loathe the dialogues.  Overtopping by a head all
the other boys of his age, he appeared the dolt in a line-up of
brighter juniors, albeit some of them might be older than he.  It
was a sore trial, indeed, when it came his turn to hold up a little
white pasteboard card bearing the letter D, and recite,
shamefacedly, amid the pardonable titters of the congregation:


          "I am the Daisy that grows in the spring,
          Sweetly adoring the love of our King."


Presently all these letters would spell


                     GODS LITTLE FLOWERS


and he could stumble awkwardly to his seat beside Aunt Martha, who,
smiling benignly, would wet a finger and brush back the lock that
had come all the way from Dresden.

Ferdinand accepted Angela's opulent faith at face value.  It never
occurred to him to be jealous of the marked attentions she
received, wherever they went, sometimes in quite glaring contrast
to the attitude people manifested toward him.  He rejoiced in her
well-deserved popularity.  He liked Angela.  The hazard of childish
quarrels between them had been reduced to a minimum by the fact
that no question of property rights ever arose.  Until recently,
Angela had contented herself at play with her dolls and dishes.
Ferdinand, when not whittling sticks, amused himself with his small
set of smeary rubber-type.  They kept out of each other's way.

Of late, however, Angela had been taking more interest in
Ferdinand.  At first he had been flattered by these friendly
attentions; though, on the whole, he rather liked her better when
she left him to his own devices.  Sometimes she came out to the
bench, behind the woodhouse, and sat by him while he whittled toy
furniture out of soft pine; sat very close, often hampering him.

Angela confided in him very freely now, as if he were her own age.
One of these days she was going to be an evangelist.  She could do
it now if they would let her.  Not only would she do a great deal
of good, but she could earn some money.  She could have nice
clothes.  "And I'll get you a really good printing outfit, too,
Ferdinand.  You want one very much, don't you?"

And when he said he certainly did--very much--she would kiss him,
and say:  "Never you mind.  I'll get you one that you can print a
little newspaper on.  Wouldn't that be fun?"

                        *  *  *  *  *

Ferdinand was roused by Angela's voice down in the parlour,
singing, "That Will Be Glory For Me," to her own accompaniment on
the melodeon.  He was debating whether he should not go down and
ask Aunt Martha for a piece of pie, now that he had slept through
dinner-time.  It was almost three.

Suddenly the music stopped abruptly.  Angela was calling from the
foot of the stairs.

"Ferdinand!"

"Ye-es."

"You awake now?"

"Um-humm."

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing."

"Lonesome?"

"No--but I'm hungry."

"Want me to bring you a piece of cake and a banana?"

"Well--if you want to."

She came presently and sat down beside him on the bed, licking
sticky fingers.

"Don't you want any?" asked Ferdinand, his mouth full.

"I just had some.  Did you know that father and Aunt Martha have
gone away for all afternoon?"

"No. . . .  Let's go down and play croquet."

"I'm so sorry you had such an unhappy birthday, Ferdinand."
Angela's voice was husky.  "I could have cried for you, this
morning.  Do you feel better now?"  She put an arm around him and
pushed him back on the pillow.

Ferdinand made a brave show of not being annoyed when Angela bent
over him, burying her hot face in his neck, and blinding him with
her tousled hair.

"Let me up, Angela.  You're smothering me!" shouted Ferdinand.  "I
don't feel like romping."

"I'm not romping," whispered Angela, trembling.

                        *  *  *  *  *

Ten minutes later, Angela, with very red cheeks, went to the
melodeon and continued where she had left off at the third verse of
"That Will Be Glory For Me," hoping that Ferdinand's stubbornness
meant he was too dumb to understand, or, having understood, would
not unintentionally give her away.

The front doorbell rang loudly, and Angela, still scarlet and
shaky, answered it.  Mr. Trask had brought a telegram for
Ferdinand.  Whatever was Ferdinand doing with telegrams?

She rushed upstairs with it.  He was standing at the window,
drumming absently on the pane with his knuckles.  He did not turn.

"Look what you got!"  Angela hoped the message would be pleasant,
at least diverting.

He clumsily opened the envelope and mystifiedly read the telegram
several times before its meaning became quite clear.  It was signed
by the Winnetka Stock Farm.


WE HAVE BRUMMS WIRED PROPOSAL TO RESELL TO US PONY AND EQUIPMENT
DELIVERED YOU TODAY STOP IF YOU DO NOT AGREE WIRE IMMEDIATELY
COLLECT


"What is it?"  Angela was bursting with curiosity.

Ferdinand crumpled the message in his first, and shuffled past her
toward the stairway.  There he paused, his face working, his eyes
brimming with angry tears.

"You're all a lot o' cheaters!" he screamed.

Angela stood in open-mouthed amazement. . . .  So unlike Ferdinand
to explode like that!

He clumped down the stairs, savagely shouting:  "I hate all of you!
Do you hear me?  I hate everybody in th' whole damn world!"

Angela brightened.

"He won't tell, then," she reflected.

Ferdinand flung himself out of the house, banged the front gate,
pulled his cap far down over his red nose, dug his fists deep into
the pockets of his pants (cut down from a pair of his uncle's), and
stamped sullenly up the road toward the railroad track, only three
hundred yards away.  The east-bound Erie Flyer was just due.  It
always stopped at Zanesdale for water.

Sometimes Ferdinand strolled down to the station and stood close
beside the dripping water-tank when, at exactly three-thirty-six,
the huge locomotive paused, gasping rhythmically, while the torrent
poured into the capacious tender, the fireman on the coal-pile,
holding the rope, calmly smoking his pipe, unmindful of his happy
privilege.

Most of the fast trains thundered through Zanesdale with a
terrifying racket.  Ferdinand never failed to experience a surge of
hot indignation over this arrogant contempt for his town.  He knew
it wasn't much of a town; had contempt for it himself; but it was
annoying to have the utter insignificance of Zanesdale thrust upon
him nine times a day.

He would not have time to run down to the station, now, even if he
had been in a mood for running: besides, he didn't care to answer
any questions that Mr. Trask might ask, so that he might be able to
tell Mrs. Trask the sequel to the pony story which she would
promptly explain to the town.

He climbed on top of the gate-post at the corner of Harsh's melon-
patch--his favourite vantage when watching the long, black, proud
Pullmans flick by, each adding its own little "Psst!" of disdain;
and watched Number Nine (he knew all the trains that way) slow to a
screeching stop.  There was a long hiss of escaping air from the
brakes; an acrid smell of greasy, hot metal.  The diner was
directly in front of him.  Little tables with candles on them.  A
man and a woman, with a black waiter hovering over them.  Too late
for dinner, too early for supper: this must be "tea."  People in
stories were always having "tea."  Ferdinand drew down the corners
of his mouth and hated the man and the woman, though he knew she
was a pretty woman.  He hated the obsequious waiter, and mumbled,
audibly, "Damn nigger!"

The train moved slowly on, so slowly that the locomotive was
exasperated by the sluggishness of the heavy Pullmans, and barked a
staccato of short, angry demands that it had better get to
business, now, or we'd be late again pulling into Washington.
Ferdinand climbed down from the post, made a detour around the rear
of the melon-patch, and entered the barn through the back door.
The pony looked around over its shoulder, stopped munching its
mouthful of hay, and blew a long breath that made its soft nostrils
flutter.

He advanced slowly and laid a hand on the pony's flank which
twitched as if the light touch had tickled; moved forward another
step and took a wisp of tawny mane in his fingers; was about to pat
the friendly pet on the nose.

On sudden impulse he drew back and muttered, "No--I tell you--NO!"

Retracing his steps through the back door, half-blinded by tears,
he stood for a long time gazing abstractedly into the muddy water
of the miasmic, green-scummed little pond that belonged to Flook's
Tile Factory; amblingly circled the barn, and moved toward his
little workbench behind the woodhouse.

He took the new knife from his pocket, turned it over several
times, opened it, closed it with a sharp click; and, deliberately
drawing his long arm back to full torsion, he sighted carefully--
his lower lip pinioned by a row of uncommonly straight teeth--and
threw the knife all of forty yards with such velocity and precision
that it landed with a mighty splash exactly when he had intended.

Ferdinand grinned.  It was an ugly grin that did something to him
on the inside--a brand-new sensation which defied his childish
analysis, but seemed to be made up of such ingredients as, "Damn
them all!" . . . "I haven't a friend left in the world!" . . .
"I've got to go it alone!" . . . "I CAN go it alone!" . . . "I WILL
go it alone!" . . . "YOU SEE IF I DON'T! . . . DAMN YOU ALL!"



CHAPTER IV


Ferdinand arrived home at five, gaily whistling an improvised tune.

He was in unusually high spirits today; for Miss Carle, who had
specialized in Creative English at Wellesley, and was hopeful of
teaching it in a college, some day, had detained him again after
school to discuss his latest composition as seriously as if they
were equals in age and experience.

"But, Ferdinand," she had cautioned, "really, you're quite
shockingly cynical, I'm afraid . . . for fifteen!"

He would have liked to leave the question of his age standing just
that way, but when she added, "You're not any older, are you?" he
felt obliged to tell the truth.

"I'll be fourteen next May."

"My word!" ejaculated Miss Carle.  "Owlish as Omar, when you ought
to be out playing marbles."

"I guess I grew pretty fast," Ferdinand admitted, shyly.

"And pretty sour, too," laughed Miss Carle.  "But you can write,
young fellow!  Just be a bit careful how you whirl that battle-axe!
You might hurt somebody, and be sorry."

It was evident, at home, that something important was afoot.

Aunt Martha had crimped her hair and was tidying up the house.
Apparently all the major feats of putting to rights had been
attended to, for she was now at the final stage of patting the sofa
pillows and rearranging the trinkets on the mantel--the shepherdess
he had carved, a year ago, the china cat that someone had given to
Angela when she was five, the oval slab of polished stone that
Uncle Miles had picked up on a vagabondish trip long ago in the
Petrified Forest.  A fire had been neatly laid in the grate, though
it was only the second of October and unseasonably warm.

"Mr. and Mrs. Joel Day are coming to call, this evening," explained
Aunt Martha, impressively.  "Mind yuh don't leave yer things a-
lyin' around."

Angela, softly humming while she pressed the skirt of her blue
dress on the ironing-board in the kitchen, broke off to say, as
Ferdinand thrust a long slim hand into the cooky-jar, "Mustn't
scatter crumbs.  The Days are to be here, tonight."

Upstairs, Uncle Miles was found straightening books on the shelves
in his study.  Ferdinand paused in the doorway, half-minded to tell
him that Miss Carle had encouraged him about his writing.  He was
bursting to tell somebody.  On second thought, he decided that
Uncle Miles might think him boastful.

A neat stack of opened letters lay on the corner of the desk,
otherwise bare except for an engagement-pad which occupied a
conspicuous position in the middle.  The letters were making-
believe they were the current mail of a busy man of affairs, the
edge of an old telegram protruding slightly from midway of the
deceitful pile.

Doubtless Uncle Miles meant to slip up here with Mr. Day for a half-
hour's confidential chat about church business while Aunt Martha,
in the parlour below, endeavoured to infect Mrs. Day with a more
passionate interest in the missionary box, the ultimate unpacking
and distribution of which Ferdinand grimly hoped, would put
somebody in Paouting-fu [sic] to at least half the bother that the
recruiting of its miscellaneous contents had already cost him.

He was seldom inquisitive about Uncle Miles's activities, but the
engagement-pad caught his eye.  He felt the makings of a grin at
the corners of his mouth, and dealt with it severely.

A mere glance at tomorrow's crowded programme should be sufficient
to inform a sharp-eyed deacon that the new minister was not only
industrious and popular, but was a person of orderly mind and much
experience.


                            October 3

       8-9       Correspondence
       9-10.45   Study
       11        Mercy Hospital (Mrs. Penfield)
       12.15     Luncheon YMCA Com. on Evangelism
       2-4       Pastoral calls on Brucker, Winona & Swift Sts.
       4.30-6    Study
       7.30      Midweek Service
       8.40      Conference with S.S. Officers


"Don't disturb anything, Ferdinand," remarked Uncle Miles,
importantly.  "Mr. Day is coming out, after supper . . . and Mrs.
Day . . . to make us a little visit."

Ferdinand said he wouldn't, and retreated to his own room at the
end of the hall, grinning broadly.

There were a great many things about his transparent Uncle Miles--
affectations, pretensions, petty deceptions--which, while they had
shocked and distressed him at ten, were only amusing, now.  He had
quite outgrown his earlier illusions about absolute integrity as an
indispensable to anyone engaged in the spread of religion.  His
observations had led him to suspect that there was as much
duplicity practised in Uncle Miles's profession as in any other
business, the main difference between sacred and secular callings
being that in the latter a man had at least a sporting chance of
getting something out of it worth the time and trouble.

Still--Ferdinand was obliged to admit--they had done very well, as
ministers' families went.  The three years on the rim of Fort Wayne
had been good for them.  Uncle Miles--what with Angela's undeniably
valuable co-operation--had been very successful.  The two of them
had made themselves known soon after their arrival in the big town.
Together they had put on noon meetings in the large railroad-shops,
where Uncle Miles had invited soot-smeared mechanics, munching
their apple pie, to remember the faith of their mothers--all of
whom were presumed to be dead and in glory--and Angela, assured of
manner and easy to look at, had sung mellow ballads in keeping with
her father's exhortations, accompanying herself on a portable organ
which she played so effortlessly that many of the younger workmen
wondered if she were actually pumping the thing with her own feet;
and, having manoeuvred their position to the satisfaction of their
curiosity on this point, had remained steadfastly regarding the
robust girl's well-turned ankles with an admiration she did not
appear to resent.

After that, it had been easy to book engagements at Young People's
social affairs in the down-town churches.  At first Uncle Miles had
imagined that his sentimental little talks, replete with touching
anecdotes, were coming into demand; that Angela's contribution
merely provided a unique embellishment to his addresses--a delusion
he was gradually relieved of, however, as more and more invitations
were extended to his gifted daughter alone.  But, for all that,
Uncle Miles had prospered beyond all reasonable expectations, and
the call to the small church in Indianapolis had been no more
appreciated than deserved.

They were still poor; not so poor as they had been, back in
Zanesdale, but required to practise rigid economies.  Aunt Martha,
to whom frugality was a virtue, if not indeed an obsession, had
succeeded in making poverty a noble estate.

For a long time they had been paying for a "little piece of real
estate" in Keokuk, Iowa.  It had never occurred to Ferdinand to
inquire what the "little piece of real estate" consisted of,
whether houses, lands, or business blocks.  It had always been a
"little piece of real estate," which although involving much
correspondence and many receipts of long envelopes from Keokuk,
could not amount to very much on their wages, even though they
skimped valiantly to make the payments on it.

Ferdinand made almost no demands upon the family purse, considering
it no more than his share of the burden to wear the cheapest of
clothes--though Aunt Martha didn't try to make them herself any
more--and went about, uncomplainingly, with empty pockets.  A
stated allowance had never been thought of in their family.  If
Ferdinand wanted a five-cent pencil-tablet, he asked Uncle Miles
for a nickel, please, to buy a pencil-tablet; and, to Uncle Miles's
credit, the nickel was always forthcoming without argument or
reluctance.

Angela had not yet achieved her ambition to appear as the head-
liner in a revival.  Uncle Miles, finding it quite impossible to
leave his local duties for so long a time, and unwilling that
Angela should attempt so responsible an undertaking by herself, had
put her off; though he kept saying, when she pressed him, that they
would surely do it, one of these days; or, if they couldn't, he
would see what might be arranged for her "next winter--perhaps."

She had been growing almost rebelliously restless when the call to
Indianapolis had eased the tension.  She would be making new
"contacts"--Uncle Miles's redundant use of this word "contact,"
especially when he made a verb of it, always annoyed Ferdinand, who
was unconsciously becoming something of a stylist--and doubtless
"opportunities would develop" if Angela would only bide her time;
as indeed they had, for it had been barely a month now since their
coming to Indianapolis, and Angela had already been pleasantly
spoken of in the newspapers three times (and unpleasantly spoken to
in the High School Principal's office twice for her bland
nonchalance in respect to C�sar's Gallic Wars).  It had not yet
occurred to the Music Committee in Uncle Miles's church that
Angela, who had quickly assumed the position of leading soprano in
the choir, deserved a cash competence, for no such appropriation
had ever been considered; but, on every hand--or at least almost
every hand--one heard her appreciatively mentioned as having had
much to do with the unprecedented attendance at church services.

Women declared at the Aid Society that they never had any trouble,
now, getting their menfolks out of bed on Sunday mornings.

A few of the more conservative were for putting vestments on the
choir, something they had never discussed before Angela joined it.
One woman, convinced that the congregation, which was almost
militantly non-conformist, would not consent to gowns on the choir,
wondered--though it took a good deal of courage to say it, even in
the privacy of a group of three--whether it might not be tactfully
suggested to Mrs. Brumm that Angela was really a bigger girl than
she thought; to which another woman, equally moved to candour,
replied, "No--we mustn't do that.  It would do no good, anyway.
Angela is just one of those people who, no matter how much they
have on, always look as if they'd left something off."

As for Ferdinand's attitude toward his uncle's bustling ministry,
and the luxuriant Angela's aspirations, it stopped with merely
wishing them well.  Aunt Martha had long since discontinued her
direct appeals to him to prepare himself vocationally to follow in
his uncle's footsteps; and Uncle Miles, who had frequently besought
the Lord, at family worship, to lead "this lad into the ministry of
the gospel"--mostly to please Aunt Martha, Ferdinand always thought--
had lately omitted this supplication from his invoice of the
family's wants.

Of course, there was no use pretending he had no interest in what
went on at their church, for Uncle Miles's profession was singular
in that neither he nor his household was ever for a moment free of
it.  The church was all they lived for.  It was at once the hub and
the rim, the corona and the periphery of their thoughts and
conversation.  Such friendships as they had, if not actually
originating at the church, eventually brought up there--tentative,
temporary, shallow-rooted friendships, for at any minute they might
pack up and move elsewhere.

Three years had made structural changes in Ferdinand.  They had
spread some substantial and nicely distributed flesh on his
gangling frame, the additional weight seeming to have given him
more self-confidence.  He was still rather shy, but had almost
outgrown his earlier tendency to a morbid self-dissatisfaction
which, at ten, had made him painfully sensitive, touchy, and
inclined to mope.

It had been a long time, now, since he had participated in a family
scene, contenting himself--when they glanced apprehensively in his
direction on occasions brimming with the raw materials of argument--
to draw a twisted smile, which, although he had never seen it, he
suspected of being somewhat unpleasant.  Situations that had once
fetched out of him a squeaky and savage indignation, popping off to
the ruination of a meal, and hurling him out of the room, and
tossing him on to his bed where he would lie for hours hating all
visible creation, including himself, were now handled with an
indifference so closely akin to contempt that the family sometimes
wished he had not tied down the safety-valve.

Aunt Martha, particularly, viewed this change in Ferdinand with
prayerful anxiety.  Much as she had deplored the lad's occasional
releases of volcanic protest--mostly protests against the quite
irksome and unquestionably silly inhibitions which she herself laid
upon him; for she insisted that at ten he should carry himself like
an experienced saint of seventy, while she rigged him in babyish
sailor-collars and fussy girlish waists not worn by any child over
five, a manner of dress that promoted his misfortune in being
oversized to a farce so ludicrous that even he, murderously angry
as he was, sometimes laughed himself into wild hysteria over his
own appearance in the mirror, a storm usually followed by a fit of
rebellious weeping--he often wondered if Aunt Martha did not
secretly enjoy such emotional hurricanes.

On several memorable occasions she had knelt, with Ferdinand sourly
crouched beside her (venomously despising them both), and prayed
aloud--her wailing petitions punctuated with convulsive sobs--that
"this wayward orphan, whom Thou in Thine Infinite Wisdom, hast
entrusted into our care and keeping, may be just brought under the
influence of Thy Blessed Spirit."

All that was over, now.  Aunt Martha had herself under much better
control.  Whether the benign rainbow that arched her had arrived to
signal the biologic fact that she had graduated from her rip-
roaring middle forties, or whether the promotion from a bucolic
atmosphere of country-village piety into the relative sophistication
of bigger towns and associated with "city folks" had pushed in a few
of the shriller stops in her turbulent spirit, Ferdinand did not
know.

Perhaps it was these early experiences of the utter breakdown of
emotional discipline that had produced in Ferdinand a mounting
contempt for home theatricals.  Unquestionably, these unbridled
seizures of Aunt Martha's had been bad for him.  They had made him
despise any sentiment that threatened to invoke tears.  He had wept
himself out in early childhood.

At thirteen, plus, these deep lesions had healed, but not without
leaving some impermeable scars on the lamina of young Ferdinand's
soul at the very points of exposure most frequently bombarded in a
home where prayer and piety, sentiment and emotion, were all in the
day's work.

Adversions and appeals to Deity were, in Ferdinand's opinion,
merely an unscrupulous and unsportsmanly method of having your own
way in dealing with people who might be so weak-minded as to
believe that you and God were at one as to the soundness of your
cause.  If you couldn't get what you wanted out of the other fellow
by wheedle and whimper, purchase or threat, vituperation or
violence, you bade him listen while you took it up with the Lord in
prayer.  You closed your eyes, and, in the lugubrious tone of one
making funeral arrangements over the telephone, prosecuted your
case while your helpless victim knelt beside you hotly wanting the
courage to say, "Either you're a fraud, or your God is a rascal!"

Ferdinand no longer took any stock whatever in prayer--either in
the family worship kind of prayer that besought the Almighty to
make you sweet-spirited and obedient to His Holy Will, five minutes
after you had stubbornly objected, at breakfast on Saturday, to
spending the whole afternoon helping old Mullins clean out the
church furnace, when you had been looking forward all week to a bit
of carving on the fire-screen you meant to give Miss Carle on
Christmas; or in the public kind of prayer that asked God to touch
the generous hearts of this dear people (Gosh! how he loathed
those smug antiques that stood in prim rows in Uncle Miles's
prayers!) . . . and incline them to give sacrificially to some
pet scheme they were being badgered into against their wishes.

He had been trying lately not to think about it at all; saying to
himself that in any other environment than his the whole matter of
religion in general and the activities of the church in particular
would be giving him no concern.

Until recently, he had suffered frequent torments, as he watched
his feverish disdain burning out to smoking cinders.  Could it be
that he had "quenched the Spirit"?  Uncle Miles was forever warning
his flock against the cold apathy that meant one had committed the
"unpardonable sin."  These past few weeks, he had almost left off
torturing himself with these morbid reflections.  The "unpardonable
sin" was just so much more nonsense--all of a piece with everything
else they ranted about and wept over and grudgingly subscribed
to. . . .  A lot o' bunk! . . .  Tripe!

                        *  *  *  *  *

Ferdinand tossed his books on the bed and clatteringly rummaged in
the disordered lower drawer of his battered, secondhand, taffy-
coloured desk for a shoe-brush and the box of blacking.  He, too,
would be expected to help entertain these precious Days whose
threat of a visit had set them all scouring and preening.

Poising one foot on the edge of the untidy drawer, Ferdinand
grimacingly recruited a mouthful of lubricant and spat viciously
into the noisomely pungent blacking-box.  He, too, would be
required to come down, with his hair reached high to show he had an
intellectual forehead, and smirk for this rich and brittle Mr. Day,
who, because his deceased father had organized Uncle Miles's church
and paid for most of it, was in a position to make them all jump
through the hoop--and like it.

He would have to sit there for an hour and a half, posing for an
angel; just as if he gave a damn whether these wonderful Days liked
him or not.  He smeared the dauber side of the brush into the
blacking, and anointed the toe of his shabby shoe.

Angela, of course, would sing for them in her most luscious manner.
If the guests didn't ask her promptly, Aunt Martha would direct the
conversation into that quarter.  "Yes--Angela has been a great
help," she would say, in her precise, company voice, "what with her
singin' 'n' all."

"Won't you sing something for us now, dear?"--this Mrs. Day would
beg, probably hoping she wouldn't.  But you could count on
Angela. . . .  Well--so much the better.  While that was going on,
he wouldn't have to do anything.

Ferdinand banged and bumped and smeared the shoe-brush against the
desk-drawer as he insured himself against being sent back to
"polish the heel as well as the toe"--meanwhile carrying on with
his sour prognosis of the evening's entertainment.

Angela, having more than satisfied the customers with her recital,
closing it with an extended rendition of "Crossing the Bar," would
smile, fold the music, push in the organ-stops, and slowly revolve
on the hair-cloth stool to receive the inevitable "My!--ain't that
grand?"

And then this Mrs. Day--a feathery, fussy old dame, no doubt--would
turn to him. . . .  Ferdinand raised his other foot to the ledge
of the drawer and again paid his respects to the vile blacking-
box. . . .  Ducking her big-plumed head, coquettishly, and grinning
as if she were peering under the hood of a perambulator, she would
inquire, "And what do YOU do, Master Ferdinand?"

That's what she would say, and the way she would say it.  He had
never seen her, but he knew.  He had seen Mr. Day.  Mr. Day had met
them at the train.  Uncle Miles had known he would, for he had
written promising to do so.  And there he was, sure enough,
standing on the platform where the day-coach passengers alighted.
Mr. Day had known they would be riding in the day-coach, though he
himself wouldn't, of course.

Ferdinand had had no difficulty picking him out of the crowd on the
platform--a square man, with square shoulders, square hands, square
feet, square head, square mouth.  He was to be their boss, because
he had lots of money.  Mr. Day had shaken hands all round and led
the way to a shiny new Cadillac.  Ferdinand hadn't liked the back
of Mr. Day's square head or his square knuckles on the steering-
wheel, though he was bound to admit that Mr. Day inspired respect.
Mr. Day owned them now, same as he owned his Cadillac.  Uncle Miles
sitting beside him, with his arm stretched along the top of the
seat, as if he were getting ready to hug Mr. Day, was already
saying, "Yes, yes; to be sure, Brother Day: ab-so-LUTE-ly!"

Ferdinand transferred his suspenders to his Sunday pants and
emptied his pockets on top of the desk.

"Perhaps you sing, too," Mrs. Day would suggest, "like your
sister."  And then Aunt Martha would heave the long sigh that meant
she was going to explain how Angela wasn't his sister, a story that
Angela would interrupt presently to reply to Mrs. Day's query.

"Ferdinand whittles," she would say, crossing swiftly to the mantel
for the little shepherdess.  And Mrs. Day would gurgle, "You don't
mean to tell me!  Look, Mr. Day, at this perfectly ex-QUIS-ite, piece
of carving!"  And Mr. Day, deliberately finishing the long sentence
he was on, and steadfastly looking at Uncle Miles from under his
square eyebrows--just to show he was the kind of a man who mustn't
be interrupted--but reaching out his square hand to signify that he
would be pleased to take up Mrs. Day's case as the next order of
business, would presently pinch his glasses on to his square nose,
owlishly inspect the shepherdess, and say, as he handed it back,
"Nicely done, I'm sure."

Ferdinand was tumbling the contents of the top bureau-drawer,
looking for a clean collar that had no frayed edges.

"He prints, too," Aunt Martha would add, proudly, though she was
forever chiding him for wasting his time with all that type-
settin'.  Before she and Angela went through with it, he would be
sent upstairs for "that meenoo and programme" he had made for the
Annual Canvass Dinner at Fort Wayne, last winter.  And Mrs. Day
would squint at it, and twist in her chair to get a better light on
it, and borrow Mr. Day's glasses; and Mr. Day would suggest that
Ferdinand might do a lot of the church printing, "just for good
practice!" . . .  Gosh!--how he hated these hellish exhibitions!

                        *  *  *  *  *

Ferdinand put his Harvey's Grammar face down on the desk and
listened for the doorbell.  It would soon ring, now, for he had
heard the car-doors slam, opulently.  It rang, sharply, as if Mr.
Day were saying, "Don't keep us waiting!  I paid for most of this
house, myself!" . . . and Uncle Miles was opening the door, his
hearty "Well--well!" meaning, "I know you did, Brother Day, and I
came running fast as ever I could--ab-so-LUTE-ly!"

They were all talking at once, now, and drifting through the hall
into the parlour.  Mr. Day was remarking dryly that the floors
needed to be gone over, and Mrs. Day--who sounded quite elderly--
was asking Aunt Martha, in a high key, how she was finding the
house, anyway.

Presently, Angela came to the foot of the stairs and called him.
He would have to go.  He gave his hair a final scrub with the
brush, scowled into the mirror, and started.  Hopeful of slipping
into the room so quietly they would hardly notice his arrival,
Ferdinand made as little noise as possible on the way down.

Slowly negotiating the last few steps, he was able, by the location
of their voices, and a panoramic glimpse through the wide doorway,
to place their positions--Aunt Martha, first; then Mrs. Day, a
white-haired, little old lady, old enough to be Mr. Day's mother
(as indeed she was, he soon discovered); then Mr. Day, on the
brussels sofa, polishing his glasses with a large silk handkerchief,
Uncle Miles sitting close beside him with a hand on Mr. Day's knee.

Another step located Angela, close to the melodeon, of course,
talking animatedly, and, for her, rather affectedly, to some
unidentified person not yet in the picture.

Ferdinand cautiously moved forward and brought gradually into view
a slim, modishly shod foot and a generous glimpse of the first silk
stockings he had ever seen, a pair of gracefully crossed, tailored
knees, a shapely arm negligently thrown back across the top of the
chair--it was a dining-room chair, put there for him, and she had
evidently preferred it to the patent rocker which stood vacant--her
fur boa tossed back from her shoulder.

Nobody like that had ever been in their house before.  Ferdinand
hadn't yet seen her face--it would require some courage to do this
next step--but he knew she did not belong to their world, at all.
Something in her posture told him that.

"Come on in, Ferdinand," called Angela, pleasantly, in the tone of
thirty addressing six, which made him know the stylish stranger
could not be very old, if Angela was playing grownup.

Summoning all his valour, Ferdinand stepped to the door and found
himself staring--open-mouthed, he feared--at the most beautiful
woman he had ever seen.  She smiled, a slowly widening smile, which
seemed to mean they were already friends of long standing, bending
her head forward and looking at him from under long black lashes,
her lips puckered a little, teasingly, as if to say, "I know you
don't want to come in here and be bored; but--let's have it over."

Ferdinand's heart skipped a beat, and then made up for it with a
hard bump that put him quite out of breath and made his voice
unsteady when, reluctantly detained by Aunt Martha's hand on his
arm, he paused to speak to Madam Day and Mr. Day, who obligingly
made short work of him to resume their briefly interrupted remarks.
All the previously inactive minerals in Ferdinand's blood responded
to the first potential magnet he had ever approached, his natural
shyness giving way to a new sensation of actually belonging to
someone!

She did not rise or offer her hand when Angela said, "This is
Ferdinand, Mrs. Day."  People, when introduced, always stood up and
gravely shook hands.  Eighty rose to shake hands with eight.  Mrs.
Day merely tipped back her pretty head, so he could see the fringe
of glossy little black curls under her big picture hat, and smiled,
with red lips parted.

He could not speak for an instant.  The routine phrase, "Pleased-t'-
meetcha," which he had been obliged to mumble so often that it was
all one word, would not come.  It was inappropriate.  He swallowed,
rather noisily, and said, "I'm glad--I'm glad to--I'm very glad!"

"By Jove, boy," she drawled, "I really believe you ARE!"  She
pointed to the vacant chair beside her.  "Do you always say such
delightfully nice things?"

Angela, hopeful of smoothing over his unsuccessful attempt to
manage the usual formula, explained maternally:  "Ferdinand is so
shy, Mrs. Day.  He always hates being introduced. . . .  You can
sit in the rocker, Ferdinand.  Mrs. Day thought she would like this
straight chair better."

"Yes," said Ferdinand, still in a trance, "she would."

He sat down, and while wondering if it would be all right for him
to look her straight in the eyes again--wanting to, but afraid he
would stare at her--he gazed interestedly at her hands, wishing she
did not have gloves on.  She leisurely unbuttoned them and began
slowly to take them off, tugging at one finger-tip after another.
He glanced up, a bit abashed, and they both smiled, understandingly.

"I'm always wondering about hands, too," she said, lazily.  "Your
sister has been telling me what interesting things you do with
yours; but I think I could have guessed--now that I see them."

Ferdinand instinctively spread them out, glad now that he had taken
pains with his nails.

"You make things, too," he ventured.  "Maybe you paint."

"Rather badly.  I've been having better luck, lately, dabbling with
wood-cuts.  That's great fun!"

"I expect you have lots of carving-tools."

"Too many!  I keep experimenting with all these different-shaped
chisels, and never use any one of them long enough to--"

"Hard wood?" queried Ferdinand, professionally.

"Oh, dear, no; not yet!  I've just begun it, you see."

"I have tinkered with some little designs," confessed Ferdinand,
modestly, "but I don't know what they look like."

Angela, recovering from her amazement over the taciturn Ferdinand's
easy talk, put in, "He hasn't a press, Mrs. Day--nor hardly
anything to work with."

"Pine?" asked Mrs. Day, having briefly turned her head to
acknowledge Angela's comment.

"No--oak and walnut."

Mrs. Day's finely modelled eyebrows lifted a little in surprise.

"How would you like to come over, some day, and see what I have
been doing?  Perhaps I might trade you a reamer or two for some
good advice."

"I'd like to!"  Ferdinand flushed with pleasure.  "But I don't
think I could tell you anything that you don't know."

"Saturday--maybe?"

"Yes--after dinner?"

"No--I'm to be out for dinner.  Come about two."

She belonged, Ferdinand realized, to a different world from his
drab little island where the conversation never rose above the dull
tittle-tattle of domestic drudgeries in homes like theirs, and the
equally stupid prattle about rummage sales that were to finance a
new cement sidewalk around the church and mend the plumbing in the
basement.  Hers was a world that had dinner at night instead of
noon, an unselfconscious world that spoke correctly without
stiffness, that moved with dignity but without embarrassment, a
world that leisurely went out to the diner for "tea."  The
difference between her world and his swept over Ferdinand, not to
his discontentment, but to his almost painful wistfulness.  He felt
that she had recognized him as eligible to citizenship in her
world, and was glad.

"That's agreed, then.  I'll expect you," she said, rising as Aunt
Martha--still talking primly to Madam Day, and nervously smoothing
her shapeless black skirt--moved toward them, apparently intending
to draw Mrs. Day, whom for excellent reasons she was obviously shy
of, into the adult section.  "Your father can tell you where we
live," concluded Mrs. Day, with another smile that sent Ferdinand's
damaged heart racing.

Aunt Martha's curiosity spoke in her strained face.  Aunt Martha's
face was never under good control.  Bulletins announcing her every
doubt, anxiety, hope, and fear were posted about her restless mouth
and myopic eyes immediately upon arrival.  At the moment, Ferdinand
knew what was going on in her mind as certainly as if she shouted
it.  She was engaged in a struggle, attempting to be obsequiously
courteous to Mrs. Day because it was incumbent on her to be
deferential to Brother Day's Mrs. Day, while endeavouring to warn
Ferdinand--with one fleeting glare of stern disapproval--that he
was on no account to be permitted to come under the influence of
this frivolous, worldly creature whom Brother Day--so steady and
sensible about everything else--had had the misfortune to marry.

Conversation broke off, in the other corner of the room, in
acknowledgment of Mrs. Day's arrival in their midst.  Brother Day
stiffly stood at attention, tapping his nose-glasses on his thumb-
nail.  Uncle Miles tardily scrambled to his feet, pulled down his
vest, and said, "Well--well!" just as if Mrs. Day had quite taken
them by surprise, dropping in unexpectedly.

Madam Day snapped the massive silver latch of her black leather bag
several times, and pursed her lips resignedly.

Aunt Martha proffered her chair and drew up another.  They were all
ready now, it appeared, for Mrs. Day to explain why she had
intruded.

"Ferdinand has promised to come and see me," she said, in a tone
that hoped she was giving his parents pleasure--"to talk about wood-
cuts."

"Very good of you, Sister--er--Mrs. Day," beamed Uncle Miles, in
the voice he used when patronizingly commending a shy testimony
offered at prayer-meeting.

Mr. Day elevated his chin, stroked the back of his bald head, gazed
critically at the ceiling, and tapped his lean knee with his
glasses.  There was the suggestion of a frown creasing his
forehead.  Ferdinand wondered if the frown did not mean that Mrs.
Day should first have consulted Mr. Day before making her proposal.

"Well"--said he, judicially--"perhaps the lad had better be
encouraged to do something more useful than fiddling with wood-
cuts."

Aunt Martha, cannily reasoning that, while Brother Day might enjoy
handing his wife a surly rebuff, he probably wouldn't thank anybody
for being so impertinent as to applaud him, remarked:  "Ferdinand
comes natural by his taste fer wood-carvin'.  His grandpa's folks
in th' old country was all wood-carvers.  When he come t' this
country, he changed the name to Miller because his family name was
hard fer folks t' say.  Their name was Mueller--M-u-e-l-l-e-r."

"I wonder if they were related to the very famous family of
Muellers in Dresden.  Do you know, Mrs. Brumm?"

Aunt Martha, hugging her angular elbows and rocking gently, nodded
with pride.

"My father was born in Dresden in the house of Frederick Mueller.
He was the great-grandson of Hans Mueller."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Day.  "What a heritage!"

"Ye-es," agreed Mr. Day.  "Very interesting."

Angela had slipped over on to the chair recently vacated by the
charming Mrs. Day.

"Awfully odd, isn't she?" whispered Angela.

"Hunnh?"

Ferdinand was barely conscious of her comment, so intent was he on
the developments in his own case, now under discussion on the other
side of the room.

"Odd!" repeated Angela, guardedly, behind her hand.

Ferdinand reluctantly detached his gaze from the object of his
adoration, and regarded Angela with an inquisitive stare.

"How do you mean--odd?" he said, absently.  "I think she's the most
wonderful person I ever saw!"



CHAPTER V


"Look, Janet!"  Ferdinand laid the limp proof on the imposing-
stone, folded his smudged arms, and glanced over his shoulder for
her approval.  "Rather good, wouldn't you say?  How fortunate we
could use one of those quaint, diamond-shaped colons on the very
first page."

"Perfect!"  Janet Day hovered close, snuggling a hand
affectionately under his elbow, her cheek pressed lightly against
his broad shoulder.  "Old Thomas Caxton would be green with envy.
Really, Dinny, you're marvellous!"

"It's you that's marvellous, Janet.  I would never have known
anything about this, but for you."

For a moment she neither responded nor turned away; stood soberly
staring at the first page of what was going to be General Bryce's
annual Memorial Day greeting to the diminishing survivors of his
brigade--a sixteen-page brochure done in two colours on hand-laid
Italian vellum, the price no object, for the General was rich.  It
was the most pretentious thing they had attempted.

Janet had been very quiet and pensive today.  Twice, as they had
encountered each other, face to face, in the narrow quarters of the
little printing-shop that cluttered the whole south bay of her
attic studio--screened off to segregate its inevitable untidiness--
Ferdinand had been made uneasy by the entreaty in her brown eyes.
Janet wanted to ask him something, and didn't dare.  Janet wanted
to tell him something, but was afraid.  Had he done something to
grieve her?  What could it have been?  He had failed her somehow:
in what?  But no--it was rather as if she, herself, was on the
defensive.

Her competent fingers tightened their warm grasp on his arm.
Perhaps she was going to talk about it now.

"No," she said, preoccupiedly, "you would have done all this,
anyway, sooner or later.  However, I'm glad I have had a little
part in it. . . .  I want you always to think well of me, Dinny.
You've been such a dear, and I'm so proud of you."

Impulsively he lifted her hand to his lips, an act that surprised
them both, a little.  Ferdinand despised sentiment.

"What is it, Janet?" he asked, gently.  "Something bothering you?"

"Now you've ink on your nose, Dinny," she laughed, a bit nervously,
he thought.  "No--it's nothing.  Just moody, because it's raining
and dark.  I didn't intend it should rain, today."

"Well--if you're sure that's all.  I was afraid you were unhappy.
I didn't do anything, did I, Janet?"

Shaking off her dolorous mood, and facing him with a twisted little
smile, Janet slipped her palms slowly upward on his well-muscled
arms, grasped his ear-lobes in her slim fingers, made a gesture of
chastising him, and murmured, "Of course not, simpleton."

He had called her "Janet" from the first; ever since that enchanted
Saturday, now more than three and a half years ago, when, shy and
excited, he had followed the solemn butler over the deep-pile
Oriental rugs from the impressive front entrance to the broad,
winding stairs, and along a narrower corridor to narrower stairs
leading into the huge attic room.

"Master Brumm, ma'am," the man had said, leaving them.

Under a large north skylight, young Mrs. Day--who had not been
absent from Ferdinand's thoughts, waking or sleeping, since the
night he had met her--sat on a tall three-legged stool before a
composing-case, distributing type, her high heels hooked on a rung.
Her heavy black hair was braided in one long plait.  She wore a
short skirt, and a long, green, open-throated jacket with capacious
pockets, the costume diminishing her age and urbanity until she was
quite another person than the queenly Mrs. Day whose black voile
nearly touched the floor, whose white lace yoke had brought up in a
tight, ribbed collar that almost reached to her dainty ears, her
slim height emphasized by the big black hat with the orange velvet
tips, on the night she had made their house, and all the people in
it, outmoded and shabby.

Except for the slow, half-teasing, puckery smile with which she
turned to welcome him, this girlish Mrs. Day might have been
someone else than the mysterious goddess who had been playing the
deuce with his imagination and staling his appetite for dinner.

Slipping down from her high stool, she had thrust her hands deep
into the pockets of her smock, her head tilted as if in critical
judgment of a picture.

"You seem ever so much bigger, taller," she said.  "How old are
you?"

"It's this collar, I think," Ferdinand had replied, soberly.
"Going on fourteen. . . .  Aunt Martha would have me wear it."

"Who's Aunt Martha?  Does she live with you?"

"But you met Aunt Martha.  Mrs. Brumm is not my mother."

Mrs. Day's shapely arm was thrown up suddenly in a gesture of happy
discovery emphasized by a vigorous snap of the fingers, her face
alight.

"By Jove!" she shouted.  "So--that's the answer to the riddle!"

"My mother died when I was born," explained Ferdinand.

"And your father--what became of him?"

Ferdinand was very sorry that the subject had arisen.  He had come,
eager and inquisitive, hoping to see Mrs. Day's wood-working
equipment; and here we were, wasting precious time.

"He's living . . . out West . . . I never saw him. . . .  You're
putting the type back in their boxes; aren't you?"  Ferdinand drew
nearer the case.  "May I watch you do it?"

"Oh--we're going to talk about wood-cuts," said Mrs. Day.  "But,
first, sit down.  Tell me some more about yourself."

"There isn't much," he replied, gloomily; but he took the big club
chair she pointed to, and began to tell her what little he knew.
Seated on a low ottoman at his feet, she listened intently, asking
brief questions when he paused.  There was, after all, a good deal
of the story.  It was a whole hour before Mrs. Day seemed
satisfied, and they sat silently.

"I think you should have kept the pony," she said, after a long
pause.  "That must have hurt him, dreadfully. . . .  And you never
wrote to him?"

Ferdinand drew a long sigh, with a convulsive catch in the middle
of it, and abstractedly twisted Mrs. Day's soggy little
handkerchief into a slim rope.  Her understanding sympathy and
affection had loosed a long-pent flood of suppressed misery.  He
smiled, feebly.

"That's the first time anybody ever defended my father," said
Ferdinand.  "Why should I have written to him?  He never wrote to
me."

Mrs. Day rose, and, walking slowly to the dormer window, stood
looking down at the busy street.

"I'm guessing that there's some more of that story . . . that you
never heard," she said, impressively.

Then there had been some hot chocolate and cakes, and Ferdinand
became quickly absorbed in Mrs. Day's explanation of the new
printing-press which her good friend, Mr. Oscar Zimmerman, had lent
her.  Mr. Zimmerman had made quite a hobby of art-craft printing;
had done some beautiful things; now he had tired of it; had sent
her his entire equipment for use while he was abroad.

"He will be so interested in you, Ferdinand.  I wrote him you were
a Mueller descendant, and that I intended you should have a go at
these things--wood-cuts, art printing, etchings."

They became very well acquainted, that day.  Ferdinand's name was
too bulky and mature, and was abbreviated to "Dinny," which seemed
to make him rather light-hearted, as if his name had weighted him.

"You may call me Janet, if you like," she had suggested.  "If we're
going to play together with these things, you'll probably be
teaching me, very soon, and I mustn't be much older than my
teacher, you see, or it might discourage me."

"I never knew anyone named Janet, before," said Ferdinand.  "I'm
glad."

"Dinny, you say the most adorable things . . . and all
unconsciously, too.  That's the best part of it.  You're developing
into a young courtier; I can see that."

                        *  *  *  *  *

Ferdinand was also developing into a young liar, he feared, after
he had answered all of Aunt Martha's pressing questions relative to
that first visit with the problematical Mrs. Day.  Naturally
disposed to be suspicious of well-groomed femininity, Aunt Martha
was troubled.  Ferdinand was required to reproduce the afternoon,
item by item.  How was Mrs. Day dressed?  Was Mr. Day at home?  Was
Madam Day present?  What did she have to say?  What all happened?

Ferdinand promoted himself, that evening, from the mere happy
estate of apprentice to a beautiful craftswoman.  He achieved the
dignity of a great story-teller.  Baron Munchausen would have been
proud of him.  Amazing himself by the increasing glibness of his
tale, he invented a conversation he had had with Mrs. Day that
represented her as most ardently concerned about the welfare of the
church, albeit she never attended, due to a slight heart affection
which made it dangerous for her to expose herself to strong
emotional appeals; garbed her in a sombre dress, laid a grey shawl
about her shoulders, had the audacity to put her hair up in curl-
papers; located her workroom in the busiest part of the great
house; caused servants to stand by her, handing her the things she
needed in her work--and wound up with an account of his hostess's
admiration for Aunt Martha and Uncle Miles and Angela. . . .
Fearing he had been extravagant in this, Ferdinand decided to risk
nothing further and excused himself on the pretence of having to
study.

But Aunt Martha was never quite at ease with Ferdinand's two and
three afternoons a week--and all day Saturdays--with Mrs. Day.

"I never did like the looks o' that woman," she would say,
anxiously, to Mr. Brumm.  "You wait! . . .  We'll see!"

And when, at length, having waited, they saw, she muttered, grimly
pleased that her forecast had been so prescient, "Didn't I tell
yuh?  Didn't I warn yuh?  Where were yer eyes?"

                        *  *  *  *  *

Dinny carefully unwound the inky string from the type-form and went
about the extraction of an upper-case H that seemed a bit
defective.

"Rather rubbishy sentiment; wouldn't you say?" he called across to
Janet, bent over a wood-cut with a big reading-glass in one hand
and a slim reamer in the other, putting stripes in a wind-blown
flag.

"Oh--I don't know," she replied, as from a considerable distance.
"It's about what one would expect, isn't it, from a mellow old
gentleman, trying to be lyrical about war; trying to remember and
forget at the same time, like the proud but poor old lady in London
who went out to sell papers, mumbling, 'Times, tuppence!  Times,
tuppence!  Lord, I hopes nobuddy 'ears me!'. . .  And no one will
actually read this, anyway, you know.  They'll be saying, 'What a
LOVELY piece of printing!  Whoever did it?  And especially these
bee-ootiful ornamental capitals, and this incomparable tail-piece!
Just look at that FLAG!' . . .  That's what they will be saying,
Dinny."

"That's rather cynical . . . for you, Janet," laughed Dinny.  "I'm
always the one that's scolded for being more concerned over the way
things look than what they mean.  You must be deteriorating."

He ran the sticky, snapping, black brayer over the face of his
corrected galley, and began pounding another proof-page on to it
with a plane.

"I think words get their definitions, not from the dictionary, but
from the private sentiments of the people who use them," continued
Dinny, philosophically.  "Take the General's word 'misunderstandings.'
That's what caused the war--'misunderstandings.'  Fact is, they all
understood one another too well.  People are forever calling their
quarrels 'misunderstandings.'  Nonsense!  So long as they were
misunderstanding, each one could give the other credit for a bit of
ignorant honesty.  But when they begin to understand each other,
they call out the troops and distribute the gunpowder."

"You amuse me, Dinny," drawled Janet, intent on her occupation.
"You would never have thought about that, at all, if you hadn't
been annoyed because 'misunderstandings' is too long to look well
in a line of twelve-point Caslon set to fourteen ems.  It's just
when they begin to inconvenience us that we find fault with words
and have hot debates over them.  We think up shorter synonyms that
look better on whatever page we're making up, and then imagine
we've discovered a new idea, or expressed a pleasanter thought.  If
'licentiousness' is too unwieldy, we change it to 'liberty.'"

"'Parsimoniousness' IS easier to set, if you call it 'thrift,'"
agreed Dinny, willing to go on with the game, but a bit bewildered
over Janet's choice of an illustration.

"It all depends upon who's talking," she added, absently, "and
when.  'Liberty' is a pretty word, isn't it?"

"I should think these old soldiers," pursued Dinny, didactically,
"would never want to hear another word about war.  It must give
them the heebie-jeebies in the night.  I saw a team of farm-horses
run off with a mowing-machine, when I was a little boy.  The man
fell off the iron seat, and got tangled in the knives.  The scared
horses turned short when they came to a fence-corner and had their
hind legs nearly chewed off, not having sense enough to stop.  I
see it yet, sometimes, when I'm slow going to sleep.  It's the most
reliable of all my pet horrors.  Wouldn't you think these old
veterans would be just as happy not to be reminded of screaming
horses with eyes dangling on a string, dragging their insides after
them in long muddy ropes; and neighbour boys with the white
splintered ends of bones sticking through their bloody pant-legs,
and sticky globs of warm brains--"

"I say!  Dinny!  Stop it!  What a ghastly imagination!"

"I'm going to fetch it to market, one o' these days."

"Going to be a butcher?"

"Going to write a book . . . called 'Balderdash.'  Chapter one--
patriotism; two--religion; three--I haven't quite decided on three
yet, but it's to be something about the superstition that people
with money have a right to play wheel-barrow with everybody who
works for them or lives with them.  Ever play wheel-barrow, Janet?"

"Yes, I think so.  How do you play it?"

"Well--you get down on the floor, on your hands, and I pick you up
by the feet and push, and you either have to walk on your hands or
bump your nose."

"Oh, yes--I've been playing that, all my life.  Nice game!"

For a little while, Dinny rattled on with his sour diatribe against
war, Janet remotely keeping track of his excursion.

It hadn't been quite true that she'd always been playing wheel-
barrow.  Father--God bless him--had been infinitely tender and
considerate.  How he had humoured her every wish--hers and her
mother's.  Maybe that was why he could leave so little when he
died; almost nothing, indeed, but extravagant tastes.  She could
have seen it through; but not her mother.  Mr. Day had proposed
such an easy solution.  "You'd be a fool, Janet," her mother had
said.  "It's a chance in a lifetime."  What a pity her mother had
died, seeing the sacrifice had been made to please her.

"All this sweet hokum of the General's about 'shot-and-shell,'"
Dinny was declaiming.  "He's singing hymns about the varnished shot-
and-shell piled in pyramids at the foot of the Soldiers' Monument.
If he really wants to give the old fellows a thrill, why doesn't he
remind them of the slippery shot-and-shell--all ooky and slimy
with--"

"I heard you, Dinny, the first time! . . .  Hand me that slide-
rule, will you, dear? . . .  But, you see, that's the way to keep
patriotism alive."

"Patriotism's tripe!"

"Yes, Dinny. . . .  Come over here and see my flag.  Is that any
better?"

He bent his five-feet-eleven over her soft shoulder, leaning his
weight against the table on an ink-smeared hand.

"Fine, Janet!  Much improved! . . .  Now you take my Uncle Elmer;
not meaning that he was worth a hoot before he went to Cuba, but
just supposing he was.  Gets himself all hotted up about his
patriotic duty when somebody pounds a drum; sobs into his beer; hep-
heps to Havana in boots two sizes too small for his big feet;
curries the Colonel's horse; comes home with dysentery from eating
spoiled meat that the get-rich-packers unloaded on them; and . . .
Janet--perhaps you might give the eagle's left wing just a bit more
spread . . . and expects to spend the rest of his life lying about
in the shade at the Soldiers' Home.  Patriotism--rot! . . .  Look
out for those stars, Janet!  You'll have a deuce of a time putting
them back in, you know, once they're out!"

"I know, Dinny.  By the way," she laughed, "that's what the
General's little book is about; isn't it?  He believed that.  Once
the stars were out, it would be hard to put them back in."

"Rubbish!  Sentiment!"

"Then why are we doing this, at all?"

"Because I'm earning money to go to college this autumn."  Dinny
turned back to his table and carefully peeled off a new proof.

"Speaking of college--has your uncle relented?"

"Him--relent?  He's more convinced than ever.  Says he has already
assured old Dean What's-His-Name that I'd come to Magnolia; says it
would do him a terrible lot of damage in the conference, or
whatever it is, if I went to a godless State University.
Everything's godless that Uncle Miles doesn't happen to know about.
Odd jumble of conflicting ideas in Uncle Miles's head.  I'd give
something for a picture of the inside of it.  Long ago, he was out
in Arizona and visited the Petrified Forest.  Never gets done
talking about it.  Picked up a piece and brought it home.  Fondles
it, and says, in a stage whisper, 'That's A MILLION YEARS OLD, my
friend!' . . .  But, on Sundays, it's only six thousand years old,
so it won't antedate the sun, moon, and stars."

"Don't be too hard on him, Dinny.  He can't contradict Genesis, you
know.  His whole flock would stampede."

"I'll bet Mr. Day wouldn't follow along in that stampede," said
Dinny, eager as usual to find something meritorious in Mr. Day,
seeing Janet had to live with him--a sore trial, he suspected.  Or,
was Dinny championing the cause of Mr. Day because he feared that
Janet was thinking too much about Mr. Zimmerman, who was at home
again, and so frequently visited her?

"No," replied Janet, gravely.  "Mr. Day wouldn't follow in that
stampede.  He never follows.  He'd lead it."

"But--you don't mean to tell me Mr. Day believes that old Jewish
myth about the universe being created in six days!"

"On Sundays, when he's in church--yes."

"And the yarn about Adam . . . and Eve made out of Adam's rib?"

"Oh, yes; he believes that, every day and no matter where he is--
especially about the rib."

"Meaning . . . you're a rib, Janet?" queried Dinny, laughing, but
half-wishing he had not said it.

"One of the shorter ones, Dinny."

"They're called 'floating' ribs."

"How do you mean--'floating'? . . .  Loose?"

"Oh, no," scoffed Dinny, pretending pride in his superior knowledge
of physiology, "they never get loose."

"I should have known that much; shouldn't I?"

"You probably never thought about it, before."

"Don't be too sure about that, my son," she said, in a tone that
worried him a little.  It wasn't like Janet to be so mysterious.
He couldn't quite understand her, today.  Even her immediate change
of topic was not at all reassuring.

"So--I suppose you'll be going to Magnolia, then."

"I'm in for it, all right.  However, I am not particularly
interested in science, so it doesn't matter much.  The Lit. course
at Magnolia is probably no thinner than in many a bigger school.
Professors in English Comp. can't tell you how to write.  If they
knew how to do it, they'd be doing it; wouldn't they?  All I want
is a chance to do some reading, on my own hook, and plenty of time
for scribbling.  I can have that at Magnolia.  They're much too
hard up to enforce any discipline.  I can go my own gait."

"I'm going to miss you--terribly."  Janet left her work, and stood
beside him.  Her eyes were troubled.

"That's the only thing about it, Janet.  I don't know how I'm to
get along without you."

She walked to the window and stood looking out.

"There isn't very much more I could do for you, Dinny; is there?"

"You're the only real friend I ever had, Janet."  He put down the
brayer and joined her at the window.  "Sometimes, I've wondered if
I wasn't leaning too heavily; monopolizing you."

"It's been the other way about, dear," said Janet, soberly.  "I've
monopolized you.  You haven't been interested in the girls of your
class in school."

"Pooh!  They're nothing but silly little gigglers."

"Maybe you wouldn't think so if you made any effort to know them."

"You're all the girl I want, Janet," said Dinny, lightly.

"That's just the trouble.  It isn't good for you.  I'm not your
girl; nor am I your sister, or your mother."  She faced about, and
abruptly changed the subject.  "Oscar--Mr. Zimmerman--wants you to
have the stuff he lent us; all the Caxton and Cheltenham and the
rest of it, and the seven-by-nine press, and this fancy Caslon,
too.  He says you're to take it along to college with you.  He
hopes you will set up a little shop and make it pay your way.
Rather nice of him; don't you think?"

"Very!" said Dinny, trying to sound grateful.  "But weren't you
going to use it, any more?"

"No--not after you leave, Dinny."

He wasn't quite sure whether he wanted to be under such obligation
to Mr. Zimmerman.  True, it would be of no consequence to the rich
bachelor globe-trotter whether Dinny used the printing-equipment or
not.  Otherwise it would probably be idle in a storage warehouse.
But he disliked accepting anything from Mr. Zimmerman.  He was
candidly jealous of Mr. Zimmerman, of his easy grace, his urbane
manners, his charming personality, his casual allusions to the
places he had seen--Singapore, Calcutta, Moscow--mentioning them in
about the same tone Dinny might have used when speaking of Oak
Grove or Zanesdale or Unger.  He often wondered if Mr. Day were
jealous, too; not that he cared, greatly.  Perhaps Mr. Day's
private feelings were modified, somewhat, by the fact that Mr.
Zimmerman was one of the heaviest stockholders in the Day Wholesale
Provision Company.  Money made a lot of difference.

"Dinny"--Janet's voice was a bit uncertain--"we're getting awfully
crowded and cluttered in this room.  Lately, I've been thinking we
might move our printing-stuff to larger quarters.  I looked at a
room yesterday.  It's in the Woolford Block on Superior Street--"

Dinny remembered that Mr. Zimmerman owned the Woolford Block, and
with difficulty suppressed a scowl.

"--and I can get it for a song.  Suppose you run in, next time
you're down-town, and see what you think of it."

She took up her purse from the table, and handed him a key.

"Number 306.  Go in on Monday, after school, and look it over."

Dinny was in no position to debate the matter.  He nodded, and took
the key.  It was growing dark, though only five-thirty, and the
rain was falling in torrents.

"Take my umbrella, dear."

"Thanks, Janet.  I'll telephone you, when I've seen the room."

"Good-bye, dear."  She reached out her slim hand, and looked up,
fleetingly, into his perplexed eyes.  It was so unlike her to offer
her hand.  They never shook hands.  Dinny took it, rather
confusedly, and was at a loss what to say.

"I'm afraid you're dreadfully worried about something."  Dinny
swallowed hard, and put his hands lightly on her shoulders.

"'Bye, Dinny!"  Impulsively she threw her arms tightly around his
neck and kissed him on the lips; then, turning quickly away, walked
toward the window, stood with both hands outspread on the broad
sill, a mere silhouette in the gathering gloom.

That was the picture he retained of Janet for a dozen years.

With another long, anxious look, he reluctantly went out, and
closed the door.

                        *  *  *  *  *

On Monday afternoon, he went to inspect the room in the Woolford
Block; went without interest, and weighted by an unaccountable
depression.

The room was not empty, as he had expected.  All their printing-
equipment was there, installed in orderly fashion, ready for work.

On the imposing-stone was a receipted bill for three months'
rental.  At the bottom of the paper, hurriedly written in pencil,
were a few lines in Janet's tall, slim letters:


God keep you always, dear Dinny.  Forgive me for going away.  I'm
not really bad, Dinny.  It's just that I'm tired playing wheel-
barrow.


He gazed woodenly at the message for a long time, with an aching
throat and burning eyes.  Then he tore it into small bits, savagely
stuffed the scraps into his pocket, went out, locked the door, and
clumped slowly down the stairs. . . .  Janet was no better than the
rest of them.  They were all cheaters!  Damn them!



CHAPTER VI


After a wheezing ascent of four steep flights in the wake of his
young employer and guide, the gruff expressman had un-shouldered
Ferdinand's small, old-fashioned trunk, with a groan of relief and
reproach, and had ambled off down the bare, resounding dormitory
hall grumblingly fingering the four dimes and seven nickels that
totalled his exact charge.

Obedient to some atavism urging him to establish a claim to his new
property without delay, Ferdinand laid his coat and collar on the
sagging bed, and went through the preliminary gestures of making
himself at home.  The room was cramped, shabby, and incompletely
furnished, but it was his, and the feeling of possession was
pleasureable.

The convex lid of the antiquated trunk was thrown back against the
dingy wall, and the welcome task of unpacking proceeded; his
meagre, outmoded wardrobe, a handful of books, a dozen cheap
towels, and the case of carving-tools, over which there had been
such a row, Aunt Martha's eloquent disapproval rending the Yuletide
peace and reaching an impassioned climax in her unexecuted threat
to carry the expensive gift back to that there high-'n'-mighty Mrs.
Day with her own hands.

"With love to Dinny from Janet."

It was the engraving on the silver plate inside the velvet-lined
lid that had detonated Aunt Martha's tightly corked resentment
against a mysterious (and probably questionable) friendship which
had ripened without benefit of her sanction, and was increasingly
fulfilling her dire prediction that the attachment would wean
Ferdinand away from his "humble home 'n' all that it stands fer."

And what right had this Mrs. Day to be "Janet" to a mere half-grown
boy, inexperienced, unworldly, and calfishly infatuated?  What kind
o' "love" was this, we'd like to know, that had the impudence to
flaunt itself in the face of his family!  And since when had his
name been changed to "Dinny"? . . . "Dinny"--indeed! . . . "DINNY!"--
well, we'd see about that!

Ferdinand sat down on the edge of the weak-spined bed with the
silver-mounted box in his hands.

Queer--wasn't it?--how an inanimate thing, pieced together of wood
and screws and glue, silver and velvet and steel, could take on a
personality possessed of so many sensitive, changing moods?  One
day you couldn't bear to look at it for the worry and chagrin it
had caused you.  Next day you loved it so tenderly it made your
throat thick.  Another day you despised it for reminding you of a
tragic disenchantment that had all but killed you.

The box of carving-tools and his mother's little walnut desk;
living things, they were!

The desk! . . .  One winter Sunday afternoon when he was seven, in
a promptly repented unveiling of cankered memories, Aunt Martha had
told him the story of the desk; just the bare, ugly, shameful facts
about the storm of jealousy it had provoked, a storm which Aunt
Martha deplored but partly justified.

"I always said yer grandpa never should 'a' done it.  He might 'a'
knew it wouldn't set right with th' rest o' th' family; not that I
ever cared, myself.  I had t' work too hard, goodness knows, ever
t' spend any time a-settin' at a desk.  But Julia was always his
favourite.  It broke his heart when she died."

"And grandpa died, too, that same night, Aunt Martha, didn't he?"

Aunt Martha had nodded, shuddered, and laid another stick on the
fire.

The desk had come along when Aunt Martha had left "th' old home,"
her brothers and sisters pressing no claim to a share in it.  As a
little lad, he saw it only when they moved from one house to
another; and not even then, for it had remained thickly wrapped in
the dusty burlap in which it had been shipped to Unger.

Shrouded, it had lived in dark corners of attics, damp corners of
cellars, a thing neither to be used nor thrown away.  It was almost
as if they carried his mother's corpse about with them.  When they
had moved to Indianapolis, Ferdinand had asked for it.  Consent was
rather grudgingly given.  He had one desk, hadn't he?  However,
Aunt Martha supposed he had a right to it, if he wanted to crowd
his room with it.  Sometimes he wished he had not insisted.  He
almost never used it, and when he did he felt depressed.

Perhaps he had better ask Uncle Miles to ship him the desk. . . .
Dinny drew a wry smile.  He could put the case of carving-tools in
the drawer of the desk, and let them settle their problems between
themselves.  Now that he was in college, there would be plenty of
other things to occupy his attention.  New friends and fresh
interests would lay his ghosts.

But, what about these new friends; these fresh interests?

The past three hours had been a disappointing surprise.  "College"
was not quite as he had pictured it, a comradely, democratic, open-
hearted aggregation of irresponsible youngsters, bent on getting
acquainted with one another by the shortest routes.

At almost every station stop, en route from Indianapolis to
Magnolia--so close to Cincinnati as to think of itself as a suburb--
young people boarded the train.  Doubtless they were going to
college; perhaps to Magnolia.  A few suitcases were adorned with
pink and white stickers, pennant-shaped, cheering for the school.
Already he was entertaining a growing sense of loyalty and pride.

For the most part, however, the pilgrims bound for Magnolia, if
they greeted each other at all, seemed shy and restrained; a mere
nod, "Hello, Buster; back to the mill?" . . . "How 'r' yuh,
Prichard; good summer?"

But this was the day-coach, and these the day-coachers.  The
distinction gradually dawned on Ferdinand.  For some time he had
been curious, when the train stopped in the larger towns, over
festive sounds on the platform well to the rear.  At Richmond, he
strolled to the steps, and, leaning out, saw a score or more of
well-dressed, high-spirited people, old and young, bidding good-bye
to a handful of students, gathered at the entrance to a Pullman,
the white-jacketed porter busy with their baggage.

He went back through his own car, and overheard their cryptic
banter as they scrambled up the steps, the porter banging the
vestibule doors behind them.  These, too, were Magnolians--the
real, traditional college students of song and story, larkish,
noisy, devil-may-care.  He wished he had committed the extravagance
of riding in the Pullman.  It would have made all the difference.
Not quite, however, he reflected--not in these clothes.

A month afterward, burning with hot resentment against the
discrimination that had bled his pride white, Ferdinand marvelled
that nearly four years of intimate association with a person so
sophisticated as Janet Day had contributed almost nothing to his
knowledge of that other world to whose citizenship he aspired.

Analysing their relations, however, he saw that it was neither his
fault nor hers that the friendship had done so little for him in
this respect.  Such community of interest as they had was based
almost exclusively on their shop-work.  Ferdinand had never taken a
meal with her except the sandwiches, cakes and tea, casually
enjoyed during a few minutes of recess from their occupation.
Janet was always dressed in an inky, paint-daubed smock, her hair
down her back; he was always in his working togs.  They rarely
talked of anything else than their immediate concerns.  Janet had
not given him a ticket to the world of smart people.

Alighting from the train, Ferdinand confronted a gay scene.  A
spirited crowd--modishly dressed, bareheaded, beautiful girls, and
white-sweatered, flannel-trousered, handsome fellows--cheered and
chaffed the recruits descending from the Pullmans; their
classmates, no doubt; old acquaintances: but no--fully half of them
were obviously newcomers, like himself.  Solicitously in tow of the
old-timers, they were now being presented to the welcoming throng.
A phalanx of motor-cars was drawn up along the platform, engines
noisily churning and clamouring to be off, drivers' seats occupied
by debonair greeters, sons and daughters of the other world, the
world that rode in Pullmans and came to meet people who rode in
Pullmans.

Ferdinand had not been expecting anyone to meet him, and therefore
had no occasion to be disappointed; but he was overcome with a
feeling of such loneliness as had never afflicted him before.  He
took up his battered old suitcase, made some inquiries of a
policeman whose amused attention was grudgingly distracted from the
real people's festivities, boarded a street-car, reached the campus--
a gently undulating grove of oaks and elms, zigzagged with winding
paths of white, hard-tramped gravel-ribbons that negligently
wandered about from one main entrance to another of the dozen or
more nondescript buildings of brick, of stone, of cement, of wood,
in attempted imitation of every known school of architecture and
ranging in age all the way from raw newness to pathetic
dilapidation.

He had anticipated, without relish, the quiet chat he would
probably have with Dean Sloke.  He would be shown into Dean Sloke's
office, when his turn came.

"Ah--so you are Ferdinand Brumm, the nephew of my esteemed friend,
the Reverend Miles Brumm of Indianapolis, who has been a valuable
supporter of Magnolia.  We are glad to have you here, Mr. Brumm.
Now what can we do for you to make you comfortable?"

Ferdinand was pointed to the Registrar's office.  He saw that there
was no necessity for seeking an interview with Dean Sloke.  There
was a long line of bewildered freshmen, leaning an elbow against
the long, tall counter.  No one of them in any way resembled the
urbane youths who had been so hilariously received at the station.
Surely they had had time to arrive here, by now.  Mailed advice had
counselled freshmen to come to the Administration Building
immediately upon arrival.  Where were these others?  But perhaps
there was a special room for their accommodation.  Maybe the
freshmen who came to town in Pullman cars were handled in some
distinctive manner, or at some other hour.

He took his place in the line, and, advantaged by his height,
surveyed his neighbours.  The girl in front of him was a nervous,
home-made, little thing; the boy whose broad, square back
obstructed her view of the distant goal had the black-tanned neck
of a farmer.  The criss-cross furrows on the neck announced that
their bearer was older than the others by four or five years.  He'd
been ploughing deep and saving his pennies against the day when he
might come to college.

Ferdinand was half-ashamed of himself over this critical invoice of
his companions.  Come to think of it--this was his own crowd, after
all; wasn't it?  By what right was he assuming a supercilious
attitude, in his mind, toward these yokels?

At length he had reached the impressively business-like, barricaded
throne of the Registrar and his self-consciously competent
assistants.  He answered a few crisp, inquisitorial queries, wrote
his name on three or four blanks which were promptly and soundly
smacked with a big rubber stamp, counted out forty-two dollars at
an adjoining wicket for which he received another emphatic whack on
his credentials, moved forward to "Rooms," paid another fee, earned
another whack, took his key, picked up the old suitcase he had been
pushing along with his foot, and milled through the crowd to the
doorway.  It moved back, a little, to make room.

Nobody had spoken to him except the perfunctory clerks, nor he to
any; though there had been a few shy, bucolic grins accompanying
the "Beg your pardon" which went along with sundry unintentional
jabs of elbows in the jostling line-up of rookies.

They were a very ordinary lot of people, he thought, on both sides
of the counter.  Those back of the counter were a bit more
seasoned, had learned their tricks, had developed something of the
arrogance so appropriately worn by petty officials peering through
wickets and sourly handing dipped pens to the public for its
signature; but there was no essential difference between the green
clodhoppers on this side the barrier and the ripe clodhoppers on
the other.

As he had stood there waiting, Ferdinand wondered if Magnolia
wasn't trying to impress the new arrivals; trying to make-believe
she was a big university.  Where was this warm, home-y friendliness
that bubbled on the comradely pages of the college catalogue?  Was
all this swanky, big-business-y, card-index-y, cash-register-y
atmosphere, this frowning fussiness, this cool official insolence,
this elaborate hocus-pocus of labelled wicket-windows and
ostentatious thud of rubber stamps a lot o' bunk?  His instinct
told him the whole affair screamed of insincerity. . . .  "Just a
friendly, home-y, little college"--hell!

                        *  *  *  *  *

Ferdinand answered a vigorous rat-a-tat-tat of knuckles and
admitted one who, promptly identifying himself as Orville Kling,
junior, resident across the hall, candidate for the ministry,
leader of the college band in need of new material, and Religious
Editor of The Blossom, requested pay, in kind, at his first full
stop, for his generous tender of a biographical sketch.

With less to tell about himself, Ferdinand made short work of his
own story.  Pressed for further disclosures, he admitted he had no
idea what he would "take up."  No--not the ministry; he was sure of
that much. . . .  Well--he had no taste for it, no fitness for it,
and, to be frank, no interest in it.  Kling thought this odd,
considering Ferdinand's home environment.

"Hope you'll come down to the Y rooms, second floor, tonight at
seven," suggested Kling.  "Just an informal little get-together of
the fellows to meet the new Frosh; a sing-song, brief devotional
service, some short prayers, a few snappy talks; all through by
eight."

"Thanks," said Ferdinand, graciously, but without enthusiasm.

"That's the spirit," approved Kling, anxious to exhilarate
Ferdinand's wan interest.  "It makes all the difference, later, if
you begin your college life right."

Ferdinand nodded obligingly, and conceded that this must be true,
but his acquiescence lacked fervour.  Bent on saving a soul from
an�mia, Kling rose to defend his moral precept.

Hands deep in his coat pockets, and rhythmically elevating himself
on his toes, he dealt seriously with Ferdinand's limp aspirations
to make a right start.

"Yes, sir--it makes all the difference, you'll find.  The whole
four years depend on the first week's contacts.  Down there on
Sunnyside Avenue, the upper classmen are teaching the new
fraternity pledges to smoke a pipe, scorn the bars, and beat the
profs. . . .  Up here, we have different ideas.  You'll start
right, won't you, Brumm?"

"You mean--at a prayer-meeting?"

"Well--that kind of a beginning would make for safety; wouldn't
it?" queried Kling, slightly accelerating the tempo of his adroit
bouncing up and down on his toes.

Ferdinand grinned amiably, and walked to the window, leaning
against it; long, rangy arms folded.

"I'm pretty well up on prayer-meetings, Mr. Kling.  I've been
raised on them.  And--as for safety, I have all my credits in that,
too. . . .  I mean to be friendly, and I'd like to meet the
fellows, and I appreciate your asking me, but--"

Kling stopped his bouncing and drew a long face.

"But--you won't be there."

"I don't think so."

Kling smiled bravely, shook his head regretfully, seemed reluctant
to leave.  His eye wandered about the room.

"Play on anything?" he inquired, brightening.

"No--I'm not musical.  Sorry."

"Thought that might be a clarinet.  We need another clarinet."

"It's a case of carving-tools."

"Carving-tools. . . .  I never saw any.  Mind if I look?"

Ferdinand's consent and the snap of the latch occurred
simultaneously.  Kling glanced up and smiled.

"They call you 'Dinny,' don't they?"

"Ye-es."

"Rah, rah, rah--Dinny Brumm!  That's what we'll be hearing next
autumn.  You'll be going out for football, of course.  They
wouldn't let a big fellow like you escape. . . .  Janet your
sister?"

"Yes. . . .  Is the athletic field close?"

Kling pointed north with his head, deeply interested in the shining
tools.

"'Most everybody's there now, watching the varsity warm up.  Want
to go over?  I'm going."

Ferdinand begged off with an excuse that he had a few errands in
town.

"Well--so long, Dinny.  See you later."

                        *  *  *  *  *

Supper was at five-thirty, the tenants of the dormitory preferring
it early.  Ferdinand was not hungry, nor was he keenly disposed to
risk further interrogations about his plans for the evening.
Waiting until the clangour of the second bell and the last clatter
of descending feet had subsided, he put on the rather yellow and
battered straw hat that Aunt Martha felt would do quite well
enough, though he had entertained some doubts, walked quietly down
stairs, down the slope, and turned to the left on Sunnyside Avenue.
The broad verandas of the fraternity houses were filled with
bareheaded students, some standing, some lounging in the big wicker
chairs, some sitting on the railings swinging white-flannelled
legs.  Ferdinand was conscious of their amused attention, as he
passed the Beta House--the last on the row, opposite which one took
the streetcar.

A merry voice sang out, accompanied by good-natured chuckles, and
followed by a mature growl.  "Cut that out, Reddy!  What th' hell!"--

"Hey, Reuben!  How's the weather up there?"

Ferdinand scowled, flushed, and gave his full attention to the
approaching street-car.  He wondered if he wasn't going to hate
Magnolia.

After supper, at a downtown restaurant, for which he had little
relish, he went to the office of The Morning Star, and made his way
to the Managing Editor's desk.  He was a little more sure of
himself in this environment, and presented his cause without
nervousness.

"What experience have you had?" asked Mr. Brophy, tilting back in
his chair, and scrutinizing Ferdinand not unpleasantly from under
his green eye-shade.

"I've been doing amateur and semi-professional art-craft printing
for some time.  Since early June, I was on the display ads with The
Ledger, Indianapolis."

"How could you work evenings, and go to college?"

"I think I could manage, sir.  No classes in the afternoon."

"You'd have to be on from seven to ten-thirty, six nights a
week . . . all but Saturday."

"I could do that."

"Take this out to the composing-room, and set it."

Ferdinand nodded, took the ad-copy, and pushed his way through the
metallic racket of linotypes to the row of cases in the corner.  It
was the first time he had felt at home in Magnolia.  The smell of
ink revived his spirits, straightened his broad shoulders.  Mr.
Brophy followed him along, and spoke laconically to the grizzled
foreman who nodded without looking up or removing his pipe.

"You may begin to-morrow evening, if you like," said Mr. Brophy, an
hour later, glancing over Ferdinand's shoulder.  "Ninety cents an
hour.  Six nights; seven to ten-thirty.  Time and a half for
overtime.  Pay on Mondays.  Right?"

"Right! . . .  Thank you, sir."

After a while, the foreman strolled over.

"Pretty fair, for a dub," he growled, fetching his r's rolling up
from far back under an Irish pharynx.  "Mr. Brophy says you'll be
goin' to college, day-times.  Sure it won't be too much for ye, me
boy?"

Ferdinand lowered his half-filled stick, and warmed to the genial,
ruddy-faced Timmy Fagan.  No--he could do it, all right.  Liked it.
Besides--he needed the money.  Couldn't stay here without some kind
of a job.

"You're luckier 'n most, t' have a trade," said Timmy.  "Most uv
'em has to wait table and wash dishes at th' frats."

"I'd see myself doing that!"

"Well--somebody's got t' wait on th' rich boys 'n' girls, 'n' see
that they have enough t' eat, when they come in from their tennis,
all tired and hungry," drawled Timmy, his eyes wrinkling with
delight as he noticed the flexing of Ferdinand's jaw-muscles.
"But," he added, "I can see that you'd rather somebody else 'tended
to it. . . .  And--now that we're speakin' o' meals, maybe you'd
like to come over and have a bite o' honest Irish hospitality on
Sunday, say, after the eleven o'clock Mass which you won't be to,
bein' a heathen.  The missus'll be glad, and th' kids, too.  You'll
be lonely like, for a while."

Only an ungrateful snob could refuse such an invitation, thought
Ferdinand.  He accepted gladly, promptly; but, a moment later, and
all the way back to the campus, where the dormitory windows gleamed
with a welcome he wished he might respond to with more warmth, he
was uneasy over his promise to old Timmy.  Timmy, God bless him,
had him all wrong. . . .  Right, of course, about thinking he would
resent the necessity of a job to wait table for these precious
young well-to-do's, but quite wrong in thinking that he wanted to
hold himself in sour aloofness from them.  It was the world they
lived in that he most wanted to explore!  And how was he ever to
invade that world if he approached it via Sunday dinners at the
Timmy Fagans'?  Perhaps he'd better trump up some excuse. . . .
But Timmy was no fool.  Timmy mustn't be hurt.

However--no use worrying about it.  Nobody need know.  The Fagans
probably had no college connections, at all.  The "kids" would be
freckled little Micks--a half-dozen, maybe, who would show him
their toy aeroplane . . . and that would be the end of it.  "Such a
nice time, Mrs. Fagan! . . .  Thank you, Mr. Fagan. . . .  Yes,
indeed, Mr. Fagan, I'll be glad to! . . .  Good-bye, little
Fagans!"

                        *  *  *  *  *

He couldn't help being so tall that his contemporaries presumed him
able to get forecasts of the weather, but he could help looking
like a Rube.  Pursuant to that resolution, he went into town, the
next day, strode up to the counter of the best clothing store, and
possessed himself of a natty new suit of blue serge.

His immediate college bills had been paid, and there was more than
a hundred dollars in his pocket--earned by himself, every cent of
it!  Why shouldn't he do what he liked with it?  His wages were
assured.  They would amply cover his expenses, with a comfortable
margin.

Ferdinand paid for the suit and spent the remaining forty-eight
dollars of the hundred he had allotted to this adventure in a
neighbouring haberdashery.  Uncle Miles, he knew, would have
scowled and remarked that even friendly little colleges have a
"subversive" (pet word of his) influence on youth; and as for Aunt
Martha, she would have had--if aware of his amazing profligacy--a
fit.

                        *  *  *  *  *

Up early on Friday, arrayed in all his new finery--the blue, double-
breasted suit that squared his shoulders, the soft grey fedora set
at a sporty angle on his freshly groomed head, russet shoes, smart
fawn shirt, tie a shade darker matching the handkerchief that
peeped from his breast pocket--Ferdinand found he still had half an
hour to spare before his first encounter with the class in English
Composition.

Yesterday there had been mere lesson-assignment sessions in
Beginner's Greek with old Appleton, who promised to be a hard
taskmaster; Algebra under nervous and self-conscious young Peters
who would be lenient (it was devoutly to be hoped); and Latin under
the meek and obsequious little Harwood, commonly spoken of as The
Bearded Lady.

He would bone in Greek not only because he really wanted to learn
it but was afraid of Appleton--a sarcastic old savage.  He would
toddle along in Cicero, Latin being a cinch for him.  And as for
Algebra, it could go to the devil along with the inexperienced
Peters who was clearly too frightened over his new responsibility
to pay much attention to anybody else's dilemmas.

But English Composition was quite another matter.  This was going
to be a bread-and-butter affair.  Ferdinand knew he would be
writing, all his life; writing for a career, writing for wages.  No
fooling, here.

He could have wished that Professor Grover's sketch in the
catalogue had hinted at a wider experience.  A degree from some
well-known university would have added lustre to his biography.

That Professor Grover had not been much of a nomad was obvious.
Never had he been taken up, in foreign parts, for vagrancy.  He had
stayed on home base and kept himself unspotted from the world.

Topping the list of courses offered by the English Department was
an impressive and extended survey of the Grover equipment.


      WILLIAM ERNST GROVER, A.B., A.M., PH.D., LITT.D.


So far; so good.  But the rest of it indicated that Professor
Grover's mileage was disturbingly low.


Educated Magnolia Public Schools; Magnolia Academy (grad 1878, with
high distinction); Magnolia College (A.B., 1882, m.c.l., Class
pres. and hist.; winner Rebecca Winters Dutton medal); Master of
Arts (Magnolia College, 1885.  Thesis: "Prehistoric Mounds near
Magnolia"); Ph.D. (Magnolia College, 1889.  Thesis: "Magnolia Under
Doctor Swits"); Litt.D. (Magnolia College, 1896).  Author:
"Magnolians Who Made Their Mark" (Magnolia College Press, 1899),
"Fifty Years of Magnolia" (Magnolia College Press, 1902), "Forward,
Magnolia!" (Magnolia Ptg. and Engv. Co., 1910).


Three cheers for good old Magnolia; eh, Professor Grover?
Ferdinand would have grinned had he been less disturbed over the
prospect.

The time came when he did grin; shouted with laughter; slapped his
leg and yelled with delight.  That was while engaged in composing
the article on "Rhododendron College," midway of his junior year.
He sold the article to The Iconoclast, receiving, two months later,
in the same mail, a cheque for one hundred dollars from the editor
in New York, and a crisp request for an early interview with
President Braithwaite of Magnolia.

"It might have been more discreet," said President Braithwaite,
endeavouring to suppress a twinkle, "had you gone to the fauna
rather than the flora for a fictitious name.  'Rhododendron' made
it a bit obvious, you know. . . .  This about the Pyncheon chickens--
facetious enough but cruelly unkind!"

"I had had the chickens in mind for a long time, sir," said
Ferdinand, on that occasion.  "It simply had to be said."

He did not say how long, but the fact was that this idea had first
occurred to him on the morning early in his freshman year when,
with a few minutes to spare before going down to his first class in
English Composition, he had put aside The House of the Seven Gables
which he had been reading, and had glanced at the college
catalogue's sketch of Professor Grover.

Apropos of "Rhododendron's" policy of recruiting her Faculty
exclusively from the ranks of her own alumni, Ferdinand, the
junior, wrote:

"Concerned as this institution is over the mental and moral
improvement of the outer world, particularly such parts of it as
must be reached by water, it occurs to some of us that Rhododendron
College might well consider a philanthropy nearer home.

"Year after year, proud of her children, Alma Mater has refused to
permit their acceptance of chairs in other schools.

"Yale, Harvard, Princeton, Columbia--does Rhododendron not owe it
to these institutions, all of them doing good work and undeniably
excellent in their way, to encourage their efforts not only by
consenting that a few of our alumni may join their faculties, but
by inviting some of their more distinguished sons to accept minor
posts on our instructional staff?

"Not a Rhododendron alumnus on the faculty of any other college!
Not a single professor at Rhododendron bearing a degree from any
other school!

"Should it be said that our policy of intellectual inbreeding
insures the integrity of our academic tribe, and guarantees against
the debilitating invasion of alien blood, it may be replied that
dangers lurk in the way of such aloofness.

"Witness, for example, the tragic plight of Hepzibah Pyncheon's
poultry.  Generation after generation, they had carried on,
gloriously free of any exotic contamination, dourly scornful of the
frivolous vulgarians in neighbouring coops.  And did not the
fateful day arrive at length when these same Pycheon chickens
stalked about, spurless, combless, and without plumage; still
proud, still grave, still haughty, but lacking the sense of humour
necessary to the laying of an egg, to say nothing of the thermal
dynamics required to hatch one?

"Featherless, eggless--but not crowless.  Even when they were too
feeble to scratch, either for provender or reasons of personal
hygiene, they still raised their voices in the old p�an of praise
that they had been kept free of foreign taints.  They had the pip,
yes; but, thank God, they were not mongrels!"

                        *  *  *  *  *

Discovering, to his dismay, that the new russet shoes were much too
snug, Ferdinand hurriedly divested himself of the entire ensemble,
resolved that he would wear none of it until he could wear it all.

Professor Grover was kindly patronizing, playfully paternal.  The
class would begin by submitting, on Tuesday, a fifteen-hundred-word
theme on "Early Impressions of Magnolia."

As the class straggled out, Ferdinand overheard a colloquy in the
hall.  The Pullmans were talking it over, as they ambled toward the
main doorway.

"Freddy says the old boy always asks for that, the first day.  He
says if you dash off a lot o' rot about the great honour and
privilege, and all that sort o' bilge, you're solid with him for
keeps; says if you write that when you saw the campus for the first
time you just sat down on the grass and cried out loud, you'll be a
Phi Beta Kappa when you're a senior."

"Phi Beta Kappa!  D'you mean they've got a--?"

"Don't be a silly ass! . . .  Phi Beta Kappa, my eye!"

                        *  *  *  *  *

The elder of the two Fagan kids was a girl with the blackest hair,
the bluest eyes, the whitest skin, the evenest teeth, and the most
heady smile that Ferdinand had ever seen done into one picture of
glowing, high-school-girlish vivacity.  Patrick, Kitty's brother,
was fifteen.

Timmy Fagan's elder kid was going to resemble her mother, one day,
as to amplitude of charms; you could see that.  At seventeen,
however, this threat, that at forty-two Kitty's physique would
probably be redundant, evoked no pity.

The dinner was all that it had promised to be, and more; a gay
meal, Ferdinand at his best, glad he had come.

It was over now.  Young Pat had left for a ball game.  Timmy's eyes
began to swim in response to custom's demand for the Sunday
afternoon nap.  Mrs. Fagan's house-wifely conscience had conveyed
her to the kitchen, scorning the volunteered assistance of her
attractive child.

They sat in the swing on the little side porch overlooking the
trim, tiny garden.  Ferdinand was actively in the market for the
companionship Kitty was so ready to bestow.  He had been quite
desperately lonely, almost ill of loneliness.

"You haven't seen our beautiful park yet," said Kitty.  "You'll
like it, I think.  It's very nice, and there's a big lagoon with
boats.  Lots of people go there, Sundays."

They stood for a long time, at her gate, laughing, bantering,
occasionally lowering their voices to brief seriousness, on their
return at five-thirty.

Ferdinand regretfully looked at his watch.

"Good-bye, Kitty," he said.  "Next Sunday, then."

"Okay, Dinny . . . 'Bye."

There was a deliciously lilting circumflex accent over the "'Bye"
that rang and sang in Dinny's ears, all evening, as he stood at the
case and struck large, boastful type certifying that Wembie's would
be doing the city of Magnolia a good turn, tomorrow, with some
unprecedented values in sheets and pillow-cases.



CHAPTER VII


"No use," said the nurse, decisively.  "He won't see you."

"He's got to," growled Dinny.

"Oh, I don't know as he's got to," countered Miss Lash, suddenly
defiant.  "The police couldn't make him talk.  What makes you
think--?"

"Sister"--Dinny drew an ominous frown--"you go back to Mr. Peter
Andrews and tell him The Star knows all about it, anyway--"

"Thinks it does, maybe," scoffed Miss Lash.

"Which comes to the same thing, so far as tomorrow morning's report
of the accident is concerned, he'll find.  I'm here to let him
correct us on any of the minor details.  It's ten o'clock, and
we've no time to fritter."

"You certainly have a lot of crust--for a kid."

"You ought to know," grinned Dinny, companionably.  "Just a kid
yourself."  The accusation was ridiculous.  Miss Lash was not
seriously annoyed, however, and the little nose she made at him
developed into a smile.

"I'll try him again," she said, in the manner of a fellow
conspirator.

Dinny was covering his first assignment as a reporter.  Mr. Brophy
had urged him to work full time through the Thanksgiving recess,
the display ads being particularly heavy at this season.

"And if you have nothing better to amuse yourself with in the
evenings," added the editor, "you may share Anderson's police beat
with young Maloney.  Anderson's off to see his Alabama relatives.
You've been hankering to try your hand at reporting: here's your
chance."

Mr. Brophy had been prompt to make his promise good.  The
Thanksgiving vacation had begun only today at noon, a general
hegira leaving the campus all but deserted.  Happy to have a
congenial companion, Dinny worked on the ads all afternoon and
early evening.  At nine-thirty, Timmy Fagan called, "Mr. Brophy
wants ye."

"You're just leaving for the Protestant Hospital, young feller"--
Mr. Brophy tossed him a memorandum scribbled on a card--"to
interview an old man, mysteriously shot in the leg; has no police
record, good citizen, but won't talk.  Make him tell you. . . .
Scatter along, now, and see what you're good for."

"Mr. Andrews says you can come up," announced Miss Lash, amiably.
"I told him he'd better get it off his chest; but don't pester him,
will you?  He's a fine old man, and wouldn't hurt a fly.  I won't
have him persecuted."

"It seems he's told you," deduced Dinny.

She raised her brows, smiled archly, and led the way, Dinny
following with long, confident strides.

"Very sick?" he inquired, as they traversed the third-floor
corridor.  The pungent reek of antiseptics and spent ether were
doing odd tricks with Dinny's unaccustomed nostrils, and the
hoarse, unhuman moans of some patient groping out of an�sthesia
shortened his steps.  Miss Lash grinned.

"No--or you wouldn't be seeing him; superficial wound, no
infection, he can go home in a day or two.  But"--she paused at the
door--"I'll not have him hectored; understand?  If he doesn't want
to talk freely, that's that, and there's your hat.  Promise?"

Mr. Andrews's gaunt old frame was so slight that the bed seemed
unoccupied except for the benign face on the pillow.  He shyly
projected a thin, white hand from beneath the sheet, cleared his
throat nervously, and drew a timid, embarrassed smile.

"Nurse thinks I may as well tell you," he murmured, with a weary
sigh.  "If I don't, you'll probably make it worse than it is,
though it's none of the public's business, far as I can see."

"The public," sympathized Dinny, taking the chair Miss Lash had
pushed up for him, and sensing with satisfaction the revival of his
self-confidence, "is an old hen. . . .  And the newspapers are
impudent gossips. . . .  And reporters are a pest. . . .  But--such
things being as they are--how DID you get shot in the leg?"

"My next-door neighbour, out in Lambert Park, is Mr. Charles
McCutcheon--"  The old man sighed again, deeply, as he watched the
name sprawling across the reporter's untidy wad of copy-paper; but,
having burned his bridges, there was no retreat.  "--A longtime
friend of mine.  We both work for the Buckeye Implement Company.
We have a croquet-ground together, a small garden, and in the
winter we play chess."

"He has been to see you, I presume," encouraged Dinny.

"No--er--well, yes; but I had them say I was too sick. . . .  I'll
be coming to that, in a minute."

The weary old voice droned on, reminiscently.  Charlie was a
widower, you know; he, a bachelor; nobody else mattered; went down
town in the morning on the same car, lunched together, pretty
nearly inseparable.

"'Bout two weeks ago, Charlie's daughter--the one that lives in
Pinckney, and doesn't like me very well because I monopolize
Charlie--gave him a St. Bernard pup to keep him company, a big-
footed, empty-headed, destructive beast that tore up Charlie's
house, all day--what time he wasn't tearing up mine--and howled
like the devil all night.  I could see that Charlie was worried,
but he kept saying the dog would settle down and feel at home
presently.

"And so, yesterday--wasn't it, nurse?--Charlie had gone down to
Tiro to spend the night with William's folks; wedding anniversary,
or something.  You see, I hadn't slept for more 'n' week.  Guess I
was kinda out o' my head.  Charlie had him out in a kennel at the
far end of the lot; but, Gosh! that hadn't helped any. . . .  I had
an old revolver that hadn't been fired off for ten years or so.
Three o'clock, I was pretty desperate, and put on my pants 'n' went
out there.  Somehow the hammer got caught in my pocket--"

"You could have made up a story, couldn't you?" inquired Dinny,
solicitously.

"I'm not very good at that," replied the old man.  "Besides--my leg
hurt pretty bad.  I managed to get in before it had bled very much,
and 'phoned for the doctor.  He brought me here--and that's all
there is to it.  You can print it, if you want to, and all the
neighbours will despise me--and Charlie will never speak to me
again."

"What did you do with the gun?" asked Dinny.

"Threw the darned thing in the cistern."

"Excellent!  Now don't you worry any more," soothed Dinny, patting
the emaciated hand.  "We'll see you through it."

Dinny caught a car and hurried back to The Star, eyes bright with
inspiration, so eager to document his scheme for the easement of
good old Andrews that it never occurred to him there might also be
some inquisitiveness on the part of The Daily Eagle concerning this
mystery.  That night, Dinny recognized for the first time
unmistakable signs of his talent as a potential novelist.  He
warmed to his task.  It was an unusual story, and toward the last
of it they were snatching unfinished sheets out of his typewriter
and rushing them, page at a time, to the lino-typist.

Next morning, December twenty-second, subscribers to both papers
were amazed at the difference between the two accounts of this
strange affair.  According to The Eagle's report--a mere stick on
page seven--Mr. Andrews had accidentally shot himself while
endeavouring to pot his absent neighbour's noisy dog, a minor
injury from which he was rapidly recovering.

The Morning Star--(first page, with a carry to three)--offered a
long, dramatic story of Mr. Andrews's heroic silence about the
shooting.  In his delirium, however, the brave old fellow had
muttered, "Don't shoot again, lad. . . .  I haven't any money
except what's there in my pocket-book. . . .  You can look, if you
like. . . .  Take it--and hurry before somebody comes. . . .  I
won't tell on you, boy. . . .  It would break her heart."

From these broken fragments, The Star had adroitly built up a tale
of romance and adventure impressive enough to stand in the museum
alongside the mastodon--all lath and plaster and imagination,
except the third dorsal vertebra and two molars.  Chivalrous old
Andrews!  Brave old Andrews!  Attacked in his little home by a
marauder, he had recognized the wayward son of an old friend.

Nobody knew, nobody was likely ever to know--for Andrews seemed
determined to keep his own counsel--what a wealth of romance lay
undisclosed in the heart of this kindly old bachelor.  Ambitious as
she was to print all the news, The Star had quietly withdrawn from
the bedside of this valiant knight, challenged to match his
sportsmanship by declining to press the matter any farther.

That afternoon, industriously distributing big type, Dinny, out of
the tail of his apprehensive eye, observed the approach of his
boss, paper in hand.  He redoubled his zealous interest in his
occupation.  Mr. Brophy was at his elbow now, but Dinny did not
look up.  It was a very busy day.

"My son," said Mr. Brophy, reproachfully, "The Eagle will probably
try for a goal from the field with your Andrews story, tomorrow
morning.  They'll make us look like a cageful of monkeys."

"I've been thinking a little about that, too, sir," admitted Dinny,
confidentially, "but, you see, the tale they tortured out of old
Andrews, late last night, was concocted in sheer self-defence.  He
was resolved not to tell the straight story, so he made one up, on
the spot, to satisfy their greedy curiosity.  He would have done
the same for me, if I had badgered him.  Takes all the blame on
himself!  Risks the good opinion of his neighbours, risks his
job at the shop, throws away the lifelong friendship of Mr.
McCutcheon. . . .  Shoot McCutcheon's pet?  Nonsense!  You wait
until the people see the picture of saintly old Andrews, in bed at
the hospital, near death's door, staring up out of those big,
wistful--"

"Hell!--they're going to discharge him this afternoon."

"No, sir.  I beg your pardon, sir.  They had thought of it, but the
nurse and I agreed it wouldn't do.  I was out there and told them
The Star would pay for all it cost to keep him a week, at least."

"He won't stay.  Even if he does, he'll talk."

"No, sir.  The nurse says his room is rapidly filling up with
flowers and baskets of fruit.  And Mr. Kellerman was there, making
a fuss over him--"

"You mean old man Kellerman?"

"Yes, sir--president of the Buckeye--he was there; and Norton of
The Eagle tried to see him, but Andrews sent down word to him that
they'd practically forced him to tell them the tale he'd made up.
The nurse says he likes our version of the affair ever so much
better, though he told Mr. Kellerman he didn't think it was very
sporting of us to print what he said while he was unconscious."

"Well--I'll be damned!"

"So will Doctor Cummings," drawled Dinny, "for he told me he would.
And, as for that--"  He hesitated, grinning.

"So will you, I presume," assisted Mr. Brophy.

"The Cincinnati Democrat was there, taking pictures, when I left."

"Well," said Mr. Brophy, "it's your affair.  Carry on with it.
This is going to call for a lot of expert lying, so I'll let you
manage the campaign.  I've been in the newspaper game for twenty
years, my boy, and you're the biggest liar I have ever known."

"Thank you, sir," said Dinny.  "D'you think maybe I'd better go out
there again?"

"Yes," replied Mr. Brophy.  "I think maybe you had; and if old
Andrews weakens and tells the truth, you needn't ever come back."

Timmy Fagan had silently joined the party, obviously enjoying
himself.

"Timmy," said Mr. Brophy, "I'm going over to headquarters for a
chat with Chief O'Brien.  I'll be back in half an hour."

"Yes, sir," said Timmy, "but it's all right, Mr. Brophy.  I was
over there at noon, and he's called 'em off the case.  He sent you
this long, black cheroot, sir, and said to tell you those greasy
Republicans on The Eagle could whistle for any more dope on the
Andrews shootin'."

"You editing The Star now, Timmy?" asked Mr. Brophy, lighting the
gift, dubiously.

"Well, sir"--Timmy lowered his voice, confidentially--"we couldn't
let th' boy down, sir, seeing it was his first offence.  I told the
chief he was a fine lad, and I'd seen him at Mass, last Sunday."

"Nonsense, Timmy.  Brumm's not a Catholic."

Timmy smiled, omnisciently, and turned toward his stone table.  "My
Kitty's attendin' t' that, sir."

                        *  *  *  *  *

Dinny Brumm's freshmanhood at Magnolia which, at the outset, had
threatened to be drab and uneventful, was not altogether
unsatisfactory.

Startled, after five days, by the realization that he was likely to
become a lone wolf on a campus where everyone else had entered into
budding friendships--his nightly employment, and his boarding at a
restaurant in town having made it quite impossible for him to be
sociable--Dinny resolved to mend matters by spending an hour, late
afternoons, on the athletic field.  He could at least relieve
himself of the just accusation that he wanted no friends and
preferred to go it alone.

At three o'clock on Wednesday, therefore, he had presented himself
at the freshman wing of the "training quarters" in the inadequate
old gymnasium, where, without asking any questions or announcing
his purpose, he was gleefully welcomed by young Assistant Coach
Roberts and the awkward assembly of prospective gridiron heroes,
the tallest of whom he overtowered.

His whole time having been occupied by other more important
matters, Dinny had never taken any active interest in high-school
football, but from the first moment of his adventure with the
pigskin he seemed to have an instinctive feel for the game.

What came later to be referred to by sports writers as his
"reckless courage", was in evidence that first day, possibly
attributable to the fact that the savagery of hard tackling, on the
open field, appealed to his mood.  The utter futility of life had
laid so low an estimate on the claims of personal safety that Dinny
was indifferent to bruises or the hazard of broken bones.

When, at five, two teams were lined up by Coach Roberts, Dinny
observed that the personnel of the combating squads could easily be
identified even in their muddy, handed-down toggery.  As usual, the
real people were on one side, giving battle to the people who
didn't matter much.  The real people had naturally gravitated, some
chemical affinity pulling them together.  He found himself playing
right tackle on the team that didn't matter much.  The Pullman cars
were to recognize the Day Coaches to the extent of assisting them
for experimental purposes--to try out their own strength, speed,
and skill.

There was quite an accumulation of sentiment in Dinny's mind on
that subject, and in the ensuing thirty minutes of play he
expressed it so convincingly that, toward the end of the game--
which attracted a vociferous crowd of spectators who found the
battle of the "frosh" more exciting than the experienced manoeuvres
of the varsity on the adjoining gridiron--there seemed to be a
unanimity of consent, on the part of the opposition, when Dinny
took the ball, that he might go down the field with it, undetained.

Perspiring, and secretly exultant, Dinny divested himself of the
tight-fitting old mole-skins that reeked with the acrid memories of
many celebrated engagements, his team-mates and foes respectfully
assisting.  As he left the gymnasium, he found himself walking
alongside Barney Vaughn, against whom he had played in the line.
Barney was friendly, inquisitive.  Where had Brumm been keeping
himself?

"You must drop in and see me," said Barney.  "I'm at the Custer
Cottage, Sunnyside Avenue.  That's where the Sig pledges live, you
know."

"No--I didn't know where they lived," said Dinny.  "I don't even
know what 'Sig pledges' are," he added.  "Red-headed ones, maybe?"

Barney ran his fingers through his untidy mop of burnished bronze,
and laughed.  Then he was serious.

"I'll bet somebody's been getting your goat, Brumm.  You played
like it.  My Uncle! but you were a brute.  Look at that elbow o'
mine, will you?"

They overtook a couple of seniors, strolling back toward the campus--
seniors of the Pullman car variety.

"Yeah," one was drawling, "the barbs were running circles around
'em.  Who is this Brumm fellow, anyway?  How come we heard nothing
about him?  Hell of a scouting committee we've got, this year."

"That's what comes of letting the Sophs attend to it," replied the
other.  "We'd better have Bristol look this bruiser up, and tow him
into camp."

Barney winked, companionably, at Dinny, as they passed the self-
assured strollers.

"Stock going up, eh?" chaffed Barney out of the side of his mouth.
"Couple o' my brethren, those ginks."

"Why didn't you speak to them?"

"Frosh aren't supposed to: you knew that, didn't you?"

"Democratic little school, isn't it?"

At the foot of the slope, their ways separated.  Barney urgently
renewed his invitation.  Dinny evasively mumbled excuses: no time
to visit, nose to the grindstone.  Thanks, all the same, old man.
See you tomorrow.

                        *  *  *  *  *

On Friday morning, as Dinny entered the rapidly filling classroom
of Professor Grover, and looked about for a vacant chair, the long
arm and beckoning fingers of Barney Vaughn summoned him to a seat
in the back row, where he was received with friendly smiles.  He
realized at a glance that he was in a Pullman car.

Professor Grover, who did not have to eat a whole egg to determine
whether it was bad--a quip he often repeated without bothering to
enclose it in inverted commas--reported that the papers submitted
on Tuesday were, in the main, satisfactory.  They would be
returned, with notations, to their makers, at the close of the
hour.  (On the back of the last page of his essay, in red ink,
Dinny read, later, "well conceived, meritorious for perspicacity,
clarity, and force.")

However, pursued Professor Grover, deliberately, it was not to be
supposed that all the papers were of equal value; and, for the
benefit of those who hadn't quite caught the idea, he would ask
that one of the more excellent themes be read at this time.

Experience had taught him--Professor Grover pulled a benevolent
smile--that it was usually embarrassing to the author when called
upon to read his own piece aloud to the class.  He would therefore
request--he adjusted his glasses and glanced down at the unfamiliar
roster--he would therefore request Miss--er--Adams to read the
paper he had chosen as among the best.

A bit flustered, Miss Adams detached herself from her immediate
environment, rather self-consciously approached the sanctum with
much nervous jingling of bracelets, bangles, and other light
hardware, faced her audience rosily, and began to intone her
unknown classmate's anthem of praise to Magnolia in a dulcet tone
so cooingly mellifluous that covert grins were exchanged among the
more sophisticated.

Barney Vaughn leaned toward Dinny, pressed the back of his hand
against the side of his mouth, and whispered, unctuously, "Gawd is
love."

Dinny grinned, feebly.

The tender passion of the impromptu score which Miss Adams was
fervently attaching to the sticky sweetness of the libretto
produced a strange effect upon the class.  By the time she had
turned the first page, the dullest dolt in the room had his open
palm against his mouth, apparently engaged in a battle for air.

Professor Grover smiled, hopefully, as if promising that it would
eventually come out all right, and moved slowly back and forth in
his chair, his outspread hands rhythmically rubbing his knees.  It
was easy to see, however, that he was worried.  He had only read
into this piously grateful tribute to the college far enough to see
that it was definitely committed to a loyalty of high degree.  He
hadn't noticed, at the moment, that it was quite so superlatively
silly as it now appeared, set to the sloppily sentimental adagio
affected by Miss Adams, whose mark for the semester's work in
English Composition he had now determined upon in terms of three
flats.

Dinny's flair for satire was not an achievement, but a gift.  He
had not deliberately planned the early pages of his impressions of
Magnolia with a view to disarming the reader in order, later, to
smite him with a volley of ridicule.

About midway of page four, it became evident in the mounting flush
and occasional hesitations of Miss Adams that even she, herself,
infatuated as she was with her elocution, had begun to suspect the
increasing digression of the text from the melody, and realized the
enormity of the farce to which she was unwittingly contributing the
ultimate touch that gave it perfection.

She was reading now the early impressions of the freshman as he
watched the masterful manner in which the rubber stamp was affixed
to impressive documents, the stony stare of experienced officials
which heightened the newcomer's respect for a college of such
magnitude that its most insignificant underlings felt the dignity
and superiority of their honoured trust, the crispness of their
laconic "Next window, please, for that."

Barney inclined toward Dinny, at this juncture, and guardedly
whispered, eyes intent upon the reader, "Somebody's been pulling
the old man's leg," to which the awe-stricken Dinny added,
absently, "The paralysed one."

They were hearing now about the democracy of a friendly little
college, the one place in the world where social caste was regarded
with the scorn it properly deserved in the opinion of all people to
whom the Almighty had vouchsafed even the bare elements of humour.

Dinny sighed, rubbed his red cheek, and reflected that his essay
was quite too long.  The class must be frightfully tired of it by
this time.  He glanced at Professor Grover and imagined that the
roving eye flashed him a baleful threat of hard times.  Pulling
himself together and affecting nonchalance, he turned cautiously to
Barney and remarked, lips barely moving:

"The old boy should have eaten one more spoonful of this egg before
he served it."

Barney thoughtfully dug deep in a trouser pocket and came up with a
penny.

"This says you laid it," gambled Barney.

"Vulgar display," whispered Dinny, loftily.

Professor Grover was fussily rummaging through the pile of papers.

"Just a moment, Miss--er--Adams," he broke in, huskily.

Miss--er--Adams lowered the paper and looked up for further orders.

"I think we have heard enough of this essay, now, to gather what
must have been in the mind of the writer.  It seemed only fair that
any slight irritation or disappointment should be recognized.
Happily, such sentiments are held by a very small minority.
Magnolia does not assume responsibility for the irascibility of
newcomers who expect immediate preferments. . . .  We have here
another paper written in a better temper, which I shall ask Mr.
Bristol to kindly read. . . .  Thank you, Miss--er--Adams."

"'To kindly read,'" observed Barney, "shows the old thing to be
human, anyway."

Dinny wiped his brow, and nodded with the pensiveness of a
convalescent consenting to a proffered pill; then rallied enough to
reply, wanly:

"This must be a rough day on the sea."

                        *  *  *  *  *

During the first two months of Dinny's residence in Magnolia, Kitty
Fagan frequently had occasion to come to The Star, early evenings,
with important messages for her father, the delivery of which would
be but the work of a moment.

Not wishing to appear ungracious toward Timmy's lonesome young
friend, she would wave a hand, fingers twinkling; and Dinny,
resolutely blind to the amused interest of a score distracted from
their gainful occupations in the composing-room, would meet her
halfway to his case and amblingly accompany her to the door where
they would pause and chat amiably for a moment.  He always worked
half an hour overtime, on his own hook, to make sure he had not
visited with Kitty at the expense of the company.

By the middle of November, Kitty's emergency messages for her
father had all been delivered, and The Star, suddenly bereft of
these pleasant interludes scheduled to be played about eight-
thirty, twice a week, became mildly curious.

Bert Snyder, on machine No. 1, observing Dinny emerging from the
coat-room at ten, sharp, one night, dressed for the street, re-lit
his corn-cob pipe, tossed a hot slug bearing the cryptic phrase
"etaoin shrdlu" into the bubbling pot, and ventured his guess to
Stub Harley, on No. 2, that Timmy had advised her not to come up
any more.  Stub thought it more likely that Mr. Brophy had set down
on it.  Pinky Gormer, assistant telegraph, hung a few smeary pages
on each of their hooks, and bet there had been a quarrel. . . .
But nobody knew and, after a little while, nobody cared.

On the fourth consecutive Sunday at the Fagans', Dinny realized
that he was being gradually, unprotestingly assimilated.  Noting
that the living-room which gave directly on to the front porch was
unoccupied, he did not rap on the screen-door, but opened it and
made his way through to the kitchen.

"We heard you coming, Dinny," said Mrs. Fagan, too intent on the
beautifully browned chicken she was taking from the oven to give
him better attention than a fleeting smile.  "I can't think what's
come over that gate."

"Where's the oil-can?" inquired Dinny.  "I'll touch it up."

"I know," said Kitty, putting down the bowl of whipping cream.

"Let him find it himself. . . .  It's up on the sewing-machine,
Dinny, in the back room."  Mrs. Fagan vigorously beat the potatoes.
"Don't look around in there.  It hasn't been picked up."

Timmy met him halfway up the stairs, and said it was too warm for a
coat.

Kitty's attitude became proprietary.

"Dinny doesn't want that much sugar in his tea. . . .  Dinny
mustn't have another piece of pie, father.  It's bad for his wind.
If we're going to make the team, we'll have to go easy on the
pie. . . .  Dinny, we really must look after those poor fingers:
that nasty acid.  Can't they use something else on their dirty old
type?"

On the fifth Sunday, Dinny met the four of them on the imposing
front steps of Saint Vincent at eleven o'clock.  It was his first
experience in a Catholic church.  He knew next to nothing about
that institution, and suspected that what little he did know was
untrue.  Of course, he took no stock in his own family's estimate
of it, aware that their passionate prejudice had been slowly
percolated through a filter of ignorance and contempt--a musty old
filter clogged with nearly four centuries of gritty deposits
precipitated from neighbourhood brawls and border wars.

In the questionable judgment of Uncle Miles, whose proud boast it
was that his feet had never crossed the threshold of "Rome," the
Pope was "the Anti-Christ."  Dinny had but a vague idea who "the
Anti-Christ" was, beyond his natural deduction that it was a
cryptic epithet never employed in eulogy.  Aunt Martha maintained
that practically all Catholic churches were secret arsenals, their
subterranean grottoes stuffed with rifles and ammunition.  She
wagged her head ominously when she predicted the day of "a great
uprisin' that'll make th' rivers run red."  This was, on the face
of it, mere drivel and nonsense.  You could tell, because the
rivers were to run red.  Aunt Martha was always quite definitely
off the rails when she talked in terms of red or any of the
collateral hues.  She always got excited, hysterical, and
incoherent when she discoursed on Sin, which was scarlet, or
Salvation, which was crimson.

As they mounted the church steps, pressed close on either side by
pilgrims of all sorts, Dinny felt himself a member of the Fagan
family.  There was something tender and intimate in this new
relationship.  He would sit in the Fagan pew.  He would belong to
them, for an hour, in bonds of a common wistfulness.  Not that he
expected to get much out of it further than the satisfaction of
sitting quietly with them.  Doubtless he and Kitty would share a
hymn-book.  There would be a long, tiresome sermon, but they would
not have to listen to it.  Perhaps he would touch Kitty's fingers,
when the clergyman inveighed against some sport or pleasure and
they would steal a pious glance at each other, tongue in cheek.

The instant they entered the dim, vasty nave, Dinny found himself
quite alone.  His Fagans had vanished, their places taken by four
strangers who suddenly went about the business of dipping finger-
tips in the huge marble shell, touching themselves with an
adroitness that could not possibly have been achieved through
experience, but must be accounted for by some instinct which Dinny
knew he did not possess.

The supple grace of their genuflections set them apart from him and
all his kind.  The only movement he had ever seen, comparable to it
for artless dexterity, was the sweep of a lithe tiger's breast
against the bars as it reached the end of its brief journey and
turned to pad softly but determinedly to the other corner of the
cage.

He followed these people, dressed like the Fagans, halfway down the
broad aisle, where, pausing, they dipped again, not by conscious
effort, but as if each of them had been gripped by some current
flowing from the wood of the pew-end, so that when their fingers
touched it, they responded--galvanically.

Kitty glanced sideways and offered him a fragment of a smile--a
mere, transparently thin cross-section of a smile--as she slipped
swiftly from the seat to her knees beside Pat and her parents.
Dinny lumberingly joined her on the bare narrow rail on which they
knelt, ashamed of his awkwardness.  Adjusting his joints with much
difficulty, he distributed his weight so that his elbows on the top
of the pew might ease the discomfort of his knees.  When all this
had been attended to, he glanced down at the profile of the rapt
face beside him.  The smart little white hat with the blue ribbon
looked very much like Kitty's hat.  The firm, round, white chin was
amazingly like Kitty's lovely chin.  The steady fingers, gently
moving from one bead to another on her rosary, resembled Kitty's
competent fingers.  But Kitty had escaped.  This girl beside Dinny
was a foreigner.  Kitty and Pat and good old Timmy and hospitable
Mrs. Fagan had left him forlorn, chagrined, and lonely on the beach
while they, diving with the skill and precision of graceful seals,
had whisked away into their Sea.

Kneeling thus on the hard pebbled beach of that mysterious Sea in
which the Fagans were so confidently at home, the sublimity of it
all began to lay hold on Dinny Brumm.  He realized now that
something inside him had been calling, faintly but urgently, all
his life, demanding exercise, sustenance, liberty; something
aquatic that couldn't walk on the hard ground.

They were back in their seats now, but the mesmeric spell did not
lift.  They rose, they sat, they bowed, they crossed themselves
with sure, deft strokes, Dinny trying to keep pace with them in the
rising, and sitting, and kneeling, feeling himself a mere stumbling
baby trudging with short, drunken steps in the wake of experienced
track-sprinters.

Now the congregation hummed briefly with swiftly flowing,
unintelligible fragments of liquid sentences, sentences prodded out
of it by stately challenges addressed to the great white and gold
and flickering altar by an ornately garbed figure.  The celebrant
was attended by small boys in vestments, who needed no telling what
to do, boys who anticipated each impending phase of the ancient
drama, boys whose very backs seemed to disdain such childish
fripperies as marbles, tops, and kites, having forsaken all that
was secular to pledge their life to all that was sacred.

Presently it occurred to Dinny that these strangers whose pew he
shared might be as well pleased with their guest if he made no
further ridiculous attempts to imitate them in their worship.  The
next time they sat, he resolved to remain seated.

He looked about.  It was the first occasion on which the Gothic had
ever spoken to him directly.  The Gothic beckoned him to attempt a
spiritual journey.

Dinny's eyes rested on the beautiful window nearest him, a multi-
coloured window crowded with brave events upheld and flanked by
miniatures of enhaloed saints--enraptured saints bearing massive
keys and open books, bearded saints leading submissive lions,
beardless saints led by victorious lambs with a fore-foot
sustaining a shouldered banner; crowns and crests, shields and
swords, cups and censers, purple grapes and yellow wheat-sheaves,
and hilltops tipped with spires.

His eyes travelled up until the window narrowed to a pointed arch
that led the way to the base of a flying buttress.  He gave himself
willingly to its graceful curve, and followed along past
innumerable sign-posts--all pointing up . . . Up . . . UP!--each
arch, and tip, and spire daring him to leap to another . . .
higher . . . Higher . . . HIGHER!--until visibility was lost in
the shadows overhead.

Perhaps that was the way Religion really ought to be, thought
Dinny.  No wonder the Catholics had lasted so long without the
necessity of change, reorganization, reappraisals.  The old Church
invited you to look up.  That was all she asked.  She made no
promises that she could reveal the Ultimate.  It was up to you . . .
how far you could see.  You looked up--and the Church carried you
from one aspiring arch to another until you could go no farther,
not because the arches ended, up there, but because your frail
sight could no longer follow them into the Mystery whose depths
they plumbed.

Meantime, the rhythmic tide of the venerable ritual came rolling,
rumbling on in strong, confident waves--music out of a Past that
was also a Future; music that took no account of infinitesimal
weeks and months, but dealt with a thousand years as if it were
only a day; music that never even glanced down to see whether you
were following an ox-drawn plough or addressing parliament from a
throne, much less noticed whether you rode in a Day Coach or a
Pullman; spoken music, drifting from within the chancel, chanted
music, drifting from the choir overhead.

For a period there was much made of a small jewelled case, set into
the altar; hushed silences bounded by the silvery tinkle of a bell;
deep, deep reverence between the silvery tinkle of the bell.

The sweetish-brownish aroma of incense hung in the air, invisible
in the nave, though above the heads of the celebrants it drifted
like a torn tapestry--a very old, brownish-grey tapestry.  To
Dinny's unaccustomed nostrils the elusive scent was an indissoluble
combination of mingled appeals to the most spiritual of all the
senses.  He tried without success to analyse its weird effects upon
his imagination.  At first it seemed to possess a certain medicinal
quality--faintly stimulative.  No--it was not a stimulant, but an
exultant, insisting upon the exultation produced by calm
acceptance, confident repose.

There was something primitive about it, too; something woodsy, as
if it exuded from the enshadowing trees beneath whose branches
valiant men of old had knelt to worship--trees which the Gothic had
preserved in stone. . . .  Dinny wondered what strange magic the
incense was conjuring in the trained, consecrated nostrils of the
transported Fagans.

Aunt Martha had scorned the institution that tried to worship in a
heathen language.

"Nothing but gibberish!" declared Aunt Martha, who knew only her
mother tongue, and that imperfectly.

Dinny did not find it so.  In the mounting radicalism of eighteen
plus disillusionment, he was ready to do bumptious battle with any
detailed invoice of "I believes," hawked in the language of the
clearing-house and the market-place.  But there was a sudden
tightening of the throat, a burning of the eyelids, when the
sonorous phrases came welling forth from the dimly lit chancel:


     Et in Jesum Christum . . . Dominum nostrum . . . qui conceptus
     est de Spiritu sancto . . . natus ex Maria Virgine . . .


You didn't have to believe it: you just knew it was true.

His eyes groped into the vaulted roof.  Up there, out there, beyond
there--what?  When you had it all explained for you in the patter
of the machine-shop, the language of the garage, the department-
store, the football field, you waved it away and muttered, "Stuff
and nonsense!"  It was a different matter when sung to you in an
otherwise unused tongue, through an aromatic veil of incense:


     carnis resurrectionem . . . vitam �ternam! . . .


That was the glory, then, of this Catholic religion.  It didn't ask
to be understood, as Chemistry asks to be understood.

Perhaps that was the whole trouble with Uncle Miles's religion.  It
explained everything, succeeding only in making itself absurd.  Its
speculations were hard-and-fast facts to be weighed on the scales,
poured into a test-tube, shaken over a flame.

Not much wonder, thought Dinny, this Catholicism had carried
on. . . .  Every so often, turbulent little sects had spewed
themselves out through the heavy bronze doors of cathedrals to
quarrel and dogmatize; obliged, when their fury was spent, to build
cheap and ugly little imitations of the eternal thing from which
they in their wilfulness had fled.

Every new generation of the self-outcast had revised the imitation.
Never were they done tinkering with it, reconditioning it,
modernizing it, making it over "to meet the new day."  And--
meantime--while their most progressive engineers dug deep under the
thing to install new heating, climbed high on the thing to equip it
with a tighter roof, repainted it, relandscaped it--The Everlasting
Church stood fast! . . . "sanctum Ecclesiam Catholicam!"

THAT was the Sea!

All the time the inquisitive and heady were busily building their
little dams, and draining their miasmic ponds, and changing the
courses of their impotent, muddy, little creeks, the Sea had
steadily throbbed to the tune of the stars without so much as a by-
your-leave to any earthly powers.  That Sea did not even pause to
smile at the snarls and fist-shakings of the engineers.  The Sea
did not know they existed! . . .  Dinny Brumm devoutly hoped he
could learn to navigate that Sea.  He went out of Saint Vincent's,
into the October sunshine, tentatively committed to the great
experiment.

"How did you like it?" asked Kitty, smiling a little, but wide-eyed
with genuine concern.

"I really can't talk about it, Kitty," he murmured.

She grasped his arm for a moment, and patted his sleeve lightly.

"'Dominus vobiscum,' Dinny!" recited Kitty, gently, gratefully.

"What do I say now--anything?"

"You say, 'Et cum spiritu tuo,' Dinny."

He repeated the words after her, adding, "dear."

                        *  *  *  *  *

That afternoon--a golden-russet, burnt-sienna afternoon--they
climbed the high hill overlooking the city park.  The southerly
slope of the hill was a cemetery.  It was a full quarter-mile to
the nearest white stones; a half-mile to the broad granite arch of
the old-worldish gateway flanked on either side with clumps of
cypress trees.

Dinny was reflective, eyes moody, lips pursed, as he reclined on an
elbow, Kitty sitting cross-legged beside him, endeavouring to
punctuate the long silences with sprightly talk.

"Wise old owl," she pouted, "come out of your trance."

Their eyes turned toward the cemetery gate, far below.  Some secret
order in uniform was creeping along, led by a brass band, en route
to bury a brother . . .  Chopin's Funeral March . . .  As the band
passed under the broad stone arch and through the cypress trees, a
whole half-dozen measures were completely obliterated.  Kitty
supplied the missing passage, keeping time with martial bobs of her
bare black head, her pretty cheeks distended as if she blew the
notes on the big, shining tuba that presently led the way out into
the sun.

"Pumm, pum-te-pumm, pum-te-pum, te-pum, te-pum," pummed Kitty,
soberly.

The cort�ge was marching out into the glow, now, but the dirge was
still in the gloom, candidly hopeless of anything to come of this
dignified enterprise further than the wretched anti-climax of ropes
and shovels and the bouncing of clods on a box.

Dinny lay outstretched on his back, gazing straight up, listening
to the wisps of the despairing march which Kitty continued to
accompany, softly.  Now it was quite stilled again for an instant,
while the band rounded the other side of a massive cliff.
Presently there swept up the hill a great wave of hope.
"Nevertheless!" sang the dirge.  "NEVERTHELESS--I tell you!"

Kitty scrambled to her knees, facing Dinny, her eyes bright,
dancing, her pretty teeth sparkling, keeping time with both hands,
fingers outspread, chanting, happily:

"Tra-la--Tra-la--la-la-la-la--la--tra-la" . . .

"You actually believe that; don't you?"

"That it's going to come out all right?  Sure!  Of course!  Don't
you?"

"I think I do . . . when . . . when it's said in Latin."

"I don't quite get you, Dinny."

"Well," he drawled, dreamily, "I think the belief in everlasting
life is silly . . . but 'vitam �ternam' is sound."

"Funny boy!" laughed Kitty.  "Old owl!"

Then he told her almost everything he had thought about, that
morning in church.  On the way down the hill, she promised to ask
Father Donovan for some little books he might read, though Dinny
was not sure he wanted them.

"I'm contented," he said.  "Besides--I would have trouble reading
them.  Latin's tedious . . . in large quantities."

"Oh--but this will not be in Latin," explained Kitty.

"Maybe we'd better leave well enough alone," said Dinny,
thoughtfully.

                        *  *  *  *  *

Two disquieting books came into Dinny's hands, within three hours
of each other, on the next Thursday night.

The first was lent by Father Donovan and delivered into the hands
of Dinny, at his case, by Kitty Fagan--a book he opened at one
a.m., in his room, and perused for a scant five minutes.  Then he
closed it with a snap.  He had read the English--the modern,
workaday English, under the pitiless glare of electric light--the
English explanation of The Mysteries.

Here was the "Profession of Faith" for converts:

"I., N. N., having before me the holy gospels, which I touch with
my hand and knowing that no one can be saved without that faith
which the Holy, Catholic, Apostolic Roman Church holds, believes,
and teaches, against which I grieve that I have greatly erred--"

Dinny ran his eye down the page:

"I believe in one only God in three divine Persons, distinct from,
and equal to, each other--that is to say, the Father, the Son, and
the Holy Ghost."

How often he had heard Uncle Miles tangle himself up in the
labyrinthian mazes of this incomprehensible "three in one" business--
as if it mattered; as if anybody knew.

"I believe in the true, real and substantial presence of the Body
and Blood, together with the Soul and Divinity, of our Lord Jesus
Christ, in the most holy Sacrament of the Eucharist."

That's what the little jewelled case was about.  The Lord Jesus
Christ was in there.  They took Him out, and then put Him back in
again. . . .  Uncle Miles had some queer ideas, too; but--

The rest of it Dinny merely glanced at.

"I believe in the seven Sacraments . . .

"I believe in Purgatory . . .

"I believe in the Primacy, not only of honour, but of jurisdiction,
of the Roman Pontiff, successor of Saint Peter, Prince of the
Apostles . . .

"I believe in the veneration of the Saints and of their images."

"And"--the book was closing now, and in an instant it would be shut
with a sharp slap--"I believe in everything else that has been
defined and declared by the sacred Canons and the General Councils,
and particularly by the Council of Trent--"

Dinny didn't know what the "Council of Trent" was, but it was with
the "Council of Trent" that his spiritual exploration terminated.
It was seven years before he smelled incense again.

He undressed, and went to bed with the book Mr. Brophy had lent him
at midnight.  Mr. Brophy had asked him along to lunch, for on
Thursday nights he always worked overtime, ads being heavy in the
Friday morning edition of The Star.

They went to Clancy's, which closed at eleven, in accordance with
the law, and remained open until one to accommodate the Fourth
Estate, certain other discreet, and Sergeant O'Shane, who paused at
Mr. Brophy's table to exchange the customary:

"Annything new, Misther Brophy?"

"More fighting in Ireland, Sergeant; that's all."

"And that's not news, Misther Brophy."

"Dinny," said Mr. Brophy, when Clancy, himself, had put down on the
bare table a plate of Swiss cheese, rye bread, and two steins of
beer, "did you ever read Hardy's Jude the Obscure?"

Dinny, his mouth full, shook his head.

"I'll lend it to you," said Mr. Brophy, taking the book from his
pocket and pushing it across the table.

"Thanks," mumbled Dinny.  "What's it about?"

Mr. Brophy made up a cheese sandwich, painstakingly.

"It's about a tremendously ambitious youngster who wanted a college
education, so he could be somebody, and threw a wrench into the
machine by marrying out of his class."

"And so he didn't get to be anybody?"

"He didn't even get a college education."

"Why do you want me to read it, Mr. Brophy?"

Mr. Brophy shrugged a shoulder.

"It will do you good to get acquainted with Thomas Hardy . . .
vigorous style . . . sound workman."

In bed, now, with the book, Dinny became absorbed in the
tribulations of Jude's boyhood--strikingly like his own, in spots.
He read until four, lowered the book, stared for a long time at the
wall, sighed deeply, and turned out the light.  It had been a long
day.  Dinny had grown much older, since sunrise.



CHAPTER VIII


Magnolia students, unable to return to their homes, were welcome to
the seven o'clock dinner at the President's house on Christmas.

That no bones were made about the purely philanthropic nature of
this affair was blandly certified by the technique of recruiting
its guests.  The bulletin boards, a few days in advance, announced
that if these stranded would make themselves known to the Y.M. and
Y.W. secretaries, they would receive personal invitations.

It was easily to be deduced, from the character of the agencies
thus serving as a clearing-house for this social function, that its
guest-list would consist largely if not wholly of barbs; for,
almost without exception, the fraternity and sorority element had
no truck with the Y.M. or Y.W. beyond the dollar perfunctorily
disgorged during the early October campaign for their maintenance.
The Greeks were not, as a rule, religious.

Tradition held that these Yuletide festivities, however
praiseworthy in their altruistic intent, lacked brilliance.
Indeed, when a seasoned Magnolian--whether Greek or barbarian--was
hard pressed for a simile adequate to bound some experience of
boredom in extremis, he was apt to liken it to the Braithwaites'
Christmas Party, even if he had never attended one himself and
might have added but little to its incandescence if he had.  Dinny
had missed the affair, a year ago, truthfully offering the excuse--
though he could have invented one--that he was obliged to work at
that hour.

Nothing was more remote from his intention than attendance at this
year's Christmas conviviality in the big, square, dormer-windowed,
brick house which dominated this end of Sunnyside Avenue,
dignifiedly aloof from the long row of Greek chapter houses--for it
was set in spacious grounds--but obviously mothering them and
sharing with them the same Strozzi lamp-posts in the broad green
parking, four to the block, on either side, as if the Old Lady,
upon installing hers, had said they might as well provide similarly
for the children.

But it now turned out that Dinny was to be one of the guests at the
annual barbarian spread.

Encountering President Braithwaite, whom he sincerely admired,
Dinny impulsively pledged himself to attend the feast.  They had
met in the almost deserted hall of the Administration Building on
the morning of the twenty-second.  The college session had closed.

"Not going home, Brumm?"

"No, sir; not this time, sir."

Dinny did not feel it necessary to add that he was done going home;
never expected to go home again; had, in fact, no home to go to
since the receipt of Angela's astounding letter, a month ago,
easing her burdened soul of a confession that, while rummaging in
her father's desk, she had discovered evidences of long-continued
misappropriation of funds rightfully Dinny's--a defalcation in
which Aunt Martha was a silent but culpable accomplice.  Angela,
deeply stirred in a revival staged by the celebrated "Buster" Brown
and the incomparable song-leader, "Merry" Merriweather, had
experienced "the third work"--an altitudinous degree of
sanctification involving the wholesale confession of sins, venial
and mortal, in which salutary enterprise she had, after a manner of
speaking, spilled the beans.

"The money," wrote Angela, in an affected back-hand on reeking pink
paper, "must have stopped coming about two years ago.

"I think my father must have begun to be scared, about that time.
Your father probably wanted to arrange to send you to college,
though I couldn't find that letter in the package.

"The only one on that was dated more than two years ago.  It was
written on a New York Central train.  It said, 'If it is true my
son has no inclination to go to college and has a good job and
bitterly resents any further help from me, there is nothing more to
do.'"

Savage with indignation, Dinny rapidly composed and destroyed a
half-dozen letters--three to the rascally old Uncle Miles; two,
slightly less ironical, to pious Aunt Martha; concluding with a
real masterpiece of shocking sacrilege to the thrice-blest Angela.
Having thus documented his sentiments in regard to the elementary
decencies, and the mysterious ways of Providence in delegating the
propagation of sweetness and light to ambassadors so nonchalant on
the subject of common integrity, he screwed the cap back on his
fountain-pen, and called it a day's work.

Presuming, correctly, that Angela's purgation demanded her having
it out with Uncle Miles and Aunt Martha, Dinny thought he would
wait until these unctuous defaulters had had time to concoct some
ingenious explanation.  But they, judging by their silence, were
waiting for his offensive; so, communication was cut off.  As
Christmas neared, it occurred to him that, aside from the greeting
cards he meant to mail to Mr. Brophy, old Peter Andrews, and the
Fagans (whom he rarely visited now, Kitty having impatiently
transferred her affections to young Mike Slattery, a handsome and
promising department manager in the Crystal Laundry), he had no
occasion for shopping.  Dinny hoped Aunt Martha would not trouble
herself to send him anything.  But it would be quite like her to do
so--a sappy book of preachments, perhaps, written, published, and
peddled by the Reverend Bouncing Bilgewater, or some such moron.

"Then you will be coming to our Christmas dinner," said the
President, genially.

"Oh, yes, sir," declared Dinny, with grateful enthusiasm.  "Thank
you very much, Doctor Braithwaite."

Almost from his first day, Dinny had found himself wondering how
little Magnolia, so narrow and reactionary, had invited a man of
President Braithwaite's broad sympathies and urbanity to direct her
affairs.  And how had Doctor Braithwaite ever persuaded himself to
lead a cause so unpromising?

It was common knowledge on the campus--even the freshmen chattered
it--that the President was in hot water, the conservatives
furnishing the fuel.  The President had been elected for his skill
as a money-getter.  But for that he would have been ousted long
ago.  But for that he would never have been called from the
Financial Secretaryship of little Minton, in Wisconsin, a
despairing toy college that he had rescued from the grave.  Minton
had called him to that job in the very nick of time to save him
from a heresy trial at the instigation of his Conference.  As a
minister, he had been too modern, nobody but the young people
following him.

"Everybody knows--"  Orville Kling, still Dinny's dormitory
neighbour, and now President of the Y., had come over, last week,
to borrow a pot of mucilage; for, as Religious Editor of The
Blossom, he was always out of paste.  "Everybody knows," declaimed
Kling, fresh from a meeting of his cabinet, in which Doctor
Braithwaite had been put in the pan, "that he's an out-and-out
higher critic!"

"Critic of what?" inquired Dinny, absently, intent on the trail of
an irregular verb in his Greek lexicon, "Critic of WHAT?" he
repeated, "and higher than WHO?"

"You wait!--"

Disdaining the persiflage, Kling slowly closed one eye and tipped
his head far back, hinting at inside information he dared not
reveal.

"You just wait until Braithwaite has finished this two-year drive
for the Half-Million Endowment Fund.  The Board will give him his
walking papers!"

"Not very sporting, I should say," observed Dinny.

Kling hooked a leg over the corner of Dinny's table, rested an
elbow on his knee, and beat time to his oracle with an impressive
forefinger.

"The conservation of Christian faith," he intoned, "is not a
sporting proposition."

"I had noticed that," drawled Dinny, not very pleasantly.

"What I say is," continued Kling, warming, "if Braithwaite wants to
make a dash for this so-called liberty of religious thought, let
him do it--but not while he's on the pay-roll of an orthodox
institution."

"Like Martin Luther, for instance?" queried Dinny.

"That's quite a different matter," growled Kling, pacing to the
window and backing up defensively against the sill, "Luther, as it
happened, was right!"

"But the conservatives didn't think so," amended Dinny, "or did
they?  I'm not very well posted on that."

"No--I don't suppose you are," muttered Kling, meaningly, "though
you ought to be, considering your background."

Dinny impetuously pushed back his chair, and was on the point of
offering a sarcastic discrimination between "background" and "back-
fire," but thought better of it, and turned again to his lexicon.

Kling strode heatedly toward the door.

"Here," said Dinny, "you've forgotten the mucilage."

"Thanks," said Kling, stiffly, "I think I can find some."

"Sure you can find your scissors?" teased Dinny, grinning.

"I suppose you think that's witty, son."  Kling had his hand on the
knob.

"I think it's a scream, Brother Kling," retorted Dinny, "ALL OF IT!--
the Board of Directors, Christian faith, home background, the
Y.M.C.A., The Blossom's Religious Column, and--and the paste-pot
and the scissors!--"

The door banged with a resounding wallop.

"--and you, too," finished Dinny, addressing the infuriated
footsteps in the hall.  "You're a scream, too!"

                        *  *  *  *  *

At three, still uncomfortable over his promise to attend the
Christmas party, which was going to be dull with an exceeding great
dullness, no matter how the Braithwaites might tear their hair to
make it interesting, Dinny went skating in the park.

There was nothing he enjoyed so much.  The day was perfect, air
crisp, tonic, the sky turquoise, the sun bright.

He recognized no one on the pond, but it required no company to
complete his satisfaction.

With long, lazy strokes, he traversed the quarter-mile longitudinal
stretch of the steel-blue lagoon, delighting in the ease of a
locomotion that always gave him the sensation of flying.  There was
a unique exhilaration in the ability to let oneself go; to lean
back confidently on the promise of that strange centrifugal energy
developed by "the outer edge roll"--a confidence more exacting, and
better rewarded, than the faith of the floating swimmer.

He glanced without much interest at the indifferent skaters as he
swept past them.  Most of them were huddled in small parties,
hacking away with short, stumbling steps, what time they were not
clawing at each other for support, or spilling themselves, or
shrieking hysterically over the misfortunes of their neighbours, or
fussing with their straps.  Magnolia was a bit too far south to
breed able ice-skaters.

Presently Dinny sighted a tall girl, apparently alone, who knew
what she was there for.  My word!--what a competent young eagle she
was!  He wheeled, and followed her at a respectful distance.

She was slender, but beautifully formed; exquisite from the top of
the brown fur toque that matched her curly hair to the flashing
blades of the high-laced skating-boots which intriguingly disclosed
attractive segments of gleaming silk between them and the short
brown skirt.  Her gauntleted hands--long, strong hands--were
outspread at the tops of her hips as if they signalled the measured
strokes like a coxswain.  She clasped them behind her back, now, as
if they had nothing whatever to do with it.

The girl had leisurely slowed down, at the end of the pond,
finishing the lap with a series of incomparable "eights."

Observing that she was quite absorbed in her own affairs, Dinny did
not linger to join the admiring circle that collected rapidly to
view her skilful manoeuvres, but drifted negligently away toward
the farther end of the lagoon.  Turning, there, he noticed with
satisfaction that she had detached herself from her little theatre
and was again on more extensive flights.  He hoped she would come
on.  Pursuing a small orbit, in reverse, Dinny waited.  His heart
gave a hard bump as she swept closer.  Her face was radiant with
vitality--a patrician face, thought Dinny; a portrait face, finely
modelled brows, sensitive nostrils, red lips curved like the bent
bow of a medieval arbalest.  Little curls peeped from under the fur
toque, softening the lines of a gallant forehead.

She smiled, as one artist to another.

"Very good ice," she said, casually, in a tone that made Dinny
think, if she sang--and surely she did--it would be contralto.

"You skate beautifully," said Dinny.

Her slightly raised brows and parted lips accepted the candid
tribute.

"You should know," she replied.

"But you didn't learn it in Magnolia," Dinny hazarded, flushed a
little by her bland compliment.  He held out his hands, invitingly.

"Shall we?"

"Why not?  I'd like to."

She had hardly consented before they were beginning to drift,
crossed hands clasped, into a long, indolent roll that inclined
their tall, lithe forms so far off balance none but the expert
could have trusted to it.

Their wake was a double row of graceful fern-fronds, laid down
almost end to end on the glassy lagoon.  At first the fronds were
twenty feet long and sixteen inches apart.  Then they lengthened to
thirty feet and narrowed to thirteen inches, for Dinny had drawn
her closer, and she had instantly responded.

They moved as one body, their rhythm perfect.  Sometimes the long
twin fronds seemed pointing directly toward a mighty collision with
a group of wobbly-ankled gigglers; but, without signalling each
other by so much as a pressure of the fingers, the welded pair of
ice-artists would bend the arc of the fronds and sail past with the
grace of a yacht acknowledging the sudden puff of a capricious
breeze.  Preferring to sense to the full the ecstasy of reckless
swallows, they had not attempted conversation, but their thoughts
had been active.

It had required no deduction on Joan's part to identify her
overtowering companion as a Magnolia athlete, for there was a huge
pink M on his white sweater.  Dinny was still in the dark, his
curiosity mounting.

"What's the letter about?" she asked, when they idled to the first
stop at the eastern end of the pond where they had met.

"Football--but this is a lot more fun, don't you think?"

"Yes," she laughed, "but I never played football. . . .  You must
live here--or you would have started home."

"No," replied Dinny, "do you?"

"Yes. . . .  Are you coming to our Christmas party?"

"I certainly am!" said Dinny, fervently.  "Whose party?"

"I'm Joan Braithwaite."

"I should have known," said Dinny.  "But you're always away.
University of Wisconsin--isn't it? . . .  I'm Ferdinand Brumm, Miss
Braithwaite."

"Oh!"  Joan's pretty mouth rounded in happy surprise.  "So you're
the lad that galloped the sixty yards with all Camford hanging on
to you!  I read about it. . . .  You're 'Dinny'!"

"Thanks! . . .  But it was only the last three or four yards that
they all got on. . . .  Like to do it some more?"

"How many of them were there--actually?" laughed Joan, taking his
proffered hands.

"I believe they had eleven on their team, that day," said Dinny,
thoughtfully.  "It may have been a few more.  Camford is
frightfully unscrupulous, you know."

They chatted, amiably.

Yes--she loved Wisconsin, but her father was insisting on her
coming to Magnolia, next year.  Dinny expressed his sincere
regrets.

"I mean, of course," he amended, "I'm sorry for YOU, having to
leave your friends . . . and Magnolia will be quite a change, you
know. . . .  Not much doing here."

"Oh, I won't mind--much," said Joan; adding, after a considerable
pause, "The Gammas gave a nice party for me, last night--that's my
sorority, you know. . . .  By the way--where were YOU?"

"I'm a barb," drawled Dinny.

"Oh . . . I didn't know. . . .  Pardon me, won't you?"  She
endeavoured to cover her confusion with a contrite little laugh as
she added, "I didn't know the--the non-fraternity men called
THEMSELVES 'barbs.' . . .  I thought they quite bitterly resented
the word."

"Why should they?" asked Dinny, dryly.  "We know that when the
fraternity men call us 'barbs,' it's just a bit of friendly
chaffing--same as when we call them 'Greeks.'  We haven't the
courage and vitality to be barbarians, and they don't know any
Greek.  Why--if their badges weren't of different shapes and
colours, they'd never know when they met a brother."

"Frightfully satirical, aren't you?" Joan's tone was crisp.

"It's the best thing I do," boasted Dinny, in mock seriousness.
"I've been commended for it by Professor Grover, a couple of times.
In fact, he gave me E, last semester, in Creative Composition.
E stands for Excellent, doesn't it?"

"Oh, yes," consented Joan, "and it stands for some other things--
when it's grading satire and sarcasm."

The twin fronds on the ice behind them widened a little.

"What--for instance?" Dinny wanted to know.

"No matter," said Joan, idly.  "Forget it."

"But I quite insist.  You had something you wanted to say."

"I'm afraid it isn't very polite," ventured Joan, "but doesn't E
stand for Enraged--and Embattled--and Embarrassed--and--"

"And--what?--"

"Envious."

"You're quite frank," said Dinny, after an instant of recovery.

"Well--you would have it, you know. . . .  I told you I didn't like
irony."

"But--you like humour, don't you? . . . and if there's anything
funnier than a bunch of college students taking on airs because
they're 'Greeks,' I'm sure I don't know what it is.  You'd think
they would tumble all over themselves getting into old man
Appleton's classes.  We barbs have Homer all to ourselves.  Oddly
enough, old Appleton is a barb, himself!"

Joan disengaged her hands, a little before they reached the end of
the pond.  Her face showed disappointment.

"Does it make you happy," she asked, soberly looking him straight
in the eyes--"to be . . . that way?"

"I've had very little occasion to be happy," parried Dinny.

"You mean here? . . . at Magnolia?"

"I mean everywhere . . . and always," said Dinny, suddenly sincere.
"If I were to tell you--"

"Do you want to?"  Joan's tone deepened, and her dark brown eyes
searched his rugged face.

"No," he answered, brusquely, adding, suddenly contrite, "Thank you--
all the same.  I think I'd--I wouldn't mind telling you--if it
weren't such a dull story."

They simultaneously felt that their little visit was over.  Joan
glanced at her wrist-watch.  Dinny squinted at the declining sun.

She reached out her hand.

"I'll be seeing you, then, on Christmas?" she said.

Dinny felt very lonely as she glided away.  She was the most superb
creature he had ever seen.

                        *  *  *  *  *

President and Mrs. Braithwaite were warmly effusive as they
welcomed him in the wide doorway of their spacious parlour.

Joan was standing a little to one side, within the room, talking
animatedly with Barney Vaughn, who seemed in unusually high
spirits.  Dinny had forgotten that Barney, who had passed a dozen
universities en route from Phoenix, Arizona, to Magnolia--to the
never-flagging curiosity of all, unaware that his father was a
Magnolian--might be a guest tonight.

He had not talked with Barney since last May.  They had briefly
informed each other about the weather, when they happened to pass
on the street, unless they sighted each other early enough for one
of them to cross over and avoid even this laconic exchange of cool
civilities.

The constraint that stiffened their previously close friendship
dated from Dinny's refusal to become a Sig.

The Sigs had not bidden him promptly.  Within a week after his
first appearance on the athletic field, the Delts had spent two
hours with him, reciting the honoured names of alumni (none of them
Magnolians, as it happened) who had gone forth to hold aloft the
good old banner, and the Pies had offered to share their refined
salt, but he had politely declined.  Barney had urged him to wait.

The Sigs were a good while getting around to it.  His work at The
Star kept him occupied, and made it difficult for him to be
sociable.  The preliminary overtures of the Sigs were made somewhat
listless by the fact, which developed in casual conversation when
Barney had him in as his luncheon guest, that he would be unable to
conform to many of their regulations for the disciplining of "the
frosh."  The Custer Cottage was already crowded to capacity with
their pledges.

The bid was not issued until early December, Dinny learning, later,
through an outburst of confidence on the part of Barney, who had
had it from Curly Sprague, a soph, that Spike Davis had held out
for some time, threatening to blackball Dinny, if it came to a
vote.  Spike had been talked into consent on the night after the
Thanksgiving game with Camford in which, as fullback, he had kicked
the goal that tied the score and rent the sky.  He was feeling very
much at peace with all mankind, and a bit drunk; so he waived his
objections, and agreed to Dinny's election.

Dinny was unsure whether he wanted to accept the belated
invitation.  He confided his dilemma to Mr. Brophy, one night.

"You'd better, I think," counselled Mr. Brophy.  "Otherwise you're
rated a barb, and that will be awkward for you, not only while
you're in college, but--always."

So--Dinny had accepted the little button symbolic of the tardy
honour the Sigs conferred, and merged into the pack, to his
considerable inconvenience, for the new relationship levied irksome
requirements.  He bolted his six-thirty dinner at "th' House,"
dashed for a street-car, and arrived at The Star usually ten
minutes late, requiring double-measure overtime at his own expense.
He never had time to eat a dessert, except on Saturday.

The fraternities initiated their freshmen during the first week of
June.  The Sigs did not initiate Dinny.

Each candidate, according to custom, was assigned a special test of
his nerve, or an earnest of his eagerness to become a Greek.
Barney was to stand in front of The Palace Theatre, one night, from
eight to eight-thirty, with a hand-organ and a monkey--a salutary
lesson in humility, though he had been cuffed about almost enough
to have cured him of any uppishness.  Chuck Rawlins was to present,
on the occasion of his initiation, a live sparrow, the Sigs
offering no suggestions for its capture, but insisting that his
approach to the classic shrine, minus a live sparrow, would be
undesired.  Porky Bennet was to attend the Pan-Sorority tea, that
afternoon, as Carmen, the Sigs volunteering to furnish the
tambourine from their property closet.

Spike Davis was chairman of the committee on initiation.  Most of
the stunts had required no imagination on his part, having been
bequeathed, through many generations of Hellenic forbears.

Dinny's special assignment had cost Spike several contemplative
hours.  Cocky young Brumm had taken his honours too lightly; had
dodged too many disciplines on the ground of his employment in
town.  Furthermore--though this factor Spike would have denied with
fists and fangs--Dinny had played exceptionally good football at
fullback on the frosh team.  The local sports writers had made no
riddle of their belief and hope that next autumn, when he was
eligible, he would add lustre to the varsity.  Even Woods,
reviewing the season in The Cincinnati Times-Telegram (recently
popularized and circulation-boosted through its absorption by The
Craig Syndicate), had remarked, of next year's prospects, "Magnolia
has an excellent chance at the Conference pennant, what with her
strong line, and the long-legged Dinny Brumm, who will have reached
the age of responsibility."

All these things being as they were, Spike had something unique for
Dinny to do as proof that he was worthy to wear a Sig pin.

"What's eatin' you, Spike?" . . . "You can't have him do that!" . . .
"Snap out of it, old son.  That's much too thick."  Thus did the
seniors try to talk him out of it.  But Spike held his ground.  It
was his show, wasn't it?  He was running this affair, wasn't he?
Brumm had it all coming to him, didn't he?

Dinny was to carry a football under his arm, to all his classes,
for a week.  It was to be the one monumental pigskin on which Jim
Faucett, the frosh captain, had vaingloriously inked the scores of
their games with other classes--most of which triumphs had been
freely conceded to Dinny's fleetness and ruthlessness at fullback.

"I can't do that, Spike." Dinny shook his head, determinedly.

"Very well," said Spike, loftily.  "That's that, then!  If you want
to be a Sig, you know what you've got to do.  Think it over."

Barney Vaughn came to Dinny's room, that afternoon, troubled.

"Dinny--you've got to, you know," pleaded Barney.  "They've talked
to him, but he won't budge."

Dinny sat toying with a paper-knife, his brows knitted in a brown
study.

"He told me to find you."  Barney's voice trembled a little.  "And
come back with an immediate reply."

Dinny rose, presently, tossed the paper-knife on the desk with a
clatter, thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets.

"No, Barney; there isn't anybody at Magnolia who can give me such
an order--and if there was anybody who could, it wouldn't be Spike
Davis."

"But--"  Barney was half-frantic.  "What am I to do? . . .  What
shall I tell him?"

Dinny took the little button from his lapel, laid it in Barney's
hand, and said, slowly, but without heat:

"You can give this to Spike, with my compliments, and tell him to
go to hell."

"Do you realize, Dinny, what this is going to do to our friendship--
no matter how I feel about it, personally?"

"I'm afraid I do," muttered Dinny.  "That's the worst part of it,
of course."

"Want to sleep over it?"

"No--that's final.  I shan't change my mind."

"Awfully sorry, Dinny. . . .  Good-bye."

                        *  *  *  *  *

Mrs. Braithwaite, buxom, black-gowned, maternal, proceeded to adopt
Dinny, who had been the last to arrive, engaging him in a
conversation which she endeavoured to pivot around himself,
somewhat to his anxiety, for any discussion of his home and his
people was distasteful.

Joan and Barney had moved away, joining the group clustered about
Miss Gresley, whose parents were missionaries in India.  She would
rejoin them, after her graduation in June.  Miss Gresley was always
an object of interest, frequently appearing at missionary teas and
church affairs in Hindu costume which became her more than the
clothes she wore now.

Dinny wanted very much to speak to Joan; hoped she would presently
welcome him.  But dinner was announced at that moment.  Tall,
genial, handsome Doctor Braithwaite excused himself to find Miss
Gresley, who, as the farthest away from home, was clearly eligible
to sit at her host's right hand.

"I am going to take you with me, Mr. Brumm," said Mrs. Braithwaite.
Dinny offered his arm.

It was not until they were all standing with their hands on the
tops of their chairs, waiting for whatever of ceremony was in
order, that Dinny noticed the position of Joan at the right of
Barney, who sat next to Miss Gresley.  Their eyes met, briefly, and
Joan accorded him a little nod of recognition.

The President suggested that they sing a verse of "Holy Night,"
after which they sat, fully three fourths of the score of shy
guests immediately and concertedly helping themselves to a nervous
sip of water, as if to say that they knew what THAT was for,
anyway, whatever baffling dishes might challenge their social
experience later.

"You met our Joan, didn't you, Mr. Brumm?"  Mrs. Braithwaite had
dipped a spoon into her fruit cocktail.  "She told me.  So nice you
could skate together.  She quite enjoyed it.  See--she's looking
this way now--"

Dinny glanced in Joan's direction, not quite sure whether the smile
was for him or her mother.  Barney, at the moment, was speaking to
Miss Gresley.

"Of course you know Mr. Vaughn.  You are classmates, aren't you?
Joan met him, last night, at the Gammas' reception.  I'm so anxious
for Joan to make some good friends, for she's coming to Magnolia,
next year.  Her sorority sisters were so kind to her, last night."

"Yes--they would be, I should think," assented Dinny, hopeful that
the conversation might soon veer away from the reception.
Apparently it occurred to his hostess, at that moment, that
Hellenic activities might not be of interest to him.

"The Y.M. and Y.W. have just lovely parties, too," she said, "don't
you think?"

"So I'm told," replied Dinny, in a tone that evinced about as much
personal knowledge as if she had remarked on the exceptionally
large pineapple crop grown last season on the Island of Oahu.

"You're a naughty boy," chided Mrs. Braithwaite, smiling.  "I don't
believe you go to them, at all, and they're really very pleasant
affairs."

"I work nights, Mrs. Braithwaite," explained Dinny; and, when she
had inquired for particulars, he told her, their conversation
broken, now and then, by her brief exchange of talk with Orville
Kling--though he was mostly occupied with Miss Naylor, the Y.W.
secretary--and Dinny's futile efforts to find some mutual interest
with sallow, little Miss Upton.  His eyes roved about the table,
and when he reached Joan, they exchanged a steady look of inquiry,
as if she still asked, "Does it make you happy--to be--that
way?" . . . and as if he countered, "Why should you care?"

"But you have almost no social life at all, Mr. Brumm," lamented
Mrs. Braithwaite.  "What a pity you are tied up to such an exacting
schedule."

"It's no great matter, Mrs. Braithwaite."  Dinny lightly dismissed
the dilemma with a slight shrug.  "I rather enjoy my work on The
Star.  And--as for society--well, I'm not eligible to it, you see.
As a matter of fact"--he lowered his voice, confidentially--"I came
into this town in a day coach."

Mrs. Braithwaite laughed a little, glanced about the table,
fleetingly, and replied, "But so did most of us, I fancy."

"I dare say," agreed Dinny; adding, "You understand."  Again his
eyes wandered toward Joan, who met him with a level gaze that
continued to ask, "Does it make you happy?--"

"I do understand," said Mrs. Braithwaite, as if they were done with
riddles, "and I'm sorry, and something ought to be done about it--
but I'm sure I don't know what."

After dinner, Kling announced--bouncing up and down on his
experienced toes--that, at the request of the President, they would
sing a few songs.  Miss Noble, invited to the grand piano,
carefully put her handkerchief down on the ledge of the key-board,
and accompanied "On, Magnolia," to Kling's encouraging direction,
all joining with loyal enthusiasm.  Then they sang "America," with
unusual heartiness, for patriotism was in the air, and "God Save
the King," as a second verse, for the "neutrality" of early autumn
had been buried under the falling leaves and the snow.  Kling
suggested "The Marseillaise," which they hummed, uncertainly, no
one knowing the words very well.

Dinny was not quite sure which wing of the party he belonged to,
after the dinner.  Mrs. Braithwaite had signed him to remain by
her, just a little to his discomfiture, for perhaps she was making
an effort to pay him special attention, in atonement for the
indifference of her sort toward the social redemption of day-
coachers.  But Dinny felt remote.  On the other side of her, the
President, Joan, and Barney represented the kindly condescending
element that viewed the party as finely bred settlement workers
look on at the games promoted for the uplift of slum brats.

In all fairness, Dinny reflected that he was super-sensitive on
this subject; told himself that what appeared to be conscious
superiority on their part was nothing but an acknowledged
inferiority of his own.  But the situation was awkward, and he
wished himself well out of it.  He felt like an overgrown child,
sitting with adults, at a children's party.

Kling, who appeared to be the spokesman for the guests, ventured
upon a little speech of gratitude on behalf of them all.  Pleased
with the success of his remarks, he pulled out the tremolo stop,
and, gradually increasing the tempo of his teetering up and down,
jambed his stubby hands deeply into his coat pockets, achieving the
posture and meter that presaged an early outburst of emotion. . . .
Of course, none of us was forgetting, in the midst of our Christmas
gaiety, the bereavement and suffering of our hard-pressed
neighbours beyond the sea, waging valiant warfare to protect
civilization against the ruthless selfishness of The Hun. . . .
Kling was roundly applauded.

"Terrible--isn't it?"  Mrs. Braithwaite turned to Dinny, her brows
knitted in painful reflection.

"You mean the war?"

"You're a bad boy," said Mrs. Braithwaite, reproachfully.

Kling now suggested that they have a few words from the President,
and sat down, smiling expectantly.

Doctor Braithwaite rose, rather soberly, thanked them for coming,
invited them to drop in when they liked, through the lonely
vacation days. . . .  It was true, as Mr. Kling had indicated, that
our happiness should be tempered with sympathy for the millions
defending themselves in an unnecessary war.  We would be justified
in extending sympathy, also, to the millions who, through no fault
of their own, were being pushed into a conflict, as aggressors, for
which they had no personal inclination.

"The thing we want to avoid--or postpone as long as possible--is
the attitude of hatred toward the Germans," went on Doctor
Braithwaite, deeply earnest.  "Germany has contributed too much to
the enlightenment and beautification of the world to be dismissed,
lightly, as an enemy of civilization. . . .  These lurid tales of
atrocities may, or may not, be true.  I, for one, do not believe
them!"

Dinny pounded his hands, the others tardily and rather doubtfully
joining in the applause for politeness' sake.

"I see you agree with Doctor Braithwaite--about the war," said his
hostess, upon the conclusion of the President's brief address.
"It's not the popular thing, I'm afraid."

"I'd agree with Doctor Braithwaite--no matter what he said!"
declared Dinny, fervently.  "He's always right--and I know he's
right about this."

"Thank you, Dinny!" she said, softly, adding, "You won't mind if I
call you 'Dinny'? . . .  I'm afraid Mr. Braithwaite will find only
a minority willing to share his views."

"He doesn't need to care--a man like him!" declared Dinny, with
assurance.

Mrs. Braithwaite shook her head, uneasily.

"People are growing more and more militant," she said.

The party was breaking up, now.  The Braithwaites attended to their
duties as hosts.  Joan was shaking hands with the girls, as they
filed out and up the stairs to recover their coats.  Barney had
escaped.  He and Dinny had not exchanged a dozen words.

"Going up the hill?" inquired Kling, breezily, still under the
influence of his success as an impromptu speaker.

Dinny assented, without enthusiasm.

Joan moved toward him, her eyes troubled.  Overriding the
antagonism that had developed between them there was a curious
intimacy in their attitude as he bent to listen to her swiftly
spoken confidence.  It was as if they had known and trusted each
other for years.

"Don't say or do anything to encourage my father in his--his
attempt at suicide!" pleaded Joan.  "He's dead wrong, and he's
going to get into trouble!  Don't lead any more applause that might
make him think he has backing.  Please!"

"How do you know he's wrong?"  Dinny's grey-green eyes challenged
her brown eyes with a steady look.

"Indiscreet, then," she compromised, impatiently.  "My father--"
Joan lowered her voice almost to a whisper.  "My father has quite
enough problems on his hands, just now, without incurring any more.
You like him, don't you?"

"More than any man I ever met!" said Dinny, with fervour.

"Well--so do I," murmured Joan, "and I'm not going to let him ruin
himself if I can help it."

Dinny offered his hand.

"Good-night--Miss Braithwaite. . . .  Sorry my little gesture of
loyalty to your father has distressed you."

Joan's brown eyes fired, angrily.

"I don't like sarcasm," she muttered, "and I think you're perfectly
hateful, Dinny Brumm!"

Dinny's hand was still extended.  She seemed determined to ignore
it.  Her hot eyes winked rapidly as she faced the faint traces of a
conciliatory smile--half-reproach, half-indulgence--on Dinny's
lips.

Impetuously, she took his hand, for a fleeting instant, and turned
away.

                        *  *  *  *  *

"What did I tell you?" exhorted Kling, as they trudged up the slope
toward the dormitory.  "The man's positively dangerous!  You'll
find"--Kling measured his syllables with a didactic hand--"that
when a man's religious faith breaks down, it isn't long until his
patriotism isn't much good, either!"

"Looks like it's going to snow again," observed Dinny, with
exasperating unconcern.

"And YOU want to be careful, too, young fellow," warned Kling,
ominously.

"Meaning WHAT?" growled Dinny, dangerously, with a savage clutch at
Kling's sleeve that flung him almost off his feet.

Amazed at this unexpected onslaught, Kling was speechless for a
moment, and then said, nervously, "I'm not going to fight you,
Dinny, if that's what you want."

"Oh--so you are a pacifist, after all," taunted Dinny.  "Well--you
needn't fight, this time, if the idea of it alarms you, or violates
your convictions; but"--he clutched Kling's overcoat collar in the
strong grip of his long fingers--"if I ever hear of you dishing out
any more of your damned impudence about Doctor Braithwaite--ever
again--in public or private--I'll beat hell out of you, whether you
defend yourself or not!  Have you got that, now, so you can
remember it?"

He left Kling standing there on the path.

Without turning, he proceeded on up the hill, climbed to his room,
slammed the door, disrobed, and wrote two letters, the second
addressed to the Reverend Miles Brumm.


Dear Sir:

I have instructed the Speedway Moving and Storage Company of
Indianapolis to call at your address for a small walnut desk of
mine, formerly the property of my mother.

You will be good enough to let the moving people have the desk for
immediate shipment to me, at my expense.

This, I think, will terminate our business and other relationships.

Any fear you may entertain relative to the possibility of an effort
on my part to recover the money you stole from me, can be safely
dismissed.

In view of the fact that my contempt for Mr. Alexander Craig is all
of a piece with my contempt for you, I would not press the claim.

No reply to this letter is expected or desired.

                                             Yours truly

                                                 FERDINAND BRUMM



CHAPTER IX


Magnolia College was considered good copy during the academic year
of 1915-16.

It was a period when any recognition on the front page, crowded
with heavy artillery, marine disasters, massacres of millions, and
the multisonous clangor of a world on fire, required more racket
than small church schools were accustomed to add to the cosmic din.

Even the Associated Press, sated with sensation, conceded, at the
close of her second semester, that Magnolia--for sixty-three placid
years an earnest little violet, staking her last shy petal on the
nobility of diffidence--had done her bit in leaded black-face.

In the autumn, Magnolia spectacularly won nine smashing victories
on the gridiron with scores that dizzied her competitors, no one of
whom got within ten yards of her goal-line.  Egged on by sports
writers, she tentatively booked an exhibition game with Harvard to
be played the next September, an engagement which was cancelled in
the spring, Harvard having lost interest, Magnolia having lost
Dinny Brumm.

On New Year's Eve, the Recitation Hall burned to the ground,
unquestionably the work of an incendiary, public opinion agreeing
that some ardent "preparedness" fanatic had thus expressed his
sentiments toward a college so spiritless as to permit an
uncompromising pacifist to direct her destiny.

On March tenth, the most widely known member of the undergraduate
body, whose long legs and reckless courage had been primarily
responsible for Magnolia's brilliant achievements in football, was
expelled for adorning the President of the college Y.M.C.A. with
two black eyes and a split lip.

The prosecution, appealing to the increasingly popular cause of
patriotism, made large capital of the fact that the plaintiff had
come by his injuries as a result of an impassioned address in
behalf of his country's injured pride.  The defendant's spirit of
disloyalty was further evidenced by the recent appearance of his
article in The Iconoclast, a discordant organ of protest, in which
the author had heaped contumely upon his Alma Mater, and shown a
disposition to bite the hand that fed him.

The defence endeavoured to show that the attack on Mr. Kling's
person was an honest, albeit over-enthusiastic, reprisal for
certain damaging remarks made in reference to Doctor Braithwaite.
It further ventured to prove, politely as the circumstances
permitted, that the statements of Mr. Brumm in The Iconoclast--
though admittedly phrased in the pardonable superlatives of rampant
youth--were unfortunately true.  The faculty jury, Professor
Grover, chairman, was out only five minutes.

Had it been Kling who was being fired, the press might have passed
over the matter with negligent observation.  The expulsion of Dinny
Brumm was quite another affair.  The Cincinnati Times-Telegram, in
particular, wanted to know all about it, and set forth Dinny's
cause with so much unction that the Magnolia Board of Directors was
deluged with letters and telegrams inquiring, in varying degrees of
indignation, whether the college had lost her mind.

On March thirteenth, a student mass-meeting was held.  The use of
the college chapel--Magnolia's only adequate assembly hall--having
been denied for this purpose, the auditorium of the City Building
was secured.  Unwittingly, the promoters of the event thus
recruited not only the attendance of almost the entire student body
(the Sigs refusing to participate), but augmented the audience by
several hundreds of interested towns-people whose concern for
Magnolia's welfare was largely based on her athletic activities.

Mightily cheered and heartened from the packed galleries, which
included not only ardent football fans with nothing at stake beyond
their own enjoyment, but anxious representatives of the Chamber of
Commerce, the Better Business Association, and scores of
influential resident alumni, the undergraduates, after an
accelerating tempest of fervid oratory, voted as one man for the
rescinding of the faculty's action and a prompt reinstatement of
Dinny Brumm.

A few of the more audacious wanted a trailer affixed to the
peremptory resolution, threatening a general strike in the event of
refusal on the part of the faculty to conform to student opinion.
This, however, was voted down, the Magnolians, as a whole,
recovering their habitual prudence even in the tumult of revolution
vociferously fanned by the town.

On March twentieth, after an all-night session of the faculty and
the Board of Directors, Dinny Brumm was restored to his previous
rating.  A mild proviso was attached demanding that Mr. Brumm
settle for Mr. Kling's personal repairs and the mending of sundry
articles of furniture which had impeded the celebrated fullback in
his task of chastising his neighbour--it having leaked out that
Dinny had already made these reparations.

On March twenty-first, Dinny left Magnolia to accept the position
offered him by wire from Mr. Steinberg, the Managing Editor of The
Cincinnati Times-Telegram.

The Athletic Association, getting wind of Dinny's offer and
acceptance, hastily organized plans to see him off with a
procession led by the college band, but he had already gone when
the committee rushed to his room to disclose the nature of the
vindication they had arranged for him; was, in fact, sitting in Mr.
Steinberg's office, listening to the latter's expectations of him,
at the very moment when the committee was scouring Magnolia in
quest of him.

The bone of contention having been thus providentially dragged from
the arena, the Board of Directors again assembled to focus its
attention upon the President and inquire diligently of itself
whether, in view of all the controversy stirred by his pacifistic
opinions, it might not be better to set him free to preach his
unpopular gospel of non-resistance on his own hook, undetained by
any further obligations to the college.

The Board split squarely in two on this issue, the objectors
maintaining that a considerable number of important "prospects"
whose contributions to the Endowment Fund would depend upon the
retention of Doctor Braithwaite, were awaiting the outcome of this
affair with a concern that might affect Magnolia to the tune of a
hundred thousand dollars, or so.

Notwithstanding this meeting was conducted in camera, every member
under pledge to give out no interviews, the discussion, the
decision, and the underlying cause thereof, were good for a first-
page column with a throw to three, next morning, in the public
prints.

On May nineteenth, President Braithwaite delivered the address to
the graduating class of the Theological Seminary, in which he lost
the support of the well-to-do conservatives whose influence had
previously fended off the attacks of the swashbucklers.

Later, at the funeral, it was remarked on all sides that Doctor
Braithwaite was not quite himself while delivering this
"unfortunate" speech.  He should have been in bed; was running a
temperature of 101�.

At the hour, however, no alibis were offered, and the address was
judged on its demerits.  Doctor Braithwaite proceeded vigorously to
reappraise the preacher's job for the edification of the fledgling
prophets. . . .  We were entering upon a Reformation of the Church
comparable to that of four centuries ago.  The bulk of the old
beliefs were irrelevant.  The oncoming generation would be so
disinterested in them that it would never even glance in their
direction.  The old credos were as dead as Queen Anne. . . .  We
had done with musty metaphysics, at least for the epoch with which
we would have to do, and would concern ourselves so exclusively
with kinetic energies that speculative philosophy could safely
retire to the sanctuary of the museum. . . .  The only service any
longer possible for the old theology would be rendered in the
capacity of an ancient landmark from which explorers might plat the
curve of Christian progress.

The Board went into conference, late that afternoon, and passed a
resolution requesting Doctor Braithwaite's resignation.  But he was
too ill to be handed the document, next morning, for he had
developed a grave pneumonia.

On the following Friday, he died.  It was quite obvious that the
minority who agreed with him would say he died a martyr.  It was
equally obvious that the majority, who had thrown him out, would
refer to him as a sincere, misguided radical whose disaster was
easily to be accounted for: he had broken loose from the old
moorings.  Let this be a lesson.

A few of the elderly invincibles muttered that it was a judgment of
God.  One bushy-haired apostle, large of lung and expansive of
gesture (eight years later elected Sublime Cyclops of the Ku Klux
Klan in that region), ventured to preach, the following Sunday, on
"Vengeance is Mine: I will repay, saith the Lord."  Hopeful of
riding into public notice on the shoulders of a corpse, he sent his
manuscript to The Star, which, on the indignant Mr. Brophy's
orders, was printed exactly as written, inclusive of all the bad
spelling, bad grammar, and bad temper which distinguished it as a
flagrant example of passionate ignorance.

It was an eventful year at Magnolia College.  Hitherto it had been
her proud boast that in her quiet corner she had preserved the
faith once delivered to the saints.  Having bred no speedy hares,
she had gone in for steady tortoises, promising that great merit
occasionally accrued through a race won by the plodder whose
brilliant competitors had gone to sleep, on the course, overcome by
sheer boredom.  The highest mark ever accorded the winner of a
Rebecca Winters Dutton Medal had been scored by an essay entitled
"Obscure Martyrs."

Little Magnolia, in the fierce glare of tie spot-light, felt stark
naked, and was ashamed.

                        *  *  *  *  *

But if the college year was a succession of dramatic events so
interesting to the public that Magnolia's carryings-on were fetched
in, every morning, off forty thousand doorsteps, along with the
milk--events in which Dinny Brumm continuously figured either as an
active principal or an unwitting accomplice--the season was replete
with unpublished episodes vastly more upsetting to this junior's
peace of mind.

Having worked full time on The Star through the three months'
vacation, Dinny's economically administered savings were augmented
to the point where he felt safe in launching upon his junior year
without a job.

With more leisure in prospect, he had accepted the associate
editorship of The Blossom.

Had the barbs been able to move concertedly, they might easily have
had their way in all the college elections relating to non-academic
activities, for they outnumbered the Greeks three to one; but,
lacking such unity, they were usually trounced by the sophisticated
minority.  This time, the Sigs and the Pies had failed to get
together on a slate for The Blossom staff, each offering a
favourite son.  The sororities took sides, the Gammas, as usual,
lining up with the Sigs, the Lambies throwing their vote to the
Pies.  The barbs elected their ticket.

Gates, the impecunious senior editor, less concerned about becoming
famous as a journalist than for the commercial success of his paper
(the staff receiving a modest rake-off, if the year's business
justified a bonus), encouraged Dinny to assume unrestricted liberty
on the editorial page.

Faithful to its innocuous name, The Blossom had ever been a frail
and shrinking organism, a mere amplified bulletin of collegiate
announcements and uncritical comments.  Its platitudinous
editorials roused no breeze.  Such spoofing as it indulged in
usually applied to budding romances on the campus, calfish
persiflage worthy of a high-school "annual."

Grinning with satisfaction, Dinny milled the college paper into a
giant cracker that went off, every Thursday afternoon, with a loud
bang.  After the first issue, The Blossom sold on the news-stands
over in town, and was warmly discussed in the faculty meetings.
Gates raised his advertising rates on unengaged space.

The Cincinnati Times-Telegram reproduced, in its Sunday supplement,
The Blossom's first long editorial entitled, "What Every Freshman
Ought to Know."

Satirically featuring the unsurpassed spirit of friendliness,
democracy, and smug insularity of Magnolia College, which rejoiced
in its self-containment and its ability to make of its student-body
"one happy little family," the editorial proceeded to explain the
fraternity system for the benefit of bewildered newcomers.

"Less than one fourth of our students," continued the editorial,
"are domiciled in large, imposing residences on either side of two
sacred blocks at the western end of Sunnyside Avenue.  Here dwell
the Greeks in dignified sequestration from the raucous shouts of
the proletariat.

"On each massive front door there are secrets carved in classic
Greek, and on each roof is a mortgage presumably printed in the
baser argot of the contemporary banking-house.

"You are advised to ask no questions about these institutions or
their tenants.  If they recognize you as a Greek, they will tell
you.  In that case, their secrets will be entrusted to you, and you
may be assured that they are secrets, and no mistake; for when a
senior who knows no Greek confides a Greek secret to a freshman who
knows no Greek, it is guaranteed to remain a mystery.  You will
also be encouraged to carry with you to your ancestral home a
generous portion of the venerable mortgage and drape it a-straddle
your father's chimney.  If he is of a grateful mind, he will
realize the honour thus brought to your tribe.

"If, unfortunately, you are not of the stuff instantly identifiable
as Hellenic, make no struggle to simulate a virtue which cannot be
achieved by personal effort.  In almost any pawnshop in town you
will see jewelled fraternity badges on exhibition.  To purchase and
wear one of these emblems would not improve your rating.

"Neither will it aid you, in this endeavour, to enrol in Greek
courses with the hope of promoting your eligibility, for the tongue
of Olympus is a native gift with our fraternity and sorority
people, and you will rarely meet one of them in the inquisitive
groups that cluster about the feet of Professor Appleton.

"Pass quickly through the Delphian groves, when you must needs
venture upon Sunnyside Avenue, lest you be blasted by anathemas
from some Corinthian portico.

"And when--as sometimes happens--you are snubbed and snooted by the
Greeks, because you are a barb, if it so be that the gods have
blest you with even the atrophied vestigial remains of any sense of
humour, permit yourself the luxury of breaking forth with wild
spasms of 'inextinguishable laughter.'

"If you are a co-ed barb, so much the worse for you.  It ill
becomes a girl to be a barbarian.  You are not built for it.
Submissively accept your unkindly fate.  Defer to your more
sophisticated sisters when you encounter them on the campus.  Step
off the path, and humbly address them in their own language.  Many
of them have never learned to speak English correctly, and it will
be a pleasant courtesy if you salute them in Greek.

"While it may be superfluous, perhaps impertinent, to suggest a
suitable amenity, The Blossom will cheerfully furnish upon request,
a brief salutation to be employed on such occasions.  We do not
guarantee, however, to provide applicants with the English
translation."

                        *  *  *  *  *

Of all the people who relished Dinny Brumm's sour diatribe, nobody
more keenly enjoyed it than Professor Ernst Martin, for eighteen
years master of Geology, Archaeology, Anthropology, and sundry
other brittles.

Professor Martin's odd gait, due to a club foot, and amazing tricks
of facial expression, acquired through diligent dealing with a
stammering tongue--(sometimes he hung on a dead centre in the
middle of a sentence, and whistled himself out of it, to the utter
devastation of persons unacquainted with his slight disability)--
amply explained why, at fifty-two, he was a dry old bachelor.

Long-time faculty wives could well remember when "Ernie" had lain
frank and futile siege to every good-looking girl within hobbling
distance.

Convinced, at length, that he was at his best when in pursuit of
inorganic objects of nature, Professor Martin had reluctantly
renounced romance in so far as it related to himself, but he had
never relaxed his interest in the heart attacks of other people.
His library shelves were crammed with love stories, the more ardent
of them re-read until he knew them by rote.  He was a devotee of
the movies, and at least twice a week followed the sinuous grace of
his favourite stars with hungry eyes.

But nothing afforded him more pleasure than to observe the brief
and covert exchange of wistful, exploring glances in his class-
room.  He had become so adept as a heart-diagnostician that he
believed he could tell, almost the first day of a new semester,
what pairings-off were likely to develop.

It was the shy ones who interested him most, the pairs who sat
farthest apart, never entering or leaving the room together, until--
one day--oh, joy!--the tortured stag would manoeuvre to the side of
the flustered doe, as the herd filed out of the room, and Ernie's
secret forecast had come true.

Sometimes he would mate a pair so sluggishly moving toward each
other that he was exasperated beyond endurance.

On one occasion, he had waited a whole year for signs of
advancement on the part of two diffident young things, who were
forever looking at each other, and, caught at it, would quickly
busy themselves in some other quarter.  Unable to be patient any
longer, Ernie contrived an errand that would speed their affair.

His class in Anthropology was taken to "the mounds," near Pinckney.
The gate was locked.  He sent the timid pair to the owner's house,
a half-mile away, over a narrow, rocky path, and through a tangle
of uncleared forest, for the key.  They were gone an hour, and when
they returned, they were no longer on foot, but floating in a
gossamer golden cloud.  The stag's shoulder was white with powder,
and the doe's ears were pink with embarrassment.  But they had
remembered to bring the key.  It was a great occasion.

By far the most baffling problem that had yet engaged Ernie's
attention was the annoying current case of Joan Braithwaite and
Dinny Brumm who were now members of his junior section in
Anthropology.

In Professor Martin's expert opinion, if ever two handsome
thoroughbreds had been destined from all eternity to find each
other--even if they had to meet halfway round the globe--these
tall, proud, self-sufficient personalities were that privileged
pair.

It was a small class, seventeen in all, accommodated by the first
semi-circular row of chairs in the room whose walls were eventful
with high glass cabinets stuffed with meteorites, stalactites,
fossils, pottery, and plaster casts of extinct animals and
approximate humanity of uncertain date.

"If my l-lectures bore you," Ernie was accustomed to say, at the
opening session of a class, "there are p-plenty of interesting
trinkets to look at, a c-ca-casual inspection of which would do you
no dis-s-s-service."

Joan had chosen the chair at the extreme end of the curved row,
Dinny had taken the seat nearest the door.  The intervening chairs
were occupied by average examples of Homo sapiens in its commonest
variety, worthy and well-meaning young persons, no doubt, but
clearly of a different biological category from the two who, at
opposite ends of the row, were so definitely of a higher species of
primate.  The amusing, the infuriating thing about it was that
neither of them seemed to know what anybody should have been able
to observe at a glance.

There was that good-looking young cub, Barney Vaughn, for example.
HE knew it.  Vaughn was pathetically infatuated with Joan.  Anybody
could see that.  But Vaughn avoided Brumm.  Once Ernie thought
Vaughn had purposely snubbed Brumm in a brief clash of opinion in a
class discussion. . . .  Why did Vaughn have an aversion for Brumm?
Obviously--Vaughn knew, by instinct, that Joan Braithwaite was
Dinny Brumm's property! . . .  Ernie was furious.

After a few sessions of this class, Professor Martin became
increasingly excited over his secret discovery that the calm
disinterest of Joan and Dinny was more calculated than a mere
mutual indifference.  There was something between these two.  Their
avoidance of each other was intentional.  They were not strangers,
but enemies.

At ease in his woollen dressing-gown, with his bad leg outstretched
on a neighbouring chair, Ernie read the editorial, that Thursday
night, in The Blossom, and laughed aloud.  It was Brumm, of course.
None of the others would have risked it.  None of the others could
have done it, had he been as audacious as the devil.  It was Brumm!
My Uncle!--what a savage disposition the young beast had! . . .
Then the corners of Ernie's mobile mouth drew down, and his thin
brows met. . . .  The surly piece was funny enough, God knew, but
Dinny shouldn't have done it.  Wasn't Joan Braithwaite the
acknowledged queen of the whole sorority outfit?  What did the chap
mean by jumping up and down with his big feet on the soft white
neck of Joan's exclusive social tribe?

For a full hour he sat tugging his lip, relighting his pipe,
occasionally grinning, faun-like, sometimes shaking his head
despairingly.  At length he arose, limped to the gate, poked the
fire, and muttered, grimly:

"D-a-a-a--dammit . . . I'll t-t--try it!  It w-w-worked w-w-w--
once!"

                        *  *  *  *  *

On the following Wednesday afternoon, the class in Anthropology
made the annual excursion to view the mounds.

It was a comforting late October day, hazy and lazy, blue and white
on top, purple around the edges, brown underfoot.  Blackbirds were
noisily mobilizing for the southern expedition.  Grey squirrels
were working overtime storing their warehouses.  Red-headed
woodpeckers were drilling deep for drowsy hide-aways.  The woods
glowed with smouldering embers of a summer, and the narrow black
stream that had carved a rough toboggan through the limestone
cliffs ran swift and cold.

The seventeen budding scientists, conducted by Professor Ernst
Martin, were glad to be out in the country.  At one they had met
for the twelve-mile trip on a jerky, jangling, little accommodation
train to Pinckney.  The sexes had segregated in the dusty coach.
Barney Vaughn, seated proprietarily beside Joan, made himself
agreeable to the cluster of girls.  Some of the men read
newspapers, others stared out at the windows.

Dinny sauntered to the rear platform, where, watching the grass-
grown ties and rusty rails squirm through the hills, he was
presently joined by his preceptor, who nodded amiably and seemed,
by the companionable twinkle in his sharp little eyes, to be
threatening an intimacy.  They stood for some time, swaying with
the motion of the train, eyes intent on the reeling hills.

"B-Brumm," shouted Professor Martin, against the racket, "as a
s-sour old barb, permit me to c-c-congratulate you.  It was very
c-c-clever."

"Thanks."  Dinny grinned down into the bright, beady eyes.  "Great
scenery, down this way, isn't it?"

"Especially at this season. . . .  B-but it would have been even
more c-c-clever if you hadn't done it."

"Somebody had to," defended Dinny, suddenly clutching the thin arm
of his master as the train whip-cracked around a hairpin curve.
"It was long overdue."

"T-too bad it had to be you," shrilled Martin.  "Y-you might have
c-c-capitalized your p-popularity. . . .  N-n-no use baiting the
d-d-damn frats. . . .  And there are some m-m-mighty fine girls
in the s-sororities. . . .  T-t-take a g-girl like Mmmm-iss
Braithwaite, for example.  W-well w-worth c-c-cultivating, I
should say.  N-n-not mmm-any like her!"

"Plenty of nuts, this year," observed Dinny, pointing to a clump of
tall hickories, vanishing around the screeching bend.

"Y-y-yes . . . j-just what I was s-saying! . . .  N-not all of 'em
on t-trees! . . .  I'm g-going back inside.  T-too c-c-cool out
here for me."

Dinny turned, and regarded his professor with fresh interest.

"It's a rough road," he said smiling.

"I-i-it always was for m-me," rejoined Martin, meaningly.  "B-but
it ought to be easier f-for you."  One little eye winked,
sardonically.

Dinny felt that something was expected of him, though if the
fantastic little geologist thought a confidence was in order, he
was going to be disappointed.

"You're fond of riddles; aren't you, Professor Martin?"

Martin chuckled, nodded vigorously, and shouted over his shoulder
as he retreated:

"Y-y-yes--and I've s-solved a f-f-few!"

Now what did the uncanny little devil mean by that? . . .  Something
up his sleeve, no doubt. . . .  Had women on his mind. . . .
Unhealthy imagination. . . .  Meddling matchmaker. . . .  Damn fool.

Arrived at the dingy wooden station in Pinckney, they straggled off
toward the path that led a mile toward the grove of the Indian
mounds, Martin hobbling ahead, cane-whisking at brittle milkweed
pods, the girls single-file behind him, Barney Vaughn leading the
male contingent, occasionally pressing solicitous attentions upon
Joan as if she needed assistance on the rugged stone ledge of the
ravine.  Dinny brought up the tail of the procession, quite
conscious--he had had one fleeting glance from her, as they entered
the train--that he was in high disfavour with the only person in
this party that mattered.

At length a path diverged from the ravine and ambled toward the
left, through a seared meadow strewn with huge boulders.  In
groups, the expedition crossed leisurely toward the high-fenced
grove.  At a considerable distance, keen young eyes learned that
the place of interest was somewhat lacking in hospitality.


              NO TRESPASSING!  THIS MEANS YOU!


"W-w-what's this?" exclaimed Professor Martin, indignantly, as they
gathered in front of the padlocked gate.  "Mr. B-Bowers assured me
it would be left open for us.  I m-must g-g-go for the k-key.  The
sh-short way to his house is d-d-down the ravine.  N-n-no--I shall
deputize a c-c-couple of you to go.  It w-would take me too long.
W-we must not be delayed."

With the critical air of making a momentous decision, he
deliberately took a careful invoice of the company, obviously
contemplating the appointment of an important committee.  His
little eyes shone.  They devilishly rested, for an instant, on the
expectant face of Barney, wistfully posing for an Eagle Boy Scout
who had not yet had a chance, today, to do a good turn.

Dinny could hardly believe his ears.  What had possessed the ugly
little jackass to hurl them at each other's heads in this ruthless
fashion?  He glanced apprehensively at Joan, but she had quickly
recovered.  She smiled, graciously enough, left the group of girls,
and joined him.  Professor Martin had suggested that Mr. Bowers
might be glad if the President's daughter and the 'varsity's best-
known star were sent to ask the favour.  If they had no objection,
would they go and get the key?

"Martin's a nice little arranger," said Dinny, when they were out
of earshot.

"Yes," returned Joan, frostily, "charming idea."

"You don't have to talk to me, you know," explained Dinny,
indifferently.

"That's good," returned Joan, quickening her steps.

In sullen silence, they retraced to the ravine.  Joan briskly led
the way along the narrow ledge, bending forward the stiff branches
of intruding shrubbery, and not caring what became of them.

"Perhaps you'd better let me go first," called Dinny.

There was no reply.  Joan hurried on.

"And look out for those loose stones!"

It happened, presently.  Joan, with a startled exclamation,
disappeared over the edge.  She was attempting to rise from her
knees in the shallow, rock-strewn stream, when Dinny reached her.

"Now you've gone and got yourself in a mess, haven't you?" scolded
Dinny, reaching out both hands toward her.  She ignored them, and
tried to scramble to her feet.

"You needn't bother," she protested, hotly.  "I don't want your
help--a bit!"

"Yes, you do," he drawled--"and quite a lot of it.  You've hurt
yourself.  Haven't you?"

She nodded, reluctantly, like a defeated child, and reached up for
Dinny's hand.

"Help me over to that flat rock, won't you? . . .  No--not that
way!"  Dinny was gathering her up in his arms.  "Take my hands,
please.  I can manage, if you steady me."

Joan took one short step and unsuccessfully tried another, shook
her head, held out her arms.  Her lips were white.  Dinny lifted
her clear of the water and deposited her gently on the little
limestone island.

"It's my knee. . . .  It hurts dreadfully."  She was trying to keep
her voice steady, but she was trembling.

"Think it's broken?"  Dinny knelt beside her, anxiously.  "Can you
bend it?  Try."

Her eyes were tightly closed, and her face was drawn.  She began
slowly unrolling her stocking.

"Rather I'd go away?"  Dinny swallowed, nervously, and felt
foolishly helpless.

Joan eased back on both elbows, dizzy with pain, too sick to
inspect the purpling bruise.  Dinny wet his handkerchief in the
cold stream, and was about to lay it on her forehead.  Anticipating,
she took the handkerchief, and dabbed at her temples, clumsily.

"Does it--look broken?"

Dinny carefully examined the damaged knee, resolutely telling
himself he was a cad if he failed to concentrate his attention on
the immediate field of Joan's injury.  It was not broken, he
reassured her, but it was frightfully bruised.  Perhaps the sharp
pain would ease up, presently.

"But you mustn't stay here any longer," he decided promptly.  "I'll
take you to this Bowers place, and we'll have a doctor."

"You can't," objected Joan.  "Better leave me here, and get some
help. . . .  Oh--what a beastly nuisance!"

Had anyone been watching, thought Dinny, the pair of them must have
made an amusing spectacle as he waded downstream, carrying Joan--
huntsman fashion--on his back, her head drooping forward over his
right shoulder, her curls tickling his ear, her warm cheek close
against his.  His left arm circled under her knees, his left hand
firmly clasped her right.  With difficulty he repressed a grin, and
wondered if she was too uncomfortable to realize the absurdity of
it all.

For the first fifty yards, nothing was said, Dinny picking his
steps, deliberately.

"Am I jolting it too much?" he inquired.

"I can stand it," said Joan, "if you can. . . .  I'm sorry. . . .
I was hateful."

"You were going pretty fast," reproved Dinny.  "It was rather
reckless."

"I was furious!"  Joan's voice registered directly into his ear a
justification of her imprudent speed.  "He had no business asking
me to go . . . with you."

"Well--why did you?" growled Dinny, sourly.  "I'm sure I made no
bid for it.  I was surprised when you came along."

"Couldn't make a scene--could I?" demanded Joan.

"Of course you could . . . I don't believe you're above making a
scene. . . .  I never knew a woman who didn't like a--like a chance
to exhibit her resentments."

Dinny plodded along for several steps, conscious that he was
carrying an explosive, and wondering how long it would be until the
detonation occurred.

"Yes," mocked Joan, acidly, "I expect it's a lot you know about
women--as irresistible, and polite, and--"

"You see that little bridge ahead?" interrupted Dinny.  "I'm going
to put you down, if you can stand on one foot, and try to hoist you
up. . . .  Pardon me--you were saying--"

"I was saying"--Joan bit her words into hot little shrapnel--"that
you're a beast . . . and I don't like you!"

"There's no reason why you should," muttered Dinny.

Hostilities were briefly suspended during the process of mounting
over the rocks to the foot-bridge.  Joan independently made her way
alone to the end of the railing, and looked wistfully in the
direction of the stone house, a hundred yards away.

"Well--here we go again," said Dinny, cheerfully, ready to resume
his burden.  "It won't be far now."

"I can't see why you wanted to write that mean thing," complained
Joan, after Dinny had lifted her to his back.

"Just for devilment."

"Sure it wasn't for revenge?"

"No."

"'No,' it wasn't?--or 'no,' you're not sure?"

"I'm not sure it wasn't."

There was a long silence Dinny was almost to Mr. Bowers's little
lawn, now.

"I wish you weren't . . . that way," murmured Joan, in a tone of
genuine regret.

"Why should YOU care?" drawled Dinny, with cool indifference.

He carefully lowered her to the porch steps, where she slumped
down, spent with the fatigue and strain of their trying half-hour.
Dinny stretched his arms at full length, drew a deep breath,
readjusted his scarf, ran his long fingers through his damp hair.

Late that night, as he sleeplessly reviewed the afternoon,
alternately glowing with the memory of Joan's physical warmth and
chilled by her hostility, he wondered what he might have said in
reply to her tardy rejoinder had the front door not opened, at that
moment, with Mrs. Bowers hurrying out, all sympathy and concern.

"Why should YOU care?" Dinny heard himself saying, in a tone of
sarcastic self-depreciation.

Joan had looked up, wide-eyed, lips parted, searching his face with
the undisguised candour of a child inspecting a total stranger.

"I--don't--know," she said, slowly, her lips trembling a little.
Then she glanced toward the opening door.  "Thanks, Dinny, for
helping me."

Mrs. Bowers had rung down the curtain on this disturbing scene,
murmuring solicitous little cries of motherly interest, and Dinny
felt his immediate responsibility transferred to her competent
hands.  He waited until the telephone conversation assured the
early arrival, by motor, of President Braithwaite and a physician.

The men were playing ball in the meadow, when Dinny returned with
the key.  The girls were seated in the shade.  Martin was consumed
with curiosity, the brief explanation failing to satisfy.

He endeavoured to corral Dinny into a corner, later, on the train.
When all hints and subtleties of inquiry had been adroitly parried,
he threw delicacy aside and asked a direct question.  "D-d-did you
have to c-c-carry her?"

Dinny's eyes narrowed as he stared absently into the questing
little grey beads that flashed a hungry wish.

"Miss Braithwaite said she needed no assistance," he replied,
dryly.

Ernie gave it up then, mumbled something about the stuffiness of
the atmosphere, and hobbled aimlessly out to the sooty back
platform, where he hung on to the begrimed iron railing and gazed
moodily into the gathering dusk.  "H-h-hell!" he muttered.  "D-d-
damned ungrateful c-c-cub!"

                        *  *  *  *  *

So few swans had fledged in the Magnolia duck-run that the
approaching visit of Congressman Philemon Bascom, '98, resident of
Washington and Dubuque, was an event demanding celebration.

The Honourable Mr. Bascom had consented to deliver the principal
address at the formal opening of the new Science Building on the
afternoon of March thirtieth.

That the reception in his honour, on the night previous, might be
loyally backed by undergraduate interest, the faculty had appointed
a student committee of five to co-operate with their elders and
betters in making arrangements.

Wesley Tinker, President of the Hellenic Council, was to represent
the fraternities.  Dinny Brumm was easily the most conspicuous
figure among the barbs.  Sophia Wise, temporarily in the public eye
as winner of the recent essay contest, would speak for the girls
who knew no Greek secrets.  Joan Braithwaite naturally epitomized
the sorority element at its best.  Orville Kling was asked to
appear in behalf of the theological students.

At the committee meeting, held in the library at the President's
Mansion, lent to Joan for the occasion, an hour and a half was
spent, that first Thursday night of March, in a rubber-stampish
approval of the "tentative suggestions" sent from the faculty "as a
basis of discussion."

Hopeful of enlivening the stupid and perfunctory chatter of
obsequious acquiescence, Dinny ventured the opinion that a
reception was no place for a long programme of speeches.  Would it
not be sufficient for Doctor Braithwaite to welcome the honoured
guest, briefly, and let the guest say "thanks."  Why all these
amateurish student harangues.  There would be plenty of oratory
touched off next day, at the impressive dedication.

Kling, whom Dinny suspected was over-eager to represent the
seminary on the reception programme, promptly sustained the policy
of offering the student body a chance to express itself.

"Speaking for the theologues," he declared, determinedly, "I think
the faculty's wish in this matter should not be questioned."

Unable to resist the temptation to tease, Dinny soberly remarked:

"One might imagine the theologues would be quite relieved if they
were not pressed to participate."

"How so, may I inquire?" demanded Kling, bristling.

"Well"--explained Dinny, with a nonchalant gesture--"this reception
impinges on the opening of the Science Building, doesn't it?"

Kling truculently protested that he didn't care to enter into any
controversy, but could assure Mr. Brumm that the Church was heart-
and-soul in sympathy with Science--"of the right sort."

Dinny wished, a moment later, that he had been content to let the
matter rest there; but, resentfully remembering Kling's impudent
attacks on Doctor Braithwaite's liberalizing beliefs, he decided to
jab the harpoon a bit deeper.

"How do you mean--'the right sort of Science'?--the kind taught in
Genesis, maybe?"

Kling's ears were red, and he folded and refolded his note-paper,
angrily.

"I did not come here, sir, to debate theology with a--an atheist."

"In that case," said Dinny, conciliatorily, "I withdraw my
suggestion. . . .  Let the theologues express themselves, by all
means. . . .  I would like to propose that Mr. Kling be asked to
speak on 'The Contribution of Orthodoxy to Scientific Research.'"

"You're trying to be funny. . . .  Aren't you?"

"Of course--_I_ think it is funny.  But I wasn't sure that YOU
would.  May I apologize for underrating your capacity for humour?"

Tinker, the chairman, rapped on the table with his knuckles.

"Now--if you two will hire a hall, sometime, the rest of us will be
happy to attend.  For the moment, you're both out of order, I
think.  Let us proceed with our business."

The meeting adjourned, presently.  As Dinny passed Joan, who stood
in the doorway of the parlour, she whispered, "Wait."

When the others had gone, she returned to the parlour, where Dinny,
standing by the table, was leafing a magazine.

"Dinny--I wish you wouldn't."

"I'm sorry," he said contritely.  "But the chap's always needing a
trimming . . . and never getting it . . . not properly."

"Oh--I think I know why you feel that way."  Joan motioned toward
the divan, and they sat.  "Mr. Kling has been very annoying in his
attitude towards my father. . . .  I think you like my father,
don't you?"

"You know I do, Joan.  I would do anything for him!"

"Then--don't try to fight his battles.  I don't want this to sound
ungrateful, Dinny, but it won't help my father for you to be on his
side. . . .  Because--well, you see, you're too often on the WRONG
side!  And you are so dreadfully savage and sarcastic that you
infuriate people!"

"Very well," said Dinny, slowly, "if you think it annoys your
father . . . for me to be loyal to him, I'll not intrude again."

Impulsively Joan laid her hand on his, and exclaimed, impatiently:

"Now--there you go! . . .  That's just what I mean . . . that
ironical . . . cruel--"  Hot, angry tears welled in her eyes.

Dinny rose, glanced at his watch, smiled.

"We won't quarrel," he said, indulgently.

Joan stood, facing him, eyes flashing.

"Yes, we will, Dinny Brumm!  You've been perfectly hateful!  I
don't know what all's happened in your life to poison you so,
but if you don't get rid of it--somehow--you'll be wretched
forever! . . .  And so will everybody else that . . . that's
interested in you . . . at all."

Unable to think of an appropriate reply, and stirred to frank
admiration of her militant pose, Dinny grinned, appreciatively. . . .
Gad--she was a superb creature!

Joan turned away, utterly exasperated.

"I won't keep you!" she snapped out, hotly.  "Good night. . . .
The maid will show you out."

Dinny followed her toward the doorway.

"Joan," he called, "please--don't be angry."

She hesitated, turned, waited.

"I didn't mean to hurt your feelings," he said, gently.

He reached out both hands, and looked down repentantly into her
reproachful eyes.  She took his hands, and regarded him with an
expression of pity.

"Why do you do it--Dinny?" she said, pleadingly.

"Because"--Dinny was serious, sincere, contrite--"because I can't
help it! . . .  I was started--all wrong. . . .  The world's full
of--full of bunkum, and I can't help laughing at it. . . .  I fancy
I shall keep on laughing at it, until I die. . . .  That's the way
I'm made. . . .  I'm sorry, sometimes, and wish I wasn't that
way. . . .  But--you mustn't trouble yourself about it."

She loosed her hands, slowly, and stood looking down at the floor.

"Good night, then," she said, huskily, with a wan little smile.

"Good night--Joan--dear."

Very tenderly, Dinny drew her, unresisting, into his arms.  She
laid a soft palm on his cheek, and looked up into his face.

"Oh, Dinny," she whispered, "please . . . please!"

He bent to kiss her.  She shook her head, buried her face in his
breast.  Dinny gently touched her hair with his lips.  His voice
trembled a little when he spoke.

"I'll try, dear, to be good," he said, sincerely.

"Honest?"  Joan was smiling through her tears.  She raised her head
slowly, rather shyly, cheeks aflame.

"Honest!" promised Dinny, tightening his embrace.

Joan closed her eyes.  The hand that was laid against his cheek
moved slowly upward, caressed his hair, circled his neck.

Very gently, Dinny's lips sought hers.  It was a chaste, comradely
kiss that he offered her, symbolic of a resolution to cultivate a
more amicable spirit.  Only on such terms, he felt, would Joan
permit this intimacy.  Passionately in love with her, it was
difficult to discipline that kiss.

To Dinny's amazement and exultation, Joan met the endearment in
quite another attitude than that of a pleased reformer enheartening
a penitent to keep his vows.  At the touch of his lips, she
responded as to an electrical contact, drew a long, convulsive
breath that confessed the depth of her emotion, and the kiss she
gave suffused him with an ecstasy he had never known.

They clung to each other for a full minute before Joan, her lips
still on his, shook her head ever so slightly, and then, with a
contented sigh, laid her cheek affectionately against his shoulder.

After he had gone to his room, that night, Dinny sat for a long
time on the edge of his bed staring straight ahead, trying to
reconstruct each separate instant of that exultant experience.  Had
any other girl than Joan Braithwaite consented to--much less joined
him in--a kiss like that, he might have wondered a little about
her.

But, because the girl was Joan, the warm, tingling memory of it
carried a peculiar possessive, protective tenderness.  His eyes
were wet.  Joan belonged to him!  He walked to the window and
looked out, down the hill, at the big house, loving it because it
sheltered Joan. . . .  Dear Joan!

                        *  *  *  *  *

The next afternoon at the Athenian Literary Society, which Dinny
rarely attended, believing it worth a fifty-cent fine to spare
himself the irksomeness of sitting through a protracted session of
parliamentary wind-bagging, Kling made a patriotic speech.

As an alumnus, he was there on invitation, and glad to be back in
the spacious room, where, he averred, he had learned to speak on
his feet.

His attacks on Doctor Braithwaite were ostensibly cryptic, at
first, but as he warmed to his theme, the clumsy devices of
indirect accusation were abandoned.  It was an insolent address.
Dinny hotly scowled through it, promising himself that Kling would
have to pay for his surly impudence.

That night, he executed the threat he had held over Kling, so blind
with indignation he gave no thought to consequences.  What Joan
might think of it did not occur to him.

Next day, the campus hummed with the story.  Dinny called up Joan,
but she was not at home.

On Monday, current copies of The Iconoclast were in circulation.
Dinny had sold it many weeks earlier; had almost forgotten it.  But
Joan, without considering how much time must have elapsed between
the composition and publication of this brutal effrontery, avoided
him when they met in the hall; ignored him in the class-room.

He dropped her a note, attempting explanation, but was indiscreet
enough to jest about the article as "a hang-over" from his
"unredeemed estate."  The note, plus the spreading rumour that
Dinny had made savage war on Kling, so distressed Joan that she was
at a loss to know what to reply.  While she debated, the faculty
moved in the direction of punishment for Dinny.  Her father's
affairs were already sufficiently complicated.  Any attempted
reconciliation with Dinny, at this moment, might add to the
President's problems.  She waited.

Almost before she realized the swiftness with which Dinny's case
had become a cause c�l�bre, he had left town.  He telephoned to
her.  Mrs. Braithwaite answered.

"May I speak to Miss Braithwaite?"

"Who is speaking, please?"

"This is Dinny Brumm."

"Miss Braithwaite is not in, Mr. Brumm."

Her voice was not unkind, but Dinny interpreted.

Considering how much variegated disaster menaced Doctor
Braithwaite, from all sides, it was obvious that the family was
better off without any further traffic with Dinny.  He appreciated
the situation, and felt almost sympathetic with Joan's mother.  She
had done the right thing.



CHAPTER X


Lounging with athletic arms negligently disposed along the back of
a slatted, sun-drenched iron seat in Central Park, overlooking
undulous acres of verdant velvet, the prosperous young creator of
the column capped "Green Cheese" absently twirled an inventive
pencil between thumb and finger-tips; but he was worried.

His deep-set, grey-green eyes, shaded by a brim-turned felt hat of
the same colour, were half-closed against the bright distractions,
the tiny crow's-feet at their outer corners registering an
habitual, detached amusement which he daily sent to market in forty
newspapers.

On the broad gravel path immediately before him, perambulators that
had cost thrice the price of Uncle Miles's jump-seat surrey
leisurely trundled smug, superior kewpies whose interest in the
narrow ribbons dependent from their lace bonnets seemed an earnest
of future adroitness in the fingering of ticker-tape.

A hundred yards down the slope, kneeling around the lip of a
gigantic concrete saucer, small scions of the well-to-do
alternately righted unseaworthy sloops and wiped April noses on
monogrammed coat-sleeves.  Farther down and to the left of this
mimic ocean, clumps of tourists, undistressed by the discomforts of
their caged kin, idled from the monkey-house toward the bear-pits,
pausing briefly to glance up through the untidy steel netting of
the squawking, acrid aviary.

Sometimes--as today--the manufacturer of Green Cheese glumly wished
he had chosen another vehicle for his syndicated satires than these
fantastic "conversations in the moon"; but they had proved
immensely popular and profitable--even more so than his earlier,
riskier series of "Unfrosted Persimmons," whose astringent quality
had so unexpectedly piqued the public palate, jaded by a
quadrennium of sentimental superlatives ranging all the way from
lush and morbid pathos and the agony of hair-tearing despair to the
loud and hysterical hallelujahs of Utopianism at its ultimate peak
of drooling idiocy.

Still young in years but prematurely seasoned by cumulative
disillusion, Dinny Brumm had been among the earliest to venture a
bit of whimsical spoofing, indulgently phrased in the soothing
"Now, now; there, there; come, come," of the psychiatrist making
his afternoon rounds in a genteel madhouse.  Dinny approached his
increasing constituency gently, regarding them as convalescing
victims of a pestilential neurosis superinduced by a long debauch
under potent emotional stimulants.

At the outset, his covert fun-poking at the perfervid apostles of
idealism who, watch in hand, galloped to catch trains that hurled
them from platform to platform, where daily and nightly, they
beckoned and bellowed--saving the world for democracy, for
civilization, for altruism, for our children and our children's
children, for God the Father and Christ His Son--had been as
shocking as a ribald joke told in a funeral address at the expense
of the corpse.

But presently it began to appear that a considerable section of the
public--weary unto death of the unconscionable nonsense brayed and
bleated from ten thousand pulpits, lecture halls, luncheon clubs,
women's clubs, open forums, and whithersoever the tribes of
salvation-hucksters went up--found itself grinning over the
audacities of a youthful cynic who, with no reputation to lose,
offered comic relief in the midst of the wearisome epilogue
following the final act of a tragedy that had spun itself out
overlong.

Two years later, there was none so timid for whom it was not
entirely safe and righteous to damn war and invent wry jokes to
caricature the apostles and slogans of the noble cause that aspired
to world-brotherhood and the Golden Age; but, at the hour, only the
venturesome dared apply for such hazardous employment.

Dinny had promised himself the luxury of sweet revenge.  Plenty of
times he had staggered under the garbage and scoured the latrines
for failing to wear the right expression of empty-eyed awe when
stiffening to salute the self-conscious lieutenant who, only last
winter . . . or was it the year before?--no matter . . . used to
mince, limp-wristed, to the light of the department-store door, a
bolt of silk under his arm, trailed by the plumber's haughty
spouse, murmuring, meekly:

"It's a real mauve, madame, as you shall see--and prettuh, very
prettuh."

But the lieutenants and the captains and the majors were not
permitted to come to bat every day in the column of "Unfrosted
Persimmons."  The civilian orators had their innings.  Dinny was at
his best when pitching them a fast one.

The ubiquitous civilization-savers, to whom everybody had listened
spell-bound, in a desperate state of finger-gnawing fright, as they
luridly depicted the crash and clatter of a blown-up world, were
now become somewhat of a nuisance.  With the arrogance of Jonah
they had howled disaster into the ears of the populace until they,
themselves, were fallen afoul of a nasty psychosis unpleasantly
akin to sadism.

The war was over that had been so great a Godsend to the large of
mouth and small of faith, but the frantic ink and screech of the
calamity-merchants was unabated. . . .  Ethical journals of opinion
wagged an ominous pen.  Prophetic fists pounded verbally inspired
Bibles, and cited Jeremiah the empty-umpth chapter beginning at the
orty-erth verse.  Journey-man seers stamped the rostra of village
chautauquas pointing bamboo fish-poles at the seething hot spots
on the reconstructed map of Yurrup. . . .  Could civilization
survive? . . .  Was not the whole social order on the rocks? . . .
What shall we do to be saved? . . .  (What's become of the treasurer
who was supposed to hand me my cheque?) . . .  Let us humble
ourselves before God! . . .  Socialize!  Evangelize!  Fraternize!
Organize! Do your bit!  Till it hurts!  The ushers will now
distribute the pledge-cards.  Dinny had a good time.

It pleased his whim, one day, to set the clock back to the closing
hours of the fifteenth century.  Indulgences were on sale at the
tail of a cart. . . .  Step up, terror-stricken, and bail your
bloody brothers out of hell! . . .  Yesterday, with valour shining
in their eyes, they went forth to make the supreme sacrifice for
you and yours. . . .  Christ leading on . . . who had come not to
bring peace, but a sword. . . .  Come, now, wipe out this stain . . .
for war is crime, and soldiers are murderers--shame on them!

The more devastating of these ironical gas-bombs, charged from the
corroded coils of Dinny Brumm's bitter laboratory, were thrown from
the pages of the candidly caustic magazines of protest, the sour
humour of the "Unfrosted Persimmons" being somewhat less
diabolical.  "Green Cheese" was even more gentle and conciliatory.

Dinny yawned, and resharpened his pencil.  He was tiring of his
product.  However--one could endure a certain amount of drudgery
and boredom over the daily output of Green Cheese, seeing its
present market value was two hundred and fifty dollars a week, just
as one had endured the tedium of plucking and hurling the Unfrosted
Persimmons whose spontaneous acceptance at the hands of the
disenchanted had liberated him from his nightly desk at The
Philadelphia Ledger, and set him loose to live where and as he
pleased.

He was not a conscious apostle of common-sense.  Had anyone asked
him if, in the spirit of a crusader, he were not aware of his
mission to a public whose emotions had been scarified and
cauterized by the lancets and blisters of the sensation-smiths and
calamity-quacks until there wasn't another kick left in them,
Dinny would have denied it with a scowl. . . .  "Crusade? . . .
Mission? . . .  Me? . . .  Hell!"

Nevertheless, he daily polished the mirror so that the people might
see themselves almost exactly as they were--a pitilessly honest
glass it was, that neither convexed to them a reflection of
cherubic amiability nor concaved them to misanthropy.

In these genially mocking "Green Cheese" columns, synchronous in
two scores of widely read papers, the Man in the Moon, ancient,
wise, sated as Solomon, drowsily replied to the imbecilic queries
and comments of Luna, the Lady of the Moon, an effervescent
flapper.

A few experimental lines, raw material to be fabricated for today's
output, had been scribbled on the bulky wad of paper reposing on
Dinny's lanky knee.

"Lookit, Gramp!" pointed Luna, wetting a finger and setting a curl.
"Lookit what they got now!"

"More progress, I dare say. . . .  Another epoch-making
invention. . . .  Civilization at the cross-roads . . . now
marching on, eh? . . .  Heads up . . . nothing to fear . . .
altus et altior. . . .  What's this, Luna; an electric banana-
peeler?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Gramp! . . .  It's a new cigarette-lighter.
They're all quite mad about it!"

"Out of matches?"

"Certainly not!--but this automatic lighter's so much more
convenient. . . .  It's a little metal lamp--all the way up to
sixty dollars.  You unscrew at the bottom and pour in a special
kind of oil.  When you want a light, all you have to do is snap a
small iron wheel a few times with your thumb--it doesn't seem to
hurt the thumb very much unless you have to do it too often--and it
scratches a flint that quite frequently strikes an electric spark
that sets off a little wick that's soaked in the oil, and--"

"How do you mean--it's more convenient?"

"Don't be so grumpy, Gramp! . . .  Aren't you interested in
progress, at all?"

                        *  *  *  *  *

Very shortly after Dinny Brumm, fresh from the pandemonium that was
Magnolia, had walked into the office of Mr. Steinberg to inquire
what The Cincinnati Times-Telegram expected him to do, interesting
things began to happen.

The first month--he had been told to "sub" for Clint Mitchell on
"police and fires" until he learned at least the points of the
compass--was too routinish and uneventful for his liking; but
presently life was galvanized by the enlivening hubbub stirred when
it was announced there would be a visitation from Zandy Craig--THE
Craig, of the Craig Syndicate--first week of May.

The "T-T"--employees of The Times-Telegram always abridged the name--
was in a grand state of excitement.  Everything was speeded up,
soaped, scraped, scoured, scrubbed, sponged, shined.  High
efficiency prevailed.

Reporters put fresh ribbons on their machines (it was in the
uncoddled days when reporters were still able to do that for
themselves), cleared their desks, bought a new hat.  The girls at
the Want Ads counter stopped doing their nails in the presence of
customers.  Linotype operators tried valiantly to break themselves
of the reprehensible habit of tossing pied slugs back into the pot.
Windows were washed in the composing-room.  The devil wore a clean
shirt.

For Zandy Craig saw everything; eyes of a hawk and nose of a
hound. . . .  Last time he was here, the entire Circulation was
fired in a body, every man-jack of them.  Forty salaries were raised.
The Enterprise was bought in and swallowed up.  A new off-set press
was installed.  Four pages of funnies were added. . . .  The very
building had rocked on its bricks for six dizzy days.  God only
knew--certainly no one else, not even Mr. Steinberg--what might
happen this time. . . .  You just kept out of the way, and hoped
for the best.  If what you were doing satisfied Craig, all he
wanted out of you was silence--and damn' little o' that! . . .  So
went the tribal chatter out of apprehensive mouth-corners.

It had not occurred to Dinny that the omnipotent Zandy Craig could
be of more intimate concern to him than as the Dread Jehovah of
Journalism, his absentee boss.  He was related to the great Craig
as a blade of grass to a forty-acre meadow.  The dim, far-away
figure of the contemptible fugitive who had left in the lurch an
unsophisticated, over-trustful, little school-teacher, had never
been spoken of in his presence as "Zandy" Craig.  He did not even
reflect upon the unlikelihood of his unknown parent's achievement
of so great prominence.  The name roused in him no curiosity, at
all.

Everybody spruced up for the big dinner at the Barstow, with Zandy
Craig as both host and guest, and all hands present, as was the
custom, from the Managing Editor's office down to the coal-bins.
The dinner was always an inspiration.  Besides, Craig was not
niggardly with the fare.  You heard what was good for you, and what
you'd--By God--better do if you wanted to work for The T-T, but you
also ate the food of a gentleman, and plenty of it.

Dinny sat by Mitchell, whom he easily liked, far down the T-shaped
table seated for six score.  The common herd had been settled and
was fussing with its spoons.

"You never saw him," remarked Mitchell, offering a cigarette;
"quite strikin' personality."

"No," replied Dinny, furnishing a light.  "He would be, of course."

"Straight as the scales--and hard as hell."

A slight commotion at the door of the banquet-room signalled the
arrival of the important guest and his retinue.  Dinny followed
with intent, inquisitive eyes the progress of the tall, dynamic,
early-frosted figure, as he strode to the seat of honour, preceded
by the Mayor and Mr. Steinberg, and trailed by Mr. Latimer, the
City Editor, and Mr. Orton, of the Circulation Department.  A
genuine outburst of applause acknowledged Zandy Craig's advent.
Chairs were pushed back and the company stood, still pounding its
hands.  Dinny joined in the clapping, through sheer animal reflex
to the racket, hardly conscious of what he did.

The big man signed to his slaves with a downward push of the heel
of his long, strong hand, and they sat.  The orchestra was off at
full gallop.  A battery of white-jacketed waiters trooped in, with
soup aloft, a buzz of conversation broke out, and the dinner was in
high gear.

"Dinny," oracularly observed Mitchell, who was short and chubby,
"it takes beef to make a big man.  You've gotta be tall if you're
ever goin' to look down on 'em."

"Napoleon was rather--brief, wasn't he?" suggested Dinny,
encouragingly.

"Not on a horse," defended Mitchell.  "Napoleon never hollered at
his tall grenadiers unless he was walkin' on four legs."

"How about us getting a horse, Clint?"

"Us?  Me--you mean.  You're rangy enough.  Tall as Craig,
himself. . . .  Damned if you don't look a little like him.  Same
eyes; sort o' navigator eyes--if you know what I mean."

Dinny, leaning far forward to gaze down the long table, was only
half-conscious of Mitchell's prattle.  Tugging suddenly out of his
mesmerism, he returned to Clint with an abstracted stare,
apologizing for his inattention.

"Beg pardon, old man; you were saying something--"

"Yeah," drawled Clint, indifferently, "you better come to, and
munch your fodder."

Handsome Bob Moore, Municipal Building and The Courts, leaned
across Dinny to inquire:  "Know if he brought the angel along, this
time, Clint?"

"Haven't heard.  She's probably in school, some place."  Then, for
Dinny's enlightenment, Mitchell added:  "Craig's got a girl,
seventeen or eighteen, that left a trail o' destruction behind her,
last July.  Moore's never been the same man.  They told him off to
show her the finish of a dramatic lawsuit in Circuit Court--she'd
never seen a trial--and he was so stampeded by her amazin'
pulchritude that he forgot where they were goin' and took her to a
ball-game.  It was reported the old man asked her, that night, who
won the case, and she said, 'The Sox.' . . .  But, even at that,
Bob had his pay raised, when he thought he'd be fired."

Young Welland, Clubs and Theatres, nosed in from Mitchell's left.

"Yeah, she's here, all right.  Saw her in the lobby with Mrs.
Steinberg, Mrs. Forsythe, and some other swells.  All dolled up to
kill and cripple.  Very easy to look at. . . .  Guess they were
going to a show."

Dinny was having difficulty keeping his eyes away from the head of
the table.  It was a curious, unaccountable fascination.  Never had
he been so engrossed by a personality.  He wished he could be close
enough to hear Craig's voice as he turned from one to the other of
his immediate companions, occasionally putting down his fork to
make short, expressive gestures with both hands.

Successive courses came, and clattered away on sagging white
shoulders.  Coffee arrived, smoke curled upward, chairs
diagonalled. . . .  "Pardon my back, old son." . . .  Legs crossed,
comfortably.  Eyes roved to the gavel-zone.

Steinberg hitched about, stroked his chin, rose slowly, pulled down
his waistcoat, told an old yarn about Henry Watterson, teased the
Mayor discreetly, waited for the polite chuckle, waved a John-
Baptist hand toward Craig, and backed out of the picture.

Craig was on his feet quickly. . . .  No stories, no felicitations,
no preamble.  He strode swiftly, confidently, to the end of the
plank and dived off.  Dinny never forgot that first sentence--
crisp, curt, cold, impudent, kinetic, arresting!  With bushy black
brows contracted, and narrowing his grey-green eyes, Craig bit his
opening sentence into five ragged chunks and spat it, growled it:

"The only chemicals--imperative to evolution--are water, blood, and
ink--and the greatest of these--is ink!"

Craig talked for an hour, his voice rarely rising from the deep,
searching, commanding, dynamic diapason of the dogmatic credo with
which he began.

He was speaking to a hard-boiled, blas� crowd, not only fully aware
of its thick hide, its cynicism, its fish-eyed challenge that dared
any man to speed its heart, tighten its throat, or flush its
temples; but unafraid of it.  Dinny viewed him as a reckless lion-
tamer, stalking arrogantly into the cage, blacksnake whip
confidently flicking bristling manes into a corner. . . .  Shades
of Nietzsche--but Craig was hard!

Now he had eased up on the old brutes with the long, yellow fangs,
and was growling at the cubs; trying to make lithe lions of
them. . . .  Dinny responded to the tug.  Gad--but life seemed
potential, the way Craig talked about it!  In his hands, a driving,
obsessing ambition seemed august!  You wanted to thrust out
impatient elbows, crackle your chrysalis, and take wing!

One life! . . .  One chance! . . .  One enchanted youthtime! . . .
Make it pay! . . .  Hurl into it! . . .  Take the cash, and let the
credit go! . . .  Be something--quickly! . . .  Let the dead bury
the dead!

Dolts and dawdlers, pull up along the right kerb and let the
unscared strong go by.  If you haven't the nerve to pass your
sluggish leader, don't hog the middle of the road, but clear the
way! . . .  Live precariously!--and like it! . . .  Be sportsmanly;
gamble with Life; play for big stakes! . . .  Choose now--whether
to scoop or be scooped--all the way to the box that latches on the
outside! . . .  My God--but Craig was cruel!

And yet--and yet--Dinny Brumm was drawn to him with an uncanny
yielding.  Craig had the idea.  Craig was a superman, made of
superstuff.  It was impossible to withstand the attraction of the
man's kinetic energy.  Dinny's pulse pounded with an admiration
close to idolatry.

He shuffled along with short, impeded steps, thick in the ruck that
jammed the exits, and cramped with a chunk of the pack into the
noxious elevator.  The passengers were silent, a bit constrained.
Dinny wanted only to hurry to his room, twenty blocks away and up
the hill, to beat out a few hot resolutions while they were still
malleable with the glow of the Craig forge.

The lobby swarmed.  The revolving, leather-lipped street-door spun--
plop, plop, plop, plop--as the animals, in line, left for the
kennels; the grizzled and mangy, the playful and cocky, the yawning
and gamboling. . . .  Dinny squared his shoulders.

Mitchell was calling from the rear, somewhere.  Annoyed, but
complacent, he left the line, sauntered back, inquired.

"Moore's met the Craigess, Dinny. . . .  We're asked to watch her
nibble a rarebit in the grill, and do her a little genuflection.
Want to?"

"Sure. . . .  Thanks, Clint."

The princess was already at court, and presiding uncommonly well.
No need to have her identified as the daughter of Craig; it was on
her face, in her eyes, in her hands.  She was Craig--young Craig,
drawn to about three-fifths scale.  The Craig savoir faire
pleasantly veneered what promised to be--when it matured--a
ligneous substratum of will-to-power.  She was not haughty, not
arrogant, not vain; but consciously assured.  Whatever-it-was-she-
had seemed to be saying:  "It's mine: give it me: thanks."

Nobody needed to guess which was the head of the round table,
seated for six.  All were standing, for the moment, surrounded by
twice as many more, half of them collected by Mitchell, en route to
the grill.  In the polite bedlam of introductions and renewals of
acquaintance, Dinny, with no responsibilities, stared appraisingly
at the self-possessed blonde, frankly envying her birthright to a
magnetic personality that dominated from her grey-green eyes and
firm, red mouth, and pink palms.

"How do you do, Mr. Brumm?"  She gripped his hand like a man, and
gave him a steady, smiling look of honest welcome, same as she had
done for young Fitzgibbon, who had come along with The Enterprise
since her last visit.

"It must be nice to come back," said Dinny, "and find everybody so
happy to see you, Miss Craig."

She had not released his hand.  Her smile had vanished.  Her eyes
had contracted slightly, and shuttled from his brows to his chin,
as if attempting to recover a long-forgotten acquaintance.

"You're new, too; aren't you?" she said.  "I'm sure I never met
you. . . .  Did I?"  She shook her head, still searching his eyes.
"Funny," she added, half to herself.

He made way for the others behind him.  She released his hand
slowly.

"Auntie Alison, Mr. Brumm would like to meet you.  Mrs. Forsythe,
Mr. Brumm."  Her eyes momentarily dropped to the hand he extended,
and again swept inquisitively to his face, before she turned to
listen to Mitchell's next presentation.

"My son--Mr. Victor Forsythe, Mr. Brumm," murmured the tall, rather
imperious lady in mourning.

"Mrs. Steinberg, this is Mr. Brumm," reiterated Victor, whose
sleek, black hair was extraordinarily long.  The tip of a white
handkerchief peeped from the sleeve of his dinner-coat.

Mitchell's recruits were insisting that the diners resume their
seats, and most of them, waving good nights with smiles, were
drifting away.  Dinny followed, laggard, ostensibly lingering a
little for Mitchell and Moore, in the process of tearing themselves
away from the girl who paid flattering attention over her white
shoulders.  Something she was saying now made them glance in his
direction.

"Dinny!" beckoned Moore.

He obediently joined them, inquiry in his eyes.

"Miss Craig wants you," explained Clint, adding, with pretended
pique and as if the remark were sotto voce, "lucky devil!"

"Mr. Brumm," she asked, almost inquisitorily, "did you ever work
for any of my father's other papers?"

Dinny shook his head, regretfully.

"Should I have?"

She did not join in the chuckle with which his colleagues rewarded
his na�ve query.

"Do you mind telling me where all you have lived?" she persisted,
as to a witness under cross-examination.

"Well--we'll leave you now," interjected Mitchell, breezily, laying
a propelling hand on Moore's shoulder.  "It would be like you,
Dinny, to discover that you and Miss Craig had been schoolmates,
or something. . . .  This chap has more lives than a cat, Miss
Craig. . . .  Got fired from college for knockin' the steeple off
the Y.M.C.A., and made 'em take him back and pay him for lost
time. . . .  Good-night! . . .  See you some more, I hope."

"Nowhere you're likely to have been," said Dinny, when the clamour
had subsided.  "Indiana--and Magnolia College. . . .  We never met
before, Miss Craig. . . .  But"--recklessly--"now that we have,
let's pretend we're old friends."

He had laid his hand on the back of her chair, and when she looked
up with still serious eyes to reply, her warm, supple body glowed
against his fingers.

"I have never seen the Rookwood Pottery," she said.

"Would tomorrow be convenient?"

"About eleven, preferably.  You work at night, don't you?"  She was
looking squarely into his eyes, sheltering her voice a little from
her table companions.

"And luncheon?"

"Yes--I think so."

She held out her hand, like a man, without coyness.

"Good-night--Miss Craig," said Dinny, deferentially, as became an
obscure employee taking leave of the magnate's daughter.

"My name is Alison."  Her lips barely moved, as she spoke, making
no effort to disguise the fact that their conversation was private.
Slowly she disengaged her long, strong hand, gave him another
swift, serious scrutiny that circled his face and came to rest, for
an instant, on his lips; and rejoined her company.

                        *  *  *  *  *

Alison was amazingly direct.  The bland candour with which she
ignored all the age-old subtleties of her sex, proclaiming in every
look, tone, and gesture that Dinny Brumm was hers, by priority
claim, all but took his breath away.

It was not brazen, but transparently ingenuous.  Dinny was neither
amused nor annoyed.  Her attitude was that of a wilful child daring
all-comers to dispossess her of a toy.  She had lost no time
defining her convictions, indifferent alike to their possible
effect on Dinny or any who might discover them.

Even on that first morning, strolling beside an impressed
executive, who, learning her identity, had volunteered to guide
them through the celebrated pottery, she put herself to no bother
of pretence that their interest in art accounted for their visit.

Mr. Dabney would reverently hold up an exquisite vase, turning it,
slowly, kaleidoscopically, inviting her to luxuriate in its mellow,
parti-coloured translucence; but, with a nonchalance so unconcerned
that Dinny was half sorry for the fine old pagan, Alison's eyes--
briefly, abstractedly regarding the treasure--returned to search
his face.  She held tightly to his arm.  Employees grinned, slyly;
exchanged an appreciative wink. . . .  Honeymooners . . . second
day out . . . utterly dippy . . . at least, the bride was.

They lunched downtown at the Hofbrau, where Alison expressed no
preferences when their fingers touched on the menu-card, and seemed
unaware what she was eating.  Dinny was surprised to find himself
quite unembarrassed by this devotion.  It was too genuine to
provoke a smile.

When she talked of herself, it was of herself and Geneva, herself
and Montreaux, herself and Paris, as if she hadn't had an existence
prior to her school-days in Switzerland, begun at fifteen, a few
months after her parents' separation.  When she talked of Dinny, it
was all in the future--hot burning fires of ambition for Dinny.
She all but suffocated him with it.

The goal of success was leisure to live, write, and play in Europe.
That's what Dinny must live for, look to, as the reward of genius
multiplied by hard work.  That's what she lived for, looked to--
Europe!  She implied they were both going there, one day.  She did
not say they were going on the same ship, but she described moonlit
nights on the boat-deck in a dulcet tone and ecstatic mood whose
implications were almost shockingly direct.

Whether Zandy Craig was so confident of his dynamic daughter's self-
sufficiency or so infatuated with his own business affairs that he
gave her no thought, Dinny Brumm could not divine.  It was enough
to know that Alison's society, for ten memorable days, was not only
accessible to him at all hours but flatteringly urgent.

She casually disclosed that Mrs. Forsythe, who lived in New York,
was visiting in Cincinnati, hopeful of interesting the well-to-do
music-lovers of the city in the budding talent of young Victor,
whom Alison catalogued, briefly, brutally, as "a bit of a cad, too
dumb to succeed, and too lazy to bluff"; though she spoke almost
tenderly, for her, of Tommy, the eldest, and Grace, who were
forever stepping aside to make way for the callow prodigy in whose
thin, listless fingers their ambitious mother had placed a fiddle
almost before he was able to stand alone.

Alison's disgust and distaste for Victor apparently had wrought
somewhat of constraint between her and Mrs. Forsythe.  In view of
this circumstance, and also the exigent desire of her aunt to
promote Victor among Cincinnati's art-patrons, perhaps it was
natural that the girl should be independent of much restriction.

After three crowded days in Cincinnati, almost constantly tied up
in business conferences, Craig had scurried to Louisville.  If
Alison had been mistress of her own fate before, she was now even
more completely in charge of her time.  That time was Dinny's.

At Alison's suggestion, they procured saddle-horses and rode all
day in the hills.  They ferried to Covington, and strolled in the
country.  She even had the audacity to call up Mr. Steinberg, late
one afternoon, from some undesignated outpost, reporting that she
had asked Mr. Brumm to entertain her for the evening, and he would
not, therefore, appear at six, as was his custom; to which
information Mr. Steinberg replied, dryly, that he hoped she would
return him, eventually, to The T-T, unspoiled by the honour.

Mulling over the whole tragic affair, later, Dinny found a little
comfort in the fact that he had made no effort to capitalize
Alison's devotion to the discredit of either of them.  Nor was it
easy to maintain his attitude of chivalry in the face of her quite
abandoned, ruthless, reckless disclosure of a fascination for him
to which she had yielded utterly.

Every day tightened their intimacy.  Often she hinted of a story
she meant to tell him; he would be "quite frightfully" interested
in it, as a scribbler, she knew; a long story, it was; she would
let him have it when there was time.  Dinny did not press her for
it.  She had implied that the tale impinged somehow on her family
affairs.

                        *  *  *  *  *

It was Saturday afternoon. . . .  Craig had wired he was returning
that night.  Alison was to be packed and ready to leave with him
for New York, next morning, at ten.

They had tied their horses at the edge of a grove; had sauntered to
a favoured rendezvous on the rocky lip of a glen; were promising
each other more happy days when she returned with her father in the
autumn.

"I'm going to tell you that story, now, Dinny," she said, snuggling
close to him, and childishly tracing patterns on his lapel with a
possessive finger.

"Do," said Dinny.  "Don't leave anything out."

They leaned comfortably back against the warm rock, his arm around
her, and the story began; just a bit diffidently, at first, for the
story was not hers, really, but her father's.

After ten minutes of Alison's calm narrative, paving the way for
the most pleasant possible interpretation of her father's youthful
tragedy by recalling many of his college experiences, the story
abruptly shifted to another locale.

Dinny relaxed his affectionate hold, and fumbled awkwardly in his
coat pockets for cigarettes and matches.

"You smoke too much, dear," said Alison, rather petulantly, annoyed
at the distraction.  "It isn't good for you. . . .  Your hands are
trembling. . . .  Look!"  She gripped his fingers.  He did not
reply or smile, but obdurately lighted the cigarette.

"And then," continued Alison, sinking back against the rock, with a
little sigh of disappointment not to find his arm there, "the most
natural thing happened. . . .  You know my father. . . .  He's
always been that way. . . .  What he wants, he wants--that same
day!"

Dinny sat with eyes half-closed, listening, smoking; lighted
another cigarette off the hot end; averted his face, savagely ran
his fingers upward through his hair.

Too disconcerted over his unaccountable mood to continue without
some explanation, Alison broke off, presently, in the midst of a
sentence, groped for his hand outspread on the rock between them,
and asked, anxiously:  "What is it, Dinny?"

He did not turn to her or respond to the pressure of her fingers.

"Dinny!" she entreated, pressing her face against his shoulder,
"tell me, dear! . . .  What did I do? . . .  What's come over you?"

"I'm afraid"--he said, hoarsely, after some delay--"I can't tell
you."

She sat for a moment half-stunned and silent; then, with a little
sob, she wrapped both arms tightly around his neck, and murmured,
thickly:  "I can't bear it, Dinny.  You must be good to me.  You've
made me love you.  I'm mad about you!"

She raised her face, eyes closed, and offered him her parted lips.

Suddenly haggard, Dinny gripped both her hands and drew them down,
holding them vice-like against his knee.  He swallowed,
convulsively, and when he spoke, his voice was hollow.

"You mustn't, Alison," he muttered.

"Don't you love me--even a little, Dinny?" she pleaded, with
brimming eyes.

"I mustn't! . . .  We can't!" he whispered, staring into her face,
the muscles of his cheeks twitching.

"Why?" she asked, inaudibly, her lips forming the query.

He drew her head tightly to him, with a gesture of protection, as
if to shield her from a blow, and, after a long minute, measured
out the words, dully, one at a time:

"You--are--my--sister."

                        *  *  *  *  *

Dinny never pretended this was the reason for his almost immediate
decision to join the artillery unit mobilizing at Gettysburg, where
the only artillery to be had, at that moment, was in the cemetery,
slightly outmoded, as such things went.

Neither did he ever explain to himself--much less to others--that
he had waived the exemption Craig had provided somehow for
"necessary members of editorial departments" (meaning everybody on
the payroll) out of a sense of patriotic duty.

He wryly, profanely, squirmed into an ill-fitting, ludicrous suit
of khaki solely to save his face, and because he was quite too fit
a specimen of physical vitality to be at large in civilian clothes
at a time when so many hundreds of thousands of inspired patriots
were rushing about extolling "the supreme sacrifice" as a noble
privilege dangled before the enchanted eyes of "our valiant boys."

Most of this exultant talk was offered by prophets and soothsayers
of forty-five and up, who, albeit unable to make such renunciation
themselves, were obviously uplifted by the thought that they were
not standing in the way or taking the place of some other brother,
hungering and thirsting for such righteousness as might be had by
blowing a Teuton's head off with a handful of blasting-powder.

Dinny's long, monotonous months in camp never benefited his native
land by so much as a feather's weight; and, as for what he himself
got out of it, either in discipline, experience, or stimulating
friendships, the total result was exactly nil; unless his
increasingly bitter cynicism, later capitalized to a monetary
advantage, might be said to have fermented a little more through
those hateful days.

Even with unpleasant memories as his chief stock in trade, memories
fetched to market and savoured by the similarly disillusioned,
Dinny did not like to cogitate too much about his life at
Gettysburg.  The revulsion made him ill.

As for "heroism," the most heroic act anybody in that camp was
expected to perform consisted of the valiant refusal to commit the
half-dozen murders for which Justice clamoured.  Uniforms played
weird tricks on people who, in civies, must have been halfway
decent.  It seemed to make very little difference about a man's
previous character or relation to society, once he had been
required to perfect the debasing art of revolving himself stiffly
on one heel, by some reflex to a growl that brought the flat of his
hand smack against the brim of his cap, the only way he could
square with his own soul, for this indignity, was to look promptly
for somebody else, even more debased than he, who might be rank-
badgered to do him a kow-tow.

Nobody ever saluted Dinny Brumm.  Nobody would have saluted Dinny
Brumm had he remained in the army until the Dawn of Everlasting
Peace.  He wasn't the type.  According to the letter, he went
through all the motions, which largely consisted in offering
sustenance to the vanity of suddenly ordained Plattsburgers and
surly non-coms; but Dinny's spirit--such as it was--refused to
participate.  His contempt glared in his eyes, against his will.
It was chiselled in the deep lateral cleft between his lower lip
and chin, quite beyond his control.

They nearly let him die, during the flu epidemic, for offering
frank comments, when half-delirious, relative to the institution
with which he was connected, and the important members of its
personnel.  Before he was able to pull his trousers on again, he
had learned a disheartening thing or two about the only profession
for which he retained the slightest degree of respect.  Always had
he venerated the medical profession.  Now he had discovered,
regretfully, that a few metal buttons, a squeaking new belt, and a
pair of spurred boots would frequently play the same amount of hell
with the Hippocratic oath that they so incomprehensibly wrought in
the disordered minds of formerly gracious grocery clerks and
collegiate sons of honest farmers.  He saw many a competent,
generous, integrity-loving physician degenerate into a pompous,
puffy, arrogant ass.

Even the nurses went about, stiff-necked and consciously
professional, mouthing the phrase, "War is no tea-party!"

Dinny Brumm never went over the top, in France, at four a.m., but
he spent six weeks in a military hospital, during the flu
contagion, which called for almost as much patriotism, and lasted
longer.

On the day he went back into civilian togs, he promised himself he
would get even with eight anthropoids, to wit; one captain, one
lieutenant, two sergeants, two doctors, one orderly, and a nurse.
He expected to hunt them down, in their postwar haunts, and pummel
them to a jelly--all but the nurse, who was to be enticed to some
public place and spanked in the presence of a large, appreciative
audience.

The determination to do these animals physical harm cooled, after a
while, to an acidulous contempt which he occasionally tapped with a
pen for the approval of demobilized thousands who, with ungodly
glee, found in his devastating satires a vicarious vengeance.

Alison wrote to him almost every week while he was "in the
service."

"I am not going to tell father," she stated, in her first note.
"Poor man couldn't do anything about it, could he? . . .  But,
Dinny, darling, it is a frightful thing he's done to us."

In sober truth, Dinny was incapable of viewing their tragedy with
the same despair.  Much as he admired Alison, their brief and
unfortunate affair had not been of his own contriving.  As for
permanently linking his life with hers, he would as soon have
married a hoisting-engine.  Indeed, he had already begun to wonder,
before discovery of their blood relationship, by what pleasant,
painless process he might adroitly excuse himself from an impending
attachment brimful of agony.

He replied to her letters at the rate of one to three, painstakingly
shifting their mood, by a calculated katabasis of affection which,
within three months or so, had--at least so far as he was
concerned--placed their relations on an approximately normal and
sound footing.

Angela wrote from the midst of a great revival in Hamilton that the
Lord was blessing her labours in a miraculous way.  It was not her
first important revival, but the first in which she had starred.
From now on, she expected to be at the head of her own company.
Angela made no effort to disguise her natural gratification over
the material features of her success.  Dinny was pleased at this
honest, albeit unintended, confession, and thought a little better
of Angela.  She didn't mind admitting that she was in the show
business . . . on behalf of The Lord, to be sure, but--well--the
show business.

Joan Braithwaite was much in his thoughts.  Upon the death of her
father, he had written her a note.  Her reply, some six weeks later
(though he had promptly received a black-edged card from her
mother, acknowledging his flowers), was postmarked New York.
Whether she was there temporarily, or to stay, he did not know.
That she expected no further correspondence was implied by the
absence of a specific address.  There was no one of whom he cared
to inquire.

Mr. Steinberg occasionally wrote to him, as became the employer of
a volunteer hero, and there was a letter from his father, shortly
after he enlisted, commending him on the splendid thing that he had
done.  The letter was dictated, and signed in a feminine hand,
doubtless the same hand that had done a score of them.

"Take this, Miss Rabbit, and make twenty originals for our enlisted
employees.  Miss Hare has the list of names."

"Wish to see them, sir?"

"No--you can sign 'em."

Dinny had chuckled while composing samples of conversation between
his father and the stenographer, relative to the issue of Craig
sentiments in re the war to end war, and save civilization.

The T-T confidently expected Dinny to come back and resume his
place, wrote Mr. Steinberg, immediately after the Armistice; but
there was to be no more of the family salt eaten; starve first!

With surprising ease, he found a place on The Philadelphia Ledger.
And then, with no more effort, the bright idea came, the "Unfrosted
Persimmons" offered to be plucked, the mounting wave of prosperity
rolled in, and Dinny was at liberty from clocks, bells, and
whistles.

He resolved to live in New York.  Why not?  It was the mecca of
journalism and such as do syndicated columns.  He did not go there
saying to himself that Joan might be accidentally encountered; but,
every bus that passed him, as he strolled Fifth Avenue, was
thoroughly raked with a questing eye, the roll was swiftly called
in the subway-train, traffic-blocked taxis were peered into with
undefended impudence, the peacock-alley of the hotel, stuffily
scented, was daily, gravely, tallied off--for Joan.

Sometimes, though he was not given to worrying, naturally, Dinny
found himself distressed over imagined predicaments in which she
was posed in a tragic r�le.  He was not quite able to reconstruct
the face of a sad or beaten Joan; but, annoyingly often, he had a
vision, at night, of lovely shoulders slumped in grief or pain, and
the back of a curly head bowed in serious trouble.

It became a mild obsession.  He had no use for telepathy, and the
slightest hint of any mystical thought-conveyance was, in Dinny's
opinion, the sign of a weak mind.  But--he was looking for Joan,
and the longer and farther he looked, the more deeply he felt that
when he found her she would be vastly in need of help.

Dinny wished her well, but honestly wondered whether his anxiety
might not be the product of an undefined hope that he could find
Joan in a mood to accept his affection, even if at the price of
some substantial favour of which she stood seriously in need.
Indeed, he brooded so much over the matter that it became a
definite fixation.  Joan was in some kind of a scrape.  Joan was
hungry.  Joan was walking the streets, looking for a cheap lodging-
house.  Joan was being imposed upon by some predatory rascal who
controlled her rations.

He even tortured himself with fears of which he was ashamed.  Joan
was, he had discovered, possessed of a pretty active "temperament."
Could she take care of herself if ruthlessly stampeded?

Today he was weary of the job that almost anyone might have envied
him; wearied and worried.

He interlaced his long fingers behind his head, closed his eyes,
and re-canvassed all the expedients he had contemplated for the
recovery of his Joan.

Budding April in Central Park left him unstirred.  Life was stale,
flat, and unprofitable.

He began to toy with the idea of a vagabond trip through some
foreign country.



CHAPTER XI


"Had it ever occurred to you," elaborated Dinny, as the speakeasy
waiter made off with their luncheon order, "that my gifted cousin
Victor comes perilously near being an ass?"

Tommy Forsythe traced a brief design on Joe Lombroso's white
tablecloth with the tip of his spoon, and grinned wryly.  It was
not the amiable smile that so readily curved Tommy's lips.  The
grin threatened a bit of irony.

"I've known that," he said, slowly, "for a long time; but--I hadn't
supposed YOU'D ever find it out."

"Thanks," returned Dinny, dryly, not a little surprised at the
satirical come-back.  Tommy was always so direct, so honest, so
transparently sincere.

"And may I inquire," pursued Tommy, with an excellent imitation of
his cousin's calculated ridicule, "just when and how you contrived
to make this belated discovery of my brother's asshood? . . .  He
arrived home only yesterday.  You haven't seen him, have you?"

Dinny nodded, sipped his cocktail.

"Last night--down in the Village. . . .  Tommy, he was just a
little this side of unbearable."

"'This side'?--looking from where?"  Tommy's sour query rasped and
crackled.

"Who's been feeding you raw meat, Pollyanna? . . .  My God--I
didn't know you had it in you!"  Dinny stared at his cousin with
honest amazement.

The Damon-and-Pythias comradeship of Dinny Brumm and Tom Forsythe,
which was to rake fore and aft the whole gamut of emotion, from
high delight to frantic misery, dated from the latter's receipt of
a letter from Alison Craig, written from Seattle in June.

Reticence impulsively discarded, Tom's dynamic young cousin had
told him everything, even to confessing an affection for Dinny out
of all proportion to their blood relationship; declared she "never
expected to be the same woman again"; urged her beloved Tommy to
lose no further time in hunting down this attractive collateral to
their tribe.

Before sunset, that day, telephone communication had been
established between Tommy's office in the huge department store on
Thirty-Fourth Street and Dinny's bohemian three-room suite in
Greenwich Village, the shabby equipment of which--save for his
sturdy typewriter-table, and his mother's little walnut desk--
consisted of ill-related rubbish that had passed from one
impecunious artist's keep to another's, each piece with a story to
tell of battered ambitions, pitiful frugalities, and somewhat of
despair.

They spent the evening together in Dinny's rooms; and when, at
midnight, they parted at his street-door, each felt the other an
old friend.

From the first, they were conscious of having little in common, as
to temperament and outlook, Dinny finding his steady-going cousin
amusingly na�ve, boyishly enthusiastic over the elementary
simplicities, a "typical case of arrested adolescence," though
Tommy was nearly four years his senior, and had been extraordinarily
successful in business.

Tommy, encountering for the first time a determined cynic,
obviously proud of his versatile collection of disbeliefs,
distrusts, and disenchantments, regarded his new acquaintance with
fascinated interest.  Dinny Brumm didn't appear to belong to this
world, at all.  He had merely dropped in, as a spectator.  He stood
on the side-lines, paper and pencil in hand, watching the human
race plod by, making ironical notes and grinning when it stumbled.

In general appearance, the two were strikingly alike; of
approximately the same height, weight, carriage, and pigments.
They had the Craig eye, deep-set, searching, flanked by
innumerable, faintly traced crow's-feet.  They shared many an odd
little trick of gesture and posture.

Alison's suggestion that Dinny's relation to their clan should not
be disclosed was approved by both of them.  Tom promptly took his
handsome new acquaintance home with him, the next Sunday evening,
to the Forsythe apartment in White Plains; was pleased to observe
how easily his mother accepted him; was surprised at Victor's
enthusiasm, for Victor rarely had any use for Tom's friends; was
anxious over the eager Grace's frank display of admiration.

"Why--you two things actually LOOK alike!" commented Grace, with
the half-impudent candour she had learned at the feet of Victor.
"Aren't you afraid you'll quarrel?"

Victor--at that time temporarily home from Italy at the suggestion
of his mother, who, as his impresario, thought it prudent to have
the talented violinist back, occasionally, "to conserve his
contacts," and give the papers a chance to stir his potential
public to remembrance of his existence, progress, goings and
comings--instantly attached himself to Dinny with a proprietary air
that threatened to elbow Tommy out of the picture.

He couldn't conceive how his unimaginative old dray-horse of a
brother, who knew everything about leather baggage and nothing
about the creative arts, had captured the friendship of this
sophisticate.  He must see more of this Dinny Brumm.  Brumm had the
good sense to live in the Village, too, where everybody who was
anybody in the field of the arts found freedom, stimulating
companionship, encouragement, inspiration.  It had taken Dinny only
ten minutes to discover that the Forsythe establishment operated
exclusively to serve the high destiny of Victor.

Grace--dark, swarthy, shiny, with a button popped and loose
hairpins--lived solely for the talented fiddler, fetching and
carrying for him like an earnest retriever.  Tom, nearing thirty,
had apparently accepted it as his manifest destiny to devote the
bulk of his salary to this lofty emprise.

Once, after three months of increasing intimacy had broken down all
reserve, Dinny ventured an expression of his feelings on this
matter.  He and Tommy were dining together at The Astor.  Victor
had sailed, that morning, returning to Ghili in Milan, bon-voyaged
by a score of friends from the general vicinity of Washington
Square, the family, and not quite enough inquisitive reporters to
satisfy Mrs. Forsythe.

"If I were you, Tommy, and Victor my brother, I'd request him to
unstraddle himself from around my neck, and try walking on his own
feet."

Tommy had been tardy with a reply, shook his head, slowly.

"Victor," he said at length, deliberately, "was born without
feet. . . .  Victor's all soul."

"But he eats!" persisted Dinny, indignantly.

"You don't understand.  It's a long story.  You see--my mother--God
bless 'er--managed to make quite an important personage of my
father.  She married him to make him, and succeeded.  She was so
ambitious for his success that for thirteen years she gave him
twenty-four hours a day; became just a bit obsessed, maybe.

"He died early--as you know--just as her hopes had been fully
justified, and the rewards were rolling in. . . .  It nearly
finished her.  I was only eleven, at the time, but her condition
was serious enough to worry me, dreadfully, though just a kid.
I'll not inflict you; but--she was in a sanitarium for six months.

"Then--with the patience of a spider, she began all over.  With a
kind of fierce determination, she set about building Victor up for
a career with a fiddle.  Father had left practically nothing but
the royalties on his phonograph records.  This income was pretty
good, at first; large enough to warrant expensive foreign study for
Victor. . . .  Afterwards, when the records of my father's voice
began to slip--well--I couldn't let my mother down; could I?

"Besides"--added Tommy, brightening--"Victor might put it over. . . .
I sincerely hope so--for my mother's sake."

                        *  *  *  *  *

That had been in late September.  It was November, now, of the
succeeding year.

Tommy Forsythe had just returned from a month in Mexico, full of
interesting experiences, though not of the specific business
errands that had taken him there.  They rarely discussed Tommy's
business.  His phenomenal rise at Lacey's, from the shipping
department up to the leather goods, and from successful salesman to
assistant manager of the department, and from assistant to
Department Chief, had been achieved in seven years; but Tommy did
not often talk about it.

Dinny rather regretted now that he had spoken his thoughts about
the asininity of the parasitical Victor.  Tommy had enough to bear.
It would have been more gracious to keep off it.  However, the
subject had been pushed into the open: it would have to be
discussed. . . .  The picture of last night's affair in the Village
drifted unpleasantly across Dinny's memory.

He had been surprised to find Victor at the midnight arty-party in
the untidy kitchen of The Red Bear.  He had not known Victor was
back.  But, of course, he would lose no time coming to collect
adulation from the art colony to which Dinny, at his fervent
request, had earlier introduced him.

Victor--still boastfully giddy from eight nauseous days of hurdling
home over a shrieking sea which, he was averring, had put the
doctor to bed in his cap and boots, and shattered not only a thirty-
year Atlantic storm-record and the captain's elbow, but all the
Vendome's crockery (not--he languidly chortled--that the latter had
been much missed after the first twelve hours out)--had come to The
Red Bear in tow of Diane Wimberly, a lanky, pink-haired, lower-case
poetess who needed a dickey and a thousand dollars' worth of
dentistry.

Dinny had gone late to Felice's party.  Once he had thought Felice
quite interesting; but, in recent months, she had begun to weary
him.  In fact--the whole outfit, now that their novelty had worn
off, lacked the originality and sparkle he had earlier imputed to
the Villagers when, as a lonely stranger in New York, he was in
need of quick and easy friends.

Last night's bizarre affair had palled on him.  The thing had been
carried on in murky gloom feebly tinctured with magenta by a sooty
lantern suspended from a peg in one of the massive, ancient,
weathered-oak rafters--made of half-inch pine, and installed the
previous summer.

Victor--whose voice Dinny instantly recognized, even before his
eyes had adjusted to the thick fog into which he groped--was seated
in the dilapidated wheelbarrow intended for the "fagots," when
there were any--The Red Bear, with reckless leanings toward
Communism, pretended to be a Russian peasant's hovel--loathsomely
detailing his recent discomforts at sea.

Dinny's tardy arrival had not interrupted the undulating flow of
his cousin's obnoxious reminiscence, nor was the company much
distracted from its wan interest in the nautical narrative.

Felice (Mamie) Manners (Johnson), the hostess, seated on the floor
near the doorway, on an outspread newspaper, moved over a little to
make room; and, pursing her scarlet mouth in apology for the humble
offering, handed him, with her fingers, a large, pallid cream-puff
which she ruefully extracted from the bottom of a brown-paper bag
wherein the dessert course had been served.

Dinny gingerly surveyed the gift, in the manner of a fastidious
dowager examining a freshly exhumed skull, to the considerable
amusement of Felice, who, a little drunk, was finding Victor
tediously verbose, and wished to be playful.

Wanting Dinny to know that she shared his carnival attitude toward
her party, Felice strangled the empty bag, put the neck of it to
her blood-red mouth, and with many long, cheek-distending, eye-
bugging exhalations, proceeded to the task of its inflation; or
nearly so, the final blast proving abortive due to her sudden
conviction that her employment was ridiculous enough to merit a
shocking explosion of suppressed mirth.

Victor reproachfully glanced in the direction of the disorder, but
calmly continued his monologue in a marcelled, affected baritone
that inspired Dinny--a little drunk, also--to nudge Felice to
attention while he feigned to take careful aim at the self-
infatuated minstrel with the soggy token of her vanished
hospitality.

"Dare you!" whispered Felice, cupping her mouth with her hand, but
Dinny reprovingly shook his head, pretending shocked regret that
she would entertain the thought of such an effrontery. . . .  Then
he had stretched out his long legs, and tried to listen.

Victor had finished with his disgusting mal-de-mer and was now in a
messianic mood concerning the martyrdom of all true artists, and
the tribulations of cat-gut and horse-tail artists in particular.
Evidently somebody with a bit of money had recently stepped on
Victor's slim, expressive fingers, for he was swishing about with a
bare rapier that threatened to annihilate the well-to-do.

Dinny wondered if this were the formal opening of Victor's campaign
to impress his friends that he had a good excuse for failure;
wondered if Victor was frightened, now that he had finally caught
up with his exceedingly bright future, and had it to demonstrate.

"Old Victor," reflected Dinny, as he sat listening to the makings
of an alibi--"good old Victor knows time's up.  He's either got to
catch fish, or cut bait, or bail the boat."

Abstractedly, Dinny had let his heavy eyes rove about the room
while his blas� cousin deprecated the necessity for living in a
world propelled by the almighty dollar.

He was acquainted with all but two--the youth with the black velvet
jacket and negligent Windsor tie, and the thin girl beside the
youth, a blue beret drawn down over one eye, and a limp, home-made
cigarette dangling precariously from her lip.  The rest of them he
knew quite well.  Gregory, thirty-five and tuberculous, had
confided freely.  Gregory was writing an important novel; quite a
bit daring, it was; might have to be privately printed.  He had
been at it now for upwards of three years.  It was his first novel,
though there had been a slim, mauve, deckle-edged (Gregory was
ashamed of the deckle--but Aunt Agatha, of Phoenix, Arizona, who
was financing it, quite insisted) volume of unpunctuated verse.
Dinny had one of these, a presentation copy, autographed with a
scrawl that beckoned the beneficiary to consult the title-page for
verification of the little book's parentage.

Vivacious Anne Pelham, who, to better her credit at the expense of
her artistic integrity, had confessed her degeneration to drawing
for commercial purposes--though what or for whom she drew Dinny had
never learned--caught his vagrant eye, smiled, twinkled friendly
fingers.  The salute would cost him five dollars, thought Dinny.
Anne already owed him thirty, not that he cared: the poor little
fellow was always hungry.

Sylvia (what the devil was her other name?--He had always thought
of her as Carmichael) sang, or was going to . . . in opera . . .
once she got a chance.  Squat and shaggy Carmichael, next her, did
portraits--quite atrocious ones, Dinny thought, though it was out
of his line--which Sylvia, who lived adjacent on the fourth floor
of a cheap and dirty, gas-reeking, bug-infested tenement house, and
shared the bow-legged painter's kitchen, bath, studio, and fatuous
ambitions, considered masterpieces.

They had never struck Dinny Brumm quite this way before.  He had
sympathetically appraised them as a wistful tribe of aspirants to
success in creating something interpretative of their thoughts.
They had become suddenly ridiculous.  There wasn't one of the dozen
present, he reflected, who had ever done anything worth a second
look.  With the possible exception of the gloomy Victor, whose
career was unpredictable, not a man or woman of the lot was likely
ever to get to first base in the game whose lingo they prattled
with such glib familiarity.

At long last, Victor's monotonous harangue was concluded.  The
audience untangled its legs, milled about the room, yawned toward
the door.  Felice led Dinny to the little group still clustered
about the wheelbarrow.

Victor extended a limp, soft, slim hand.

"'Lo, Dinny. . . .  So you're here. . . .  Who told you I was
home?"

"Nobody . . . I didn't know you were back."

Somehow--the raw impudence of the chap annoyed him.  His egotism
was insufferable.

"In fact," drawled Dinny, "we've ventured to have several little
social affairs much like this, in your absence; just to keep our
spirits up until you returned. . . .  Hope you don't mind."

No--Victor didn't mind.  He smiled, indulgently, and said it was
quite the proper thing to do, he was sure; and turned to luxuriate
in the twitter of the new girl with the blue beret.

Dinny had slipped out, presently.  The Village was beginning to
bore him.

                        *  *  *  *  *

Tommy impatiently shattered one of Joe Lombroso's crusty rolls with
his fingers, a bit heated by Dinny's spoofing.

"Ordinarily," replied Tommy, "I don't permit myself to become
disturbed over anyone else's damned foolishness besides my own;
but, now you've invited it, I'd like to tell you something that
will be good for your soul--if you still have one."

"Attaboy, Tommy!" applauded Dinny, merrily.  "Skin 'em alive!"

Tommy drew a heavy frown that Dinny had never seen him wear before.

"This isn't going to be funny," he muttered.  "After lunch, we're
going over to your squalid hole in Daubville, where you're to
listen to something I've got for you. . . .  And here's hoping you
won't get sore."

Dinny threw back his head and laughed.

"I'd really like to see you on the war-path, Tommy."

The subject was not resumed until, having climbed the dirty stairs,
and tossing their hats on the littered table, Dinny, amused and
expectant, lighted his pipe, and signed Tommy to "turn it on."

"As I understand it," began Tommy, didactically, "you are one of
the most venomous--certainly the noisiest--of all the animals now
in revolt against everything your betters have built up over a
period of five thousand years, or so.

"You've distinguished yourself as a kicker, knocker, scorner,
spoofer, and snarler.  Your sour comments on faith, piety, and
patriotism are worth a dollar a line. . . .  And, incidentally, I
bet you anything you care to put up that the time will come--not
long from now--when you've repeated, over and over, all the smart
and surly words you know--your stuff won't be worth ten cents a
garbage-pailful. . . .  Some of it's beginning to run a bit thin
already, Dinny, if you don't mind my speaking of it.  I just
noticed in the last issue of The Emancipates that you used the word
'moron' nine times.  Better get yourself a new thesaurus. . . .
You're writing too much, anyhow, my son.  Your rhetorical
disbursements are so far ahead of your intellectual income that
you'll be bankrupt, presently.  However--that's your affair.

"You've been the great champion of sincerity.  You've thumbed your
nose at the hypocritical Bible-whackers, and the gavel-swingers,
and the sword-toters.  Everybody's an ass but you--and the
Villagers; you--and your little hand-picked minority of freedom-
fanatics. . . .  Parsons and professors, doctors and lawyers,
senators and judges, philanthropists and missionaries--you've had
'em on the grill in a dozen contemptible magazines.  You've roasted
'em whole, brought 'em back in a stew, served 'em cold in a salad
with sulphuric acid dressing.

"And yet--you'll live down here in this poisonous rat-hole,
chumming up with a bunch of third-rate, would-be artists, yodelling
about liberty to express themselves!

"You rant about hypocrisy!  Hypocrisy! . . .  My God! . . .  Can
you imagine anything more utterly rotten with pretence than the
rubbish that's written and daubed and sculped by these--"

"Have a light, Tommy," interrupted Dinny, offering a match, "and
don't yell so loud. . . .  It's Sunday."

"You wipe that smile off your face, and sit down!  I'm not through
yet.  I mean to tell you some more, and if you don't like it you
can go straight to--"

"I know, Tommy, what you have in mind. . . .  Proceed. . . .  I'm
liking it."

"The new art!  Bah!  I've been supporting art since I was a
youngster; missed college to become an art-patron; had the house
littered with artists for years. . . .  Ninety per cent of 'em too
incompetent to hold a job, too lofty to earn a living, and too lazy
to wash their ears.

"The new literature--realism!  Tripe!  A lot of dirty stories
dignifiedly told by dirty-minded little shrimps, and solemnly
discussed by pretenders who make-believe they are enduring the dirt
so they can capture the beauty of the 'style,' when it's plain
they're only enduring the 'style' for the sake of the dirt. . . .
Kidding themselves!

"Modernism--modernistic painting! . . .  Cubist stuff! . . .
Nobody can tool me, any more, about that. . . .  This latest whelp
of modernism is nothing but an idiot begotten of Gin and Geometry.

"And YOU--cramming the magazines full of high-browed sarcasm about
the dull slaves of superstition! . . . chanting about freedom! . . .
yowling about the unpardonable sin of stupidity!  Haven't you any
sense of humour, at all? . . .  These birds have imposed on you,
down here.  They've made you believe they were artists--most of 'em
clumsy dubs who couldn't draw an honest picture of a long-tailed
rat. . . .  Try it out, if you don't believe me.  Ask one of these
paupers to draw you a picture.  Offer this Felice person a hundred
dollars to draw--not paint--but DRAW a picture of those two hats on
your table, and see what you'll get. . . .  Hypocrisy--hell!"

"Tommy--I've an idea! . . .  Just came to me. . . .  I'm going to
write a novel . . . about the Village. . . .  It's marvellous!
Wonder I never thought of it before."

Tommy scowled, relighted his pipe, puffed moodily.

"What you'd far better do is to let up on mean and surly criticism
for a while.  There ought to be some kind of a mental laxative on
sale for chaps like you.  Why don't you treat the world as if you
weren't too superior to live in it?  Pity there isn't some
neighbouring planet for you scoffers to go to, once in a while, for
a vacation."

Dinny suddenly recalled himself from the absorbing reverie into
which he had drifted.  Tommy had been chiding him pitilessly, and
he had missed much of the latter part of it.  He reproached himself
for his wool-gathering at such a moment.

"You're quite outspoken, Tommy. . . .  But--Boy--you've given me a
whopping inspiration . . . for the novel, you know.  I mean to do
it, without delay. . . .  It will be a wow!"

There was no further withstanding the contagion of Dinny's
enthusiasm; no use bristling against Dinny's conciliatory smile.
Tommy capitulated with a sigh.  The chap was incorrigible, utterly
inaccessible to reproof.

"Let's go do something," he said, restlessly, reaching for his hat.

"Young Vladimir Polovsky's talking at three in the Village
theatre," suggested Dinny.  "Shall we hear him?"

"Rot!" exploded Tommy.  "Hell of a lot of amusement that would be!
More dribble about Communism; eh?"

"It might improve your mind," exhorted Dinny, paternally.  "I'll
bet you never heard a real Communist talk?"

"Don't you believe I haven't.  Just got done firing one--a female
one--from the store. . . .  Talk?  That girl could talk down a
Senate filibuster!"

"Yes," Dinny wagged his head, knowingly, "that's the answer of
capital . . . big business . . . to any independent opinion offered
by the slaves! . . .  Poor girl airs her theories--and gets fired!"

Tommy chuckled, reminiscently.

"Well--this happened to be the answer of big business to a young
slattern who refused to act on the broad hint that she'd be
improved by a shampoo.  Nobody at Lacey's cared a damn about
Sophie's bad opinion of the capitalistic system.  It was her revolt
against soap."

Dinny remained loftily sceptical, but willing to grin.

"Lacey's may have pretended that was the reason, but Sophie would
probably have been given the sack, just the same.  Sophie"--Dinny
feigned a sympathetic tear--"Sophie wanted to be a little candle of
liberty--and you snuffed her out!"

Tommy shook his head, laughing.

"We sniffed her out."

"You've a mean tongue, Tommy. . . .  Suppose we go up to The
Capitol and see Hollywood canonize some racketeer who's just come
home with his pockets full of money to lift the mortgage off his
widowed mother's cottage. . . .  That's about your speed."

                        *  *  *  *  *

Dinny began to work on his novel, that night.  It was his first
long story, and he meant to spread it on a huge canvas that would
provide plenty of room for the minuti� of detail.

He knew he could draw Victor--to the life--and meant to make him
lead the ludicrous procession of enchanted bums across an elaborate
stage set for Art passionate with Revolt.

He believed he would let Victor succeed, at least measurably, and
return from time to time collecting laud, honour, and glory from
his satellites.  As an affected, arrogant ass, Victor would be hard
to beat.

There would be room in the story for a bit of honest pathos, too,
he thought.  These people's ambitions would be vapid enough, and
their pretensions no end silly; but there was nothing fictitious
about their hunger and heart-break.  Dinny paused in his swift
typing of the rough memorandum for the first chapter, and wondered
if he would be able to do the lento movement, when he came to it.
Hadn't he debarred himself from any such excursions into the "human
interest" zone of sincere yearning mixed with tears?  He had so
consistently mocked at everything savouring of the sentimental that
he doubted his ability to write about the deep emotions without
inviting a hilarious "haw-haw" from his cynical constituency.

He settled back in his chair, long hands dangling inert over its
arms, and gave himself to sober reflection on this dilemma.

His field had always seemed so pleasantly inexhaustible.  Why--a
man could keep on spoofing current movements forever!  There was
positively no limit to the materials at one's elbow.  So long as
there was an absurd human race, competing in silliness, there would
be daily something new to grin at.  The satirist's mine had barely
been scratched.

Tonight, Dinny's ironically amusing profession seemed suddenly to
have walled him in.  His field of exploration was quite restricted,
after all.  Tommy Forsythe had given him an anxious moment, that
afternoon, hinting that certain pet phrases of ridicule and
contempt, which had served him well, were in danger of becoming
tarnished ornaments.

Perhaps he had better stop using the words "moron" and "imbecile."
It was a fact that he had called them in to explode disparaging
comment rather more frequently than he should.

For a long time he sat meditatively tugging at his left ear-lobe,
absently fingering the key-board with the other hand. . . .
Nonsense!  He couldn't do a novel!  He had had so much highly
lucrative sport in ridiculing every phase of tender sentiment--the
sickly slobber of penitence, the mawkish drool of the meddling
doers-of-good, the exultant imbecility of idealism, the owlish
asininity of philanthropic fuss-budgets and sniffling uplifters who
loped about crying aloud over the plight of carefree people who
desired only to be left alone--that he seriously doubted whether he
dared risk a forthright invasion of "heart issues."

Viewed from a slightly different stance--Dinny, adroit in metaphor,
was fond of considering his problems in the algebra of his craft--
the section of the woods where he claimed the right to swing his
axe was limited to a very small tract of the forest.  It was his
job to cut down, chop up, stew, and distil astringents, bitters,
and lethals from henbane, hemlock, and wormwood--a sophisticated
employment.  He would only seem ridiculous tapping maple trees, or
sawing down hollow sycamores for their wild honey.

Who would have thought that staid old Tommy would pip off like
that? . . .  Talked a little like Joan. . . .  Tommy and Joan would
have a good time together, if ever they met. . . .  Dear Joan!

Slowly disrobing and easing himself into dressing-gown and
slippers, Dinny recapitulated the strategic might-have-beens of his
arrested romance with Joan; relived that passionate half-hour when
he had sat, fists clenched, in his dormitory room at Magnolia,
debating whether to punish the insufferable Kling.

Suppose he had cooled off, and decided to let Kling go
unrebuked. . . .  Suppose the piece in The Iconoclast had not
appeared at that unlucky moment. . . .  Suppose Doctor Braithwaite
had been secure enough in his position for Joan to risk a response
to his honest overtures of reconciliation. . . .  He might have had
Joan!

And then--what?  Joan would have insisted on his living in a Fool's
Paradise, no doubt.  She would have coaxed and nagged him into a
pretence of sharing her ingenuous optimism.  He would have spent
his life driving spiles into maples, and boiling the sap down to
syrup and selling it to the fudge-makers.  Ye gods--what a
career! . . .  Thirty-five or forty dollars a week, riding up and
down elevators, interviewing candidates, magnates, and redeemers who
would impressively keep him waiting in their outer offices while
they sat hungrily watching the clock, lusting to let him in for a
padful of their oracles. . . .  No--it wouldn't have done.  There
would have been no "Unfrosted Persimmons."  Joan would have seen to
that.  The "Persimmons" would have been brought to market ripe--
sticky--sicky sweet--rottenly soft.

And yet--

Dinny sighed, turned on his bed-lamp, rolled in, and tried to read
the current Lawrence; pretty clever dirt, that. . . .  Rather
amusing--Tommy's appraisal of erotica.  Tommy was more than half
right, of course.  Previous to the recent emancipation from
superficial prudery, the male youths had climbed up into the haymow
to exchange convictions on the ever-exciting subject, and the
girls, in three-somes, their arms twined around each other, had
taken a nice long walk, whispering with red cheeks. . . .
Something unhealthily furtive about that, of course.

Now the talk was all out in the open. . . .  Lecturers packed hotel
convention-halls with rosy-faced, eager, wide-eyed customers who
owed it to themselves to post up on psychology as it related to the
old, old problem. . . .  No longer was it necessary for the
inquisitive youngster to hide his nasty little paper-backed shocker
in a corner of the oats-bin. . . .  The subject had been milled up
into "literature," now. . . .  There need be no further hypocrisy
or furtiveness about this matter.  Dinny audibly expelled a
contemptuous "Pish!" . . .  Old Tommy was dead right!

All these college boys and girls swarming into classes on "Abnormal
Psychology" . . . all these altruistic women elbowing into the
Court of Domestic Relations . . . all these questors of culture,
hunting for rhetorical gems in the new, breathtakingly frank,
censor-baiting literature of libidinousness! . . .  Same old
story . . . same old furtiveness.  But--while the earlier crop of
curious youngsters had deceived their parents, the new outfit were
deceiving themselves!

Dinny turned a few pages, and pushed the book off the bed on to the
floor; snapped the light, closed his eyes, scowled.

And yet--

Whatever Joan might have been able to do to him and his literary
aspirations, it might have been worth the sacrifice. . . .  Gad--
what a thoroughbred!

Vivid pictures of her came, lingered, and made way for others even
more luminous. . . .  Joan--radiant, supple, agile, tantalizing,
generously blending her splendid body with his, that first
afternoon on the ice . . . Joan--demurely eyeing him, and denying
it with an indignant toss of the head when he caught her, in silly
little Ernie's fussy museum . . . Joan--warm across his shoulders,
her cheek against his, scolding into his ear and hating him with
all her might while she drove him nearly mad with her rampant
vitality . . . Joan--gently chiding, tenderly, wistful, in his
arms! . . . Joan's kiss.  He must find Joan.  Suddenly, the
slumbering, half-hopeless, half-abandoned yearning for her almost
suffocated him.  Whatever it might cost--even to the ruinous price
of degrading himself to the maple-sugar business--he must see Joan.
They were made for each other.  How often he had said "Rot!" in
comment on some such observation made in reference to a congenial
pair.  But, it wasn't rot.  Joan was his--and he meant to have her.

Item by item, Dinny recovered her in every remembered posture,
expression, mood, each delicious recollection confirming his
decision to track her down and have it out with her.

He reinvoiced all the tentative projects that had occurred to him,
earlier, for quests of the vanished Joan.  This time he would see
it through.  He would pocket his prudence, and ask questions of
people who might know.

A light suddenly broke.  Dinny grinned, nodded, rose, went across
to his mother's desk, and began to scribble.  For a half-hour he
wrote and tore and flung away.  At length he was determined to be
satisfied with his production, addressed an envelope to The Times,
Want Ads, enclosed his copy and a five-dollar note.

Dressing hurriedly, he went downstairs, telling himself he was
silly to be so precipitate, seeing there was nothing to be gained
by posting his letter at two-thirty a.m., but eager to relieve his
impatience, somehow.

Wide-awake, mentally turbulent, he walked all the way to The
Battery, seeing nothing en route but a stuffy little coffee-shop
where he stopped and gulped a cup of scalding brown stuff that had
been stained by the original grounds described in the lease.

Now that he had made the adventure, Dinny wondered if he could wait
until Tuesday.  His ad would appear then.  Joan would probably read
it before the day was out. . . .  And then what?

Time dragged very slowly, all Monday.  It was impossible to
concentrate.  Dinny was thankful he was a few instalments ahead of
the game in the manufacture of his "Green Cheese."

At seven, Tuesday morning, he rushed over to The Brevoort, bought a
Times, went in to breakfast, rummaged deep in the advertising
pages, found the column of "Female Help Wanted," and searched for
his request. . . .  It looked a bit crazy.


RESEARCH SECRETARY--by feature writer.  Applicant must be at least
casually interested in Indian mounds, preferably of southern Ohio:
graduate small college, member sorority; native Wis.; 26, ht. 5:7
1/4; wt. 125; brown hair and eyes.  Experienced ice skater
preferred.  Excellent salary.  Reply in handwriting to Times
X29008.



CHAPTER XII


His decision, a fortnight later, to see Angela in action was one of
the most unaccountable caprices to which Dinny Brumm had ever
yielded.

The sudden resolve to go to Dorchester, New York, and watch Angela
heal the sick and cast out devils, was arrived at one Wednesday
evening shortly after a casual little dinner with four neighbours
at the Purple Pig.

Indeed, the first insistent bleat of desire to do this eccentric
thing had whimpered from the depths of Dinny's mind during the
dinner conversation when Felice Manners had moodily mooned over her
early adventures with religion back in Gimmel, Illinois.

Felice, to judge from the blue circles under her heavy eyes, and
the smeary elisions of her thick talk, had been steadily tippling
all day.  She was now making a muddy landing from her ascension
into the upper ether of Bacchanalia.

On such occasions, Felice shamelessly turned her soul inside-out
for the edification of whosoever happened to be within range of her
appalling self-disclosures.

This time, a brief--and, to Dinny, unwelcome--conversation about
Angela, now well on the way to becoming a national figure, had set
Felice going about the ponderous piety of Grandfather Johnson's
home in frowsy little Gimmel where, at nine, she had been dutifully
taken in, after the death of her mother, and had remained until, at
sixteen, she had fled unfounded and unpursued.

And while Felice rumbled heavily on, recovering fugitive scraps of
a stormy girlhood that had creased the brow and whitened the
whiskers of Grandfather Johnson--"and Grandmothersh, too," she had
added, with an irresistible touch of realism--Dinny, possessed of
memories not dissimilar, twirled his own reel back to weedy little
Zanesdale.

Now and again, and at briefer intervals, Dinny had been aware of
momentary surges--something very like nostalgia.  Increasingly
given to self-analysis, as life became more and more stale and
unpromising, he found this the most singular of his mental
phenomena.

It was quite natural, reflected Dinny, that a fortunate man who, in
youth, had lived in a congenial home from which he had emerged, at
length, reluctantly, would so cherish his memories that there would
ever be a strong tug in that direction.  It was easy to understand
how, across a widening chasm of miles and years, such a man might
so long for home and a recovery of its endearments that the
yearning would obsess him.

But--as in his own case--for a man who, in youth, had fretted in
his home, counting the days which must elapse until he could escape
its intolerable irksomeness, eventually rushing out of it without
one backward glance, asking nothing but to be spared the necessity
of a return, these occasional tidal-waves of homesickness were
inexplicable.

Dinny found himself wondering if it might not be true that the
homing instinct is universal, omnipresent, inevitable; not very
much conditioned by any individual's immediate reactions to his
native environment while in it.  Why, he even had fleeting seizures
of desire to see frumpy old Aunt Martha!

Frequently he told himself that the next time he had an errand in
Chicago, he would start a day early and drop off in Zanesdale; he
would sit on the fence at the corner of Harsh's melon-patch, and
watch the Erie "fast-lines" whiz by.

These attacks did not last long, however, and when he had regained
his sober senses, Dinny would accuse himself of a growing tendency
toward weak-mindedness.  It would be entirely consistent with his
unhappy career, he thought, if at about forty, he would have to be
carted off to a funny-house.

He had rarely thought of Angela for several years.  Lately she was
much on his mind.  Angela was becoming famous--or notorious--the
choice of an adjective depending on the mood of the reader who
found her startling exploits, at the behest of Heaven, demanding
larger space in the newspapers.

The first important tidings of her spectacular ministry had broken
from Spottswood, Pennsylvania, where for six hectic weeks she had
had that smoky mill-town by the ears.

The revival had begun in the custody of the biggest church in
Spottswood; had rapidly outgrown its quarters and migrated to the
city auditorium; and, because it was September, had swarmed to the
County Fair Grounds where the Holy Ghost had obliged Angela with a
recurrence of Pentecost.

Hundreds--screamed the big black headlines--had rushed about,
babbling "tongues" which sounded strangely even in the ears of a
polyglot foundry-town composed of a little of everything all the
way from Mesopotamia and the parts of Libya about Cyrene to the
uttermost jungles of Siam and the suburbs of Babel.

Still other hundreds, unblest with tongues, had ecstatically rolled
in the sacred sawdust, popping out of one trance into another.  In
the hilarious "after meetings," happy converts milled up and down
the aisles, affectionately embracing their fellow-lunatics without
regard to age, sex, or colour.

After a short interval of recuperation, Angela was reported at
Wrayville, Tennessee, from whence the news proceeded of a
miraculous restoration of sight to an elderly woman, nine years
blind.  A local doctor had verified the miracle, though there had
been some difficulty verifying the doctor, who, the Wrayville
Medical Association insisted, was not an oculist, but a specialist
in botts and glanders.

Presently Angela was again on the hook in twenty score of composing-
rooms, this time at Stillman, Iowa, whither excursion trains from
neighbouring towns hurried with yearning cargoes of sick and
afflicted.

"Thish Ashula Brumm"--Felice had thickly inquired, that Wednesday
evening, at the Purple Pig--"sisher o' yoursh, Dinny?"

The Carmichaels, and the Strothers boy who played Sylvia's
accompaniments, laughed.

"Do I strike you as having come from a family of deities?"
countered Dinny, rather annoyed that the question had come up.

Felice nodded, thoughtfully.

"Such ash you, Dinny, alwaysh come f'm holy hillsh."

"Perhaps Dinny's a fallen angel," suggested Sylvia.

"No--I mean 't," persisted Felice, with an expansive gesture.  "If
all th' atheish and agnoshish in thish rotten villish were honesh,
nine out o' ten would shay . . . born pioush home."

"Let's begin with you, then," proposed Strothers, indulgently.
"You're an atheist, aren't you, Felice?"

"Ever' mornin'," went on Felice, woodenly, "Grandfa'r took twenty-
poun' Bible on hish lap, an' read long chapter f'm Deuteromony er
Ebeneesher--"

"No such book as Ebenezer," corrected Dinny.

Felice grinned, cannily, over having scored a point.

"Uh-huh!--jushesh I sushpected, Dinny Brumm. . . .  You were
brought up on 't.  You're f'm holy hillsh--jush like me."

"Go on, Felice," urged Carmichael.  "What did Grandfather do next?"

"Well--after he had read longesh chapter he could find, 'bout th'
Amalekitesh an' th' Stalactitesh, all eight o' ush schwoop' faish-
down into our chair cushionsh, an' tied an' untied an' retied th'
yarn knotsh while our Heav'ly Fa'er wush thanked that He had
shpared ush to shee th' light o' 'nother day . . . hell of a
compliment f'r Heav'ly Fa'er . . . Heav'ly Fa'er hadn't murdered
ush all in our bedsh."

Aware, from previous experience, that Felice, at such moments, was
very sensitive, Dinny had done his honest best to keep a straight
face during this recital; but, having clamped down a bit too hard
on his feelings, he now regretfully blew up with a loud report
which sent Felice into a pitiable drizzle of maudlin tears.

Dinny had never been party to an event at once so tragic and so
devastatingly ridiculous.  Felice, barely intelligible, poured out
a story that might have made the angels weep while they laughed.
As a child, the lonesome little thing had gone out by herself into
a far corner of the garden and looked bravely up into the blue,
telling God she didn't believe a word of it, and hoping He'd please
excuse poor old Grandfather Johnson, who didn't know any better,
and meant all right.

"An' God ushe t' talk t' me . . . Nosshir, I mean 't! . . .  He
would jush grin, and shay, 'Thash all ri', li'l' Felish.  You run
an' play!'"

Sylvia had taken Felice home when it was generally agreed that she
had talked enough, and was attracting too much attention.

Leaving the mussy little restaurant, Dinny had gone to his room
somewhat depressed.  Felice had stirred some quite vivid
recollections of his own boyhood.  There had been a time when he,
too, had been acutely conscious of something--something winged,
inside himself--looking up inquiringly, hopefully.  Felice had
apologized to God in behalf of Grandfather Johnson.  Dinny
remembered having had much the same feeling as a little boy.  God
had been maligned.  God was their Father . . . and they had gone
down on all fours, twice a day, grovelling like heathen.

But, strangely enough, Dinny wanted to see what was this peculiar
energy that Angela had laid hold on.  Angela might be no end a
mountebank--probably was nothing less or else than that--but
thousands were finding something at her hands.  Surely she hadn't
inherited anything from his smug and stupid Uncle Miles that would
stampede city after city into orgies of repentance and hysterias of
joy.

At ten-thirty, that night, he was in his berth, listening to the
trucks pound the rail-ends as his train scampered up the right bank
of the Hudson, and wondering what had possessed him to spend any
time or money on such a silly adventure.

                        *  *  *  *  *

Thursday afternoons--Dinny learned at The Dorchester Sun, where
he had been cordially welcomed when applying for a press ticket
to the Angela Brumm Revival--were set aside for the healing of
children. . . .  Lucky, he thought . . . couldn't have struck a
better day!

He lunched with Fred Channing, the editor, after having met a few
of the boys at the office, where, as was inevitable, he had been
chaffed about his gifted "relative."

Channing had slowly closed one eye, impressively, in the midst of
the banter.

"You wait! . . .  Some woman! . . .  May be a quack and a faker--
but, you take it from me--Angela's got a lot o' IT!"

They went to the stage door of the big public auditorium at two-
thirty.  Literally hundreds of people stood about the entrances,
hopeful of crowding in to secure standing-room after the ticket-
holders had been accommodated.  In tow of Channing, Dinny followed
through a long concrete corridor, swarming with the surpliced
choir, busy functionaries, reporters, parsons, and up the stairs to
the large stage, set for three hundred.

The auditorium was packed to suffocation.  A tense feeling seemed
to pervade the place, as if some astounding event--some sickish
tragedy, perhaps--were imminent.  Dinny's eye swept the huge hall;
raked the galleries into a vertiginous smear of wide-staring, open-
mouthed, morbidly curious expectants.  Then he analysed the crowd--
small sections of it--item by item; nervously thumbing their paper-
backed hymn-books with mechanical fingers, gnawing their lips,
apprehensively, as if they had come to a hanging.

The great choir filed in, confident and conscious of its
importance, and stood, as in a tableau, until the celebrated
Maurice Manwaring, lithe, athletic, leonine of head, an
extraordinarily handsome brute, strode on, raised both modishly
white-flannelled arms, and with a commanding gesture that seemed to
reach far forward and grab the first triumphant note out of their
obedient open mouths, he summoned them to the great declaration
that the affair was on, and Heaven was being called in to witness.
The piece was Gounod's "Unfold, Ye Portals."  Dinny had not been so
stirred to the depths--ever!  He had come as a spectator; rather a
cold-blooded spectator, too.  Now he felt himself vigorously pushed
into the crowd.

"Un--fo-o-o-o-l-l-ld! . . . UNN--FO--O-O-O-OL-L-LD!. . .
UNNN-FO-O-O-O-OL-L-LD!!--YE POR-TALS EV-ER-LAAAST-ING!"

The great crowd couldn't resist the pull of it another minute; came
up out of its seat in response to something gripping that reached
out, and took hold, and lifted up.  Dinny found himself on his
feet, his heart pounding, his eyes smarting, his throat dry.

Angela came on, passing him so nearly he could have reached out a
hand and touched her black velvet gown.  She was an insuperably
regal figure, exquisitely formed, incredibly beautiful, with the
carriage of a goddess and the rapt eyes of a mystic.  Except for
the white silk stole which depended almost to her knees, she wore
no ornament.  Walking confidently to the centre of the stage, she
rested an expressive white hand on the pulpit and gazed over the
multitude with a sort of inspired compassion.  Dinny would have
given his all for a faithful picture of what was actually going on,
at that instant, in Angela's mind. . . .  It was utterly
impossible, preposterous, that this woman could stand there, before
this yearning crowd, swept by the nerve-tingling influence of such
music--and be calmly plotting a hoax! . . .  Angela should have the
benefit of every doubt.  ANGELA WAS NOT A FAKE!

The anthem rose to a great crescendo.  The multitude sat.  Angela
stood.  There was a heavy hush.  She prayed.  It was a quiet voice,
but commanding.  Angela maternally gathered up the three thousand
in her soft, strong arms, and, having affectionately held them to
her ample breast and wiped their tears and fears away, tenderly
handed them over into the infinitely stronger arms of their Father.
It was not God's wish that any of these little ones should suffer,
or face life unable to savour its sweetness. . . .  Dinny
remembered it was a "Children's Healing Day," and, glancing about,
became aware of babies in arms, little cripples in arms, big-
headed, empty-headed, pallid, grotesque MONSTERS in arms.  Never
had he seen such a conglomeration of juvenile misfortune.  They
seemed suddenly to spring into existence.  He had not noticed them
before.

God did not want these little ones to suffer. . . .  By faith, they
would be healed. . . .  God had promised. . . .  It was enough.  We
could take Him at His word.

Spontaneously, the choir, as if unable to restrain its pent-up
emotions, quietly hummed the old hymn-tune which Dinny recognized
as "My Faith Looks Up to Thee."

Angela, face uplifted, blue eyes wide, enraptured, called upon her
Father, these little ones' Father, to keep His word with her--with
them--with us. . . .  Then there began to come from the depths of
the auditorium a surge, a sobbing surge of questing song, as if it
was welling up out of hearts rather than throats.  Dinny's eyes
filled.  He didn't sing; couldn't have sung; but he was conscious
of being in and of that longing multitude whose honest faith--or
whose desperate hope, at least--was reaching up.

Dinny never liked to remember, afterwards, the procession that came
down the aisles, and up the stairs to the stage, bearing its
pitiable freight to the Lamb of Calvary and His calmly confident
representative. . . .  Pale, twisted, little children . . . blind
babies . . . hare-lipped . . . club-footed . . . hunch-backed.

Angela laid her potent hands upon each of them, raised her eyes,
murmured a prayer, and a motherly woman in white gently propelled
them on, across the stage, to another stairway leading back into
the auditorium.

At the foot of this stairway, a huddle of young women, also in
white, were receiving the bewildered mothers with encouraging
smiles, distributing gifts to the children--gay trinkets, oranges,
little dolls for the girls, mechanical toys for the boys.

Dinny began to understand the reason for this quite dismaying anti-
climax to Angela's wholesale conferment of God's grace.  It was a
shock-absorber to provide distraction of the hapless victims' minds
from their disappointment in case the power of God was not
immediately manifest.  There was no question about Angela's
excellent intent.  Her faith looked up to the Lamb of Calvary.  She
sincerely hoped--more than hoped; expected--that the Lamb of
Calvary would take pity on these wretched.  But if, for some
baffling reason unknown to Angela, the Lamb of Calvary let her
down, there would still be dolls and oranges and toy automobiles,
and a red, red rose for mother.

The long procession kept coming on.  Dinny was seated where he
could observe the faces of the mothers at the moment Angela was in
the act of bearing their anxieties to the Throne.  He winced as if
witness to surgery performed without benefit of an�sthesia.  The
faces of the mothers seemed strangely alike, the tense, stiff, open
lips showing tips of teeth in half-open mouths, as if expectant of
sharp and sudden pain; as if Angela were a surgeon, and they had
come to have her lance some deep, dangerous infection; waiting,
now, for the plunge of the knife.  The faces were all set in masks--
masks through whose stiff vents, round, wide eyes, and open,
straining mouths--the mothers were prepared to shout for joy or
scream with despair.

Not often did the mothers immediately inspect their children, after
the supplication.  They dared not tarry to do that.  The thing was
to hurry on, as bidden.  Dinny suspected the management did not
encourage any loitering on the stage, any looking to see.

One mother's trembling hand ran swiftly down the thin leg of her
six-year-old boy, and felt for the crooked little foot.  The
crooked little foot was still there, just as she knew it would be,
her tightly pursing lips seemed to say.  Perhaps her faith had not
been very robust.

One young mother paused, momentarily blocking the traffic, while
she lifted her blind baby shoulder high and gazed hungrily into the
child's opaque eyes.  All the sickening grief of a sickeningly
grieving world spread across her face as she slowly turned her head
and made a pitiful little sucking noise with her lips as if she had
been stabbed.  A compassionate hand was laid under her elbow, and
she resumed her tramp to the stairs, consulting each step for safe
footing as she descended from Calvary's Fountain to have pressed
into her trembling fingers an amiable, smiling, wide-eyed, blue-
eyed, china doll--the gift of the white-organdied angels, and the
black-velveted Angela, and the blood-red Hands, nailed to a Tree.
They also handed her a red rose-bud.  Dinny hoped the management
had had the forethought to snip off the thorns.

A bit of unusual stir about Angela detached his gaze from the
retreating figure of the blind baby's mother.  A nine-year-old boy,
with steel braces on his emaciated legs, was being gingerly put
down from his father's arms, at Angela's command.  She prayed--
audibly, this time--in a tone of assurance, of gratitude, as if the
boon she asked was already a fait accompli.

The silence was absolute, as Angela unbuckled the boy's braces.
The clatter they made, as she cast them aside on the floor, had the
effect of heavy chains dropped by a prisoner freed.  She took the
child by the hand, and bade him walk.

HE WALKED!  There was a sudden, concerted intake of breath in three
thousand open mouths.  The father of the boy, an embarrassed
farmer, smiled self-consciously, smoothed his tawny moustache, and
followed along.  The mother stooped and picked up the braces.
Angela darted a swift glance, noting the act.  She betrayed a
faint, fleeting trace of annoyance, but instantly regained her
grateful smile, put the skinny little hand of the lad into the big
red hand of his unstirred father, and quickly returned to her post
beside the pulpit.

Dinny's quick intuition suggested that the little drama had gone
bad.  The boy's father was a dolt, and his mother was a woman of
little faith.  Doubtless both of them knew the boy could take a few
faltering steps without his braces if someone held his hand.  To
the vast crowd, however, the miracle was genuine enough.  Anyway--
the crowd had come to see miracles, and was definitely on Angela's
and the Lord's side.

The meeting was drawing to an abrupt close now.  The choir had
risen and was leading the congregation in praising God From Whom
All Blessings Flow, with an unction that certified to the complete
success of the demonstration of grace outpoured.

Angela, with face a bit drawn, evidencing that the neural strain of
the hour had cost something, raised a graceful, hand, pronounced a
brief benediction, and left the pulpit.  As she passed Dinny, she
glanced straight into his staring eyes, stopped, searched his face,
and spoke:

"Ferdinand!"

Dinny extended his hand soberly, almost deferentially.  Angela did
not take it.

"Come to the hotel--the Savoy--at five."

She did not pause for a reply to her command.  When Dinny turned,
somewhat disconcertedly, to observe what Channing might have made
of this revealing episode, his friend had taken prompt advantage of
the priestess's exit, and was rapidly escaping.  Channing glanced
back over his shoulder, drew a quick, non-committal smile, and
pointed significantly in the direction of the stage door, as if
indicating they would meet there.

He had vanished, however, when Dinny, thick in the exodus, reached
the pavement.

                        *  *  *  *  *

They did not call her "Miss Brumm," but "Angela Brumm," as if it
were a four-syllable word accentuated on the ultimate.

When the girl at the Information Desk turned to the switchboard
operator, relaying Dinny's request to see "Miss Brumm," she said.

"Mr. Ferdinand Brumm has an appointment with Angela Brumm."

She did not say, "Mr. FERDINAND Brumm has an appointment with
ANGELA Brumm."  There was only one authentic Brumm, and that Brumm
was Angela BRUMM.

The bell-hop, whom he trailed to the elevator and over the padded
carpet of the seventh floor, did not ring, but opened the door to
the first room of what proved to be an extensive suite.  This first
was a very business-like reception office where Dinny stated his
errand to a white-gowned secretary.

"Angela Brumm is expecting you, sir.  Come with me, please."

They passed through another room, equipped for secretarial purposes
and occupied by three typists zealously tapping noiseless machines.
The large sitting-room adjacent was brightly appointed, clearly the
boudoir of a woman who knew how to surround herself with the
indispensables of the well-to-do; everything in excellent taste,
Dinny thought, as his conductress signed him to a rust-silk
davenport, and retired.

Angela sauntered in presently, from the opposite door, her
shimmering gold hair plaited down her back, dressed in a flowing
n�glig�e of unrelieved black silk, black silk stockings, black silk
slippers.  The high heels added a touch to her regal carriage.
Dinny stood, wondering what manner of take-off this conversation
might have, after a lapse of more than eight years.  Would Angela
begin with something conventional--"unexpected pleasure"--and that
sort of thing?

"People call you 'Dinny,' now; don't they?" she asked, negligently,
as she approached.  "I would have told you to come at once, dear,"
continued Angela, putting both hands on his broad shoulders and
lifting her face for the kiss which speeded his heart a little--
"but I'm frightfully uncomfortable until I've had a bath and a
mauling by my masseuse."

Dinny understood and expressed his amazement that she could go
through so much nerve-wrecking business, daily, without breaking.

"But you're the picture of vitality," he added, honest admiration
in his eyes.  They sat, at her inviting gesture, on the luxurious
davenport.

"Well?"--Angela glanced up brightly, smiling inquisitively--"now
you've seen it, what do you think? . . .  Is the Man in the Moon
disgusted, or amused, or--amazed?"

"He hasn't quite made up his mind yet, Angela," returned Dinny
thoughtfully.  "He's always reserved, you know; probably a bit over-
cautious. . . .  Maybe due to his age."

Angela puckered her full, red lips into a playful tease.

"I presume Luna thought it a good show," she ventured, blue eyes
widening roguishly.

"Luna leaps at conclusions, of course," parried Dinny, Angela's
woman-of-the-world air and tone mystifying him: he hoped he was
keeping his surprise out of his voice.  "However"--weighing his
words--"instinct maybe more trustworthy, in such matters, than
shear intellect. . . .  If you don't mind leaving the Moon out of
it, for a moment, I'll admit I was never so uplifted, and--
expectant, and--"

"--and shot down, tumbling, wings broken, scattering a trail of
bloody feathers--" prompted Angela, when he paused, groping for the
right word. . . .  "Am I right?"

Dinny soberly studied her face, somewhat perplexed by her candour.

"Not quite," he said, indecisively.  "Not shot down, exactly, a
little more as if one had risen rapidly, dizzily, in a balloon--and
it had sprung a leak. . . .  One had to come down, then."

"And it was a rough landing," sympathized Angela.  "I knew by your
face."

"Quite!" admitted Dinny--"but one still has the balloon.  Whether
it is beyond repair remains to be seen.  I'm afraid I haven't had
the courage to look. . . .  Anyway--there's been no time.  This
sort of thing deserves some--some thinking over."

She nodded, comprehendingly.

"You may find you've lost nothing by your cruise, Dinny. . . .
Judging from the things you've been writing--and I follow them
closely, dear, laughing and crying, laughing at them and crying for
you--it seems you haven't even known you HAD a balloon. . . .
Perhaps it's been worth a trip to Dorchester, just to find that
out."

Which of his sardonic, satirical cronies, thought Dinny, would have
had the effrontery to predict that, some day, he might sit in a
confessional, unreservedly pouring his sincere wistfulness into the
dainty pink ear of an itinerant woman evangelist and miracle-
worker!  His mood amazed him.

"Honestly, now, Dinny!" Angela had murmured, intertwining her
fingers with his.  "Let yourself go--a bit. . . .  It'll be good
for you."

"It has come--only twice"--said Dinny, dreamily--"in about fifteen
years--this strange, brief, uncanny tug; this afternoon, and
another time, in a Catholic Church, when I was a freshman. . . .
But--when I was a small boy, Angela, I frequently experienced big,
suffocating waves of--of exultation.  They never came in winter, as
I recall, and never except when I was alone."

Dinny reclined, staring at the ceiling, and reflected.

"Yes--go on," said Angela, quietly, patting his hand.

"Only on summer afternoons, flat on my back, looking up into the
blue and white, a gentle breeze stirring, bees humming, birds
singing, squirrels scampering about--I used to get it, then--just a
big wave of it, and it would be gone. . . .  I didn't know what it
was, and I can't describe it now, but--I suppose brave old Walt
came about as nearly--"

"Walt?" queried Angela.

"Whitman."

"Oh--I never knew him that well," confessed Angela.  "Somebody gave
me a book of his poems.  I've always meant to--"

Dinny glanced in the direction of a well-filled book-case.

Angela, following his eyes, rose, and crossed the room.

"Maybe you can find the place, Dinny, and read it to me.  I think
I'd like to hear it," she said, returning with the book.

"It's pretty long," warned Dinny, leafing rapidly.  "I'll try to
give you just an idea of it. . . .  Of course"--he laid the open
book face downward on his knee--"I'm not meaning to say that I had
precisely these thoughts when I was a little chap, but the thoughts
I had have never been put into words more adequate to describe my
feelings than these."

Angela impatiently took up the book, and confronted him with it,
nodding her head.

"Just a minute, Angela--and then I'll read some of it for you. . . .
I think I hated religion, from the start.  As I try to recover
my boyish opinions, I think I always knew that religion was a
selfish, ignorant, hole-in-a-corner affair perpetuated by small
people. . . .  God had instantly fallen out with the world, soon as
He'd made it.  But He was glumly allowing the Whole Thing to go on,
despising It, deploring It, enduring It, and wondering how long it
would be yet until all the people became Baptists; and the
Baptists, aware of His impatience, shouted back, 'How long, O Lord,
how long?' . . .  Previously--ages before the Baptists--God had
wondered how He was going to put up with everybody but the Jews,
who seemed to have caught His fancy. . . .  I knew, by instinct,
that all such stuff as that was rubbish! . . .  Adam!--and Adam's
'fall'!--I think I knew, even as a freckle-nosed, barefooted,
little boy, that it was nothing but a fairy-tale, and not a very
pleasant one, at that.  It didn't ring true. . . .  And all that
tiresome story of early Jewish magic left me cold.  I hated it!

"But--sometimes--on summer days, a wave-like surge of--gladness, of--
of understanding, would sweep over me.  I would suddenly BELONG!--
if you get what I mean.  The Whole Thing was all of a piece, and I
was part of it, and--"

Dinny took up the book.

"Whitman says he had heard a great deal of talk about the beginning
and the end; and he writes--


"There never was any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now,
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

In all people I see myself, none more and not one a barley-corn less,
And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them.

I know I am august.
I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood.
I see that the elementary laws never apologize.

I think I could turn and live with animals, they're so placid and
  self-contain'd.
I stand and look at them long and long.
They do not sweat and whine about their condition,
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God.

They show me their relations to me and I accept them,
They bring me tokens of myself . . .

I wonder where they get these tokens.
Did I pass that way huge times ago and negligently drop them?"


Angela sat, with brooding eyes, venturing no comment, when Dinny
paused.

"Just for a moment--today--I had one more strong, quick TUG of
that . . . whatever-it-is!  Perhaps you know.  Of course you know!"

"Exactly when--Dinny?" murmured Angela, scarcely above a whisper.

"Well--I'd like to say--it would be the most gracious thing to say--
that I got it through something you said or did; but that wouldn't
be quite true. . . .  It came while your choir was singing that
opening anthem--the Gounod thing--'Unfold!' . . .  Angela--did you
ever catch a big, fighting trout?--I mean a huge, muscled,
determined, SAVAGE trout? . . .  No? . . .  Well--you've been
casting for three hours; quite confidently, at first, having
been told there's trout in the pool; rather impatiently and
exasperatedly, after an hour; and then dully, unhopefully,
mechanically, half-inclined to quit, scorning yourself for going
to the bother--"

"I'm following, Dinny," prodded Angela.  "Do catch one!"

"And then--suddenly--there's a STRIKE! . . .  I don't mean
there's a timid little nibble of some sluggish, grubby four-inch
blue-gill. . . .  I mean a swift reaching and grabbing and a TUG
that bends the rod to a horseshoe, and the reel goes 'Zzzing'!"

"Great!" shouted Angela, eyes shining.

Dinny stilled her enthusiasm with an outspread palm.

"And then--the line falls limp--and whatever-it-was had given you
that instant's exultant thrill--is gone! . . .  But"--pursued
Dinny, meditatively--"just to know you're still capable of a
fleeting exultation like that, even if it's only for an instant--
well, as you say, it's worth a trip to Dorchester."

"Can't you stay a few days, Dinny?" pleaded Angela.

"No--I'd probably not get it again.  In fact, I'm quite sure. . . .
The physical healing--you know. . . .  It was--do you mind if I
speak plainly, Angela? . . .  It was the most shockingly cruel
affair I ever saw. . . .  My dear--HOW CAN YOU?"

Angela's voice trembled when she replied.

"Sometimes I help them," she said, hoarsely.  "I--I thought I could
at first.  I was honest, Dinny. . .  And then--they just expected
it, and insisted, and there'd been so much talk about it . . . But,
Dinny, sometimes I do help them . . . a little . . .  Really!"

He shook his head, with a faint, incredulous smile.

"I didn't come here to rebuke you, Angela.  You know your own
business, and you handle it--SUPERBLY!  God knows I've no right to
offer you any counsel--but--"  He hesitated.

Angela gripped his hand in both of hers.

"Say it!" she commanded, soberly.

"Very well--I think you're making a cheap and grotesque thing out
of a mystery that's too big for you--too big for anyone! . . .
It's a great pity."

Dinny rose, laid his long hands under Angela's elbows, looked her
squarely in the eyes.

"I'm quite proud of you--all but THAT!'

"Must you go?  Have dinner with me.  I don't eat--much--but I'll
watch you.  Please?"

When she saw he was quite determined to leave, Angela gave him her
hand, gave him her lips, smiled, pushed a bell.  Dinny left without
a further word.

                        *  *  *  *  *

In the morning, he found among the many letters waiting in his box,
another package--they came daily--from The Times.  He opened them
without interest, tossing them aside, half-read.  Here was one
addressed from Pine Hill, Wisconsin.  Dinny's curiosity was
stirred.


Dear Sir:

This is in reply to your recent advertisement for a "Research
Secretary."  I formerly worked in New York, and the clipping was
sent me by a friend.

As to age and physical dimensions, I could qualify for your
position, if it is still open.

I know almost nothing about Indian mounds, but am willing to learn
from you.

                                       Very respectfully,

                                              JOAN BRAITHWAITE.

P.S.--I do need a job, Dinny, quite frightfully!

                                                          JOAN.



CHAPTER XIII


In the pursuit of his singular trade, Dinny Brumm's requirement of
a "research secretary" was about as urgent as his professional need
of a trap-drummer or a tea-taster.

At the moment of his frantically impetuous decision to advertise
for news of Joan, it had not occurred to him that he might soon be
put to the necessity of inventing an occupation for her.

As for the expense involved in taking on an employee, the prospect
of assuming such a responsibility, with Joan as the incumbent,
filled Dinny with proud delight.  He had plenty of money.  His
residence in cheap Bohemian quarters and his association with
friends mostly of simple tastes and meagre means, while not an
intentional frugality, had made but small demands upon his mounting
income.

He had preferred that manner of living.  Had he possessed a fortune
yielding a million a year, his sense of humour would have stood in
the way of its distribution by any of the customary tactics
employed by the gilded whose alleged exploits in quest of pleasure
would, he believed, have bored him to an early and welcome grave.

With the exception of mild extravagances for books, theatres, and
clothing--for while Dinny always dressed conservatively, he dressed
well--his personal outlay was so trifling that for more than two
years his disbursements per month had rarely exceeded his income
per week; nor was that quite all of the story, for he had been very
fortunate in his discreet speculations.

Tommy Forsythe, whose natural flair for prognosticating movements
in the stock market had been capitalized to his own very
considerable advantage, was generous with timely tips.  Without
making much more than an interesting avocation of his investments,
at Tommy's canny suggestion, Dinny had been doubling his income.
If, therefore, he should find himself disposed to take on a
"research" or any other kind of a secretary, it would be no
inconvenience.

It was quite evident from the plaintiveness of her little distress-
signal that Joan was in straitened circumstances.  Dinny tried to
imagine the glorious satisfaction he would experience at sight of
the superb creature, exquisitely groomed, smartly gowned, happily
independent, with pride in her eyes and money in her purse--himself
responsible for her well-being.

For the first hour after his receipt of her letter, Dinny's entire
attention had been devoted to the pleasant daydream of wrapping a
probably half-starved Joan around an expensive collation of
Vitamins A, B, and C, to the accompaniment of haunting melodies
dispensed by the Hungarian orchestra at Dexter's.  Joan, stifled
and staled by who knew what drudgeries out in little Pine Hill,
Wisconsin, should have a sunny, gaily equipped apartment, high up,
somewhere on Riverside Drive, with a beautiful view.  He would show
her how a successful young syndicate writer thought his secretarial
help ought to be treated.  It would be great fun.

But when he tried to construct a tentative portrait of Joan's
patrician face, in its response to a detailed statement of his
happy plans for her comfort, he found himself dismayed.  Joan would
not fit into that picture.  Joan would not consent to become his
beneficiary, nor would she accept a penny more than such
secretarial services were worth on the open market. . . .  And, by
the way, just what would be the nature of such services?  Any
flimsy subterfuge he might ingeniously invent would only invite
Joan's indignation, once she discovered herself in a mere sinecure.

Only one tenable suggestion offered itself.  Dinny, as an ardent
student of Pepysian lore and the Restoration which he considered
the most interesting period of English history, had lately amused
himself by tinkering with an idea for a magazine article to be
entitled "Pepys on Lord's Day."  His only reason for not proceeding
to the first draft of it, at once, was explained by his own
distaste for the considerable drudgery involved in digging out of
the diary all of Samuel's chronicles in reference thereunto.

He could set Joan at that.  Surely she need not suspect that such
employment was mere make-believe.  By Gad, he wanted that
information.  Dinny found himself becoming rather indignant in his
imaginary debate with Joan, who had looked him squarely in the eye
and accused him of giving her something to do that nobody in his
proper senses would ever want done. . . .  What do YOU know about
what I want?  Maybe I'll ask you to mole out some further data
about other people's observance of the Sabbath.  Maybe I'm going to
write a book--two or three books--on this subject.  Maybe I'll want
to know how all the characters in Dickens, Scott, Thackeray,
Hawthorne, and a lot more, entertained themselves on the Lord's
Day. . . .  That's what a research secretary is about!  Funny you
didn't know that!

By evening, Dinny felt himself prepared to answer Joan's letter.
His manner of approach was friendly but dignifiedly businesslike.
He needed secretarial help, and it had occurred to him that Joan,
if footloose and attracted by such employment, would admirably
adapt herself to that position.

He didn't mind admitting--this sheet had to be torn up, several
times, before it carried just the right degree of restraint--that
it would give him more personal pleasure to be working with Joan
than with anyone else of his entire acquaintance.  (Joan mustn't be
frightened off by hints that he hoped their association might be a
bit closer than the business relationship contemplated.) . . .  And
he was looking forward with keen anticipation to her arrival; and
when might he expect her--for the Pepys matter would not stand much
putting off--and might he hand her the enclosed draft to cover
travelling expenses?

Eight days elapsed before there was a reply.  Dinny's face fell
when the money he had sent her dropped out of the letter.

She had not expected, she said, that Dinny would personally
engineer a job for her on his own staff.  She had written that she
needed work, hoping that if Dinny happened to know of anything he
would tell her.  Her reply to the advertisement in The Times
"really couldn't be resisted."  It had so pointedly signalled her
out as its object.


You have kindly inquired what I have been doing.  Shortly after
Father left us--we were quite out of funds, mother and I--it seemed
best for me to apply for work.  That was not so easy, for I had not
been trained for any specific kind of employment.

Barney Vaughn's father--he was very kind to mother and me through
all that dreadful time--


Dinny scowled, wondering apprehensively what might be the nature of
the obligation Barney's father felt he owed to Joan.


--knew a man of influential position with Minch & Grimsby's in New
York.  I got my position that way; started as a saleswoman; was
soon advanced to the Personnel Department.  I liked that very much.

How I came to leave there is too long a story, but you will know it
wasn't because I stole anything or slighted the work in which I was
greatly interested.  Is it sufficient to say that I walked out,
late one afternoon, nose in air, on receipt of a significant hint
that I might have a much larger income by assuming other tasks than
I had bargained for?  (Now please don't go plunging into Minch &
Grimsby's waving a hard fist and offering to kill somebody.)

Mother was far from well.  She had gone to live with Aunt Patty and
Uncle Jim at Pine Hill, Wisconsin.  Uncle Jim Bailey has a
furniture store and is the town undertaker.  He had wanted me to
help him in the store.

So I came to Pine Hill.  Mother continued to decline.  She was
never well after father's death.  Three months ago, she passed
away.

Since then, my life here has seemed almost unendurable.  There is
nothing to do that interests me.  Uncle Jim and Aunt Patty are very
kind and want me to stay, but know that I am restless and consent
to my going to New York.


"By Gad!" shouted Dinny.  "She's coming!  She's coming!"


I am returning the money.  It was good of you to offer it.  I have
saved enough to pay my expenses.  If you really think I can be of
use to you as a member of your organization--


"My organization," chuckled Dinny, a bit worried.  "Wait till she
sees it!  What could I have said to make her think that?"


--I'll do my level best.  If it doesn't work out, maybe you can
help me find something else.

I expect to leave here about the middle of next week.  I shall call
you up about ten o'clock Friday morning, and get my orders.

                                                 Gratefully,

                                                          JOAN.

                        *  *  *  *  *

She did not expect to be met at the train, but he would surprise
her.  Deducing from the time-tables, Dinny hypothetically routed
Joan to arrive at six-thirty on Thursday evening.  Short of funds,
she would not patronize an extra-fare train.  Neither would she
linger in Chicago.  Six-thirty was the time.

Thursday was the longest day he had ever spent.  In the forenoon he
went up to The Roosevelt and reserved a room "for a lady who is to
be my guest for a couple of days, at least," the clerk, recognizing
Dinny's name, promising every attention and giving definite
assurance that the bill would not be presented to Miss Braithwaite.
Yes--and he would personally see to it that the flowers would be in
her room when she arrived.

A few moments after six o'clock, Dinny was wandering about the huge
concourse of the Grand Central, nervous as a cat.  He tried to kill
time by inspecting the various wares at the news-stand; bought an
expensive box of chocolates and the latest L'Illustration.  At the
quarter-hour, he strolled toward the gate.  As the minutes slimmed
down to four, three, two, Dinny found his heart beating rapidly.
The suspense was eating him up.

The straggling group of welcomers began lining up along the ropes.
The gate was open now.  The train was in.  The vanguard of the day-
coachers plodded up the incline, bumping their legs with their fat,
frumpy luggage.

Here came Joan! . . .  She was carrying her own bags.  She looked
weary.  Now they had found each other's eyes, and her half-
reproachful, half-pouting little smile seemed to be saying, "You
really shouldn't have gone to the trouble.  I didn't expect it."

Dinny reached for her baggage and passed it along to a redcap.
Joan put both her hands in his, as his welcoming gesture invited,
and lifted her brown eyes inquiringly.

"How did you know?"

"Oh--I meet all the trains," said Dinny.  "Sometimes people come to
New York alone--and appreciate a little friendly greeting."

"Taxi, sah?" inquired the red-cap.

"No," snapped Dinny--"The Roosevelt."

"Yassah . . .  At the desk, sah."

"But--Dinny!" protested Joan, as she watched her bags bobbing away
through the crowd, "I can't afford to go to The Roosevelt--even for
tonight."

"We're going there for dinner."  Dinny took her arm, and signified
by his manner that there was to be no debate about this.

"Oh, but I've had my--really, Dinny, I'm so mussed and the train
was so dirty.  All I want is to go some-place where I can clean
up."  Joan halted, obdurately.

So--she had made this long journey in day-coaches, and was worn to
a frazzle!

"Where had you thought of going?" demanded Dinny.

"Out to the place on Eighty-Sixth--where I lived before."

"You come with me, and do as I say. . . .  You're my employee, now,
and this is an order."  Dinny tried to be very stern.

"I don't begin work until tomorrow."

"Nevertheless . . . Let's have no nonsense.  You're tired."

Rather confused and reluctant, Joan demurely consented to be
propelled through the throng in the brightly lighted station.
Dinny paused at the desk, spoke to the room-clerk, and, turning to
Joan, said, in a tone that expected her prompt compliance:

"Follow the boy . . .  Give yourself plenty of time . . .  If
there's anything you want, ask for it . . .  I've an errand.  I'll
meet you here in the lobby at eight."

Joan shook her head.

"I don't want to, Dinny."  Her eyes were troubled.

"It would be quite embarrassing--if you didn't."

She stood for a moment, debating, and then said, her voice lowered
almost to a whisper--"I can't pay for it . . . I'm sorry."

Dinny looked her soberly in the eyes.

"Please do as I tell you!" he said, biting his words into a crisp
command.

She drew a tired little smile, and followed the boy.

"Strike ONE!" said Dinny, triumphantly, to himself, as he watched
her enter the elevator . . . "The darling!"

                        *  *  *  *  *

Joan's hour and a half had done wonders for her.  When she came
down, Dinny, who had been pacing about, restlessly, watching the
clock and counting the minutes, quickly joined her, wondering if
other people were not thinking him a lucky dog.  She was simply
dressed in black cr�pe, but carried herself with all the poise and
confidence of a queen in ermine.

Dinny's admiration shone in his face.  He was recklessly ecstatic.

"Haven't you grown some more, Dinny?" she asked, taking up her
napkin.

"I hope not. . . .  I wasn't exactly frail before, if you
recall. . . .  Remember the trip we took through the ravine, the
time Ernie sent us for a key?"

Joan smiled, nodded, flushed a little.

"I'm afraid I wasn't a very pleasant companion," she said,
regretfully.

"You had good reason, Joan . . .  I had been behaving very badly.
You'll find I've changed . . .  Vastly improved--"

Dinny broke off to order their dinner, consulting her wishes, but
making it evident that her negatives were not taken seriously when
she demurred against unnecessary items.

"What's the nature of this vast improvement, Dinny?" queried Joan,
when the waiter had retired.  "I've been reading your articles."

"Have you?"  Dinny's eyes sparkled, appreciatively.  "Then that
means you like them!"

Joan pursed a doubtful smile.

"Not necessarily . . .  One doesn't always have to like what one
reads . . .  But--I'm an optimist, you know.  I keep on hoping
you'll write something I'll like, sometime."

"For instance?"--Dinny was too happy to be dashed by her criticism--
"If you'll tell me what sort of thing you'd enjoy, I'll make a
special effort, dear."

There was a considerable delay before Joan replied, and when she
lifted her eyes they did not immediately meet his own.

"Dinny"--she said, as if announcing a resolution that had required
some debate, and might not be warmly received--"let's start
right . . . I've come here to work for you . . . Please dont make
it awkward for me.  Or--I'll not be able to do it, you know."

"But you ARE my dear, Joan! . . .  You needn't try to reciprocate,
the least bit.  I'm not expecting it.  I'll not worry you with it.
You're to think of me as your employer, and you can be assured of
the sort of treatment that would be desirable by an employee . . .
But--you will be my dear Joan . . . just the same!"

"Thank you, Dinny," she replied, respectfully grateful.  "Now let's
talk about something else . . .  Where is your office?  Do I come
at nine?  Are there other--help?  How much of my work will be done
in the library?  I hardly know what you want me to do, you know."

Neither did Dinny know.  He suggested that they eat their dinner
untroubled by dull care: plenty of time for that.  Her hours would
be of her own choosing.  There was no office.  There were no other
secretaries.  Joan was to make the researches for him, and report
"from time to time."

"Once in the morning--and once in the afternoon, maybe?" guessed
Joan, vaguely.

"Something like that--or once a week, anyhow," agreed Dinny,
indecisively--"unless, of course, you were working on an assignment
like this Pepys affair, which will probably take you a month, at
the least."

"Then I won't see you for a month--after you've told me exactly
what you want?"

Dinny made a quick gesture of protest.

"See me!  Of course!  Every day!  We'll be having dinner together,
and there are at least a dozen good shows you'll have to see
without delay. . . .  You didn't think I would let you perish of
loneliness, did you? . . .  Shall we dance?"

Joan was thoughtful for an instant; bit her pretty lip, and
reflected, seriously.  Then, apparently coming to an impulsive
decision, she nodded brightly, rose, and offered herself to his
arms.  Dinny held her very close, and whispered:  "You precious
darling!"

She brushed his cheek lightly with her hair, and murmured,
entreatingly, rather breathlessly:

"Oh, Dinny--please--let's don't--I mustn't."

But her fingers tightened on his shoulder, and Dinny's happiness
was almost more than he could bear.

"You ARE my darling . . . aren't you, Joan?"

She did not reply, but glanced up into Dinny's eyes, searching them
soberly--and smiled.

                        *  *  *  *  *

Dinny was aroused at eight from sleep, profound because belated,
and felt a great wave of happiness breaking over him.

The messenger at his door handed in a letter bearing the device of
the Roosevelt Hotel.


Dear Dinny:

I've been thinking things over.  I don't see how I can work for
you.  Maybe you will help me find something else to do.  Please
don't try to dissuade me.  I'll meet you in the hotel lobby at one,
as we agreed.  Would you like to take me to the Metropolitan Art
Museum after luncheon?  I'd love it.  Thanks for everything.

                                                         JOAN.


So--that was that.  Joan insisted on having something else to do.
Perhaps she was right.  He would consult Tommy.  He would tell
Tommy all about it--everything!  No--Joan wouldn't like that.  He
would approach Tommy as if the applicant for work were a casual
acquaintance.

At ten, he had Tommy on the telephone.  Would Tommy do him a
favour?  Very capable young woman, daughter of the late president
of his little college in Ohio, was in town seeking employment.  Yes--
she had had good experience at Minch & Grimsby's.  Did Tommy know
of an opening anywhere?

"Might possibly place her here with us, if she's all you say,"
replied Tommy, obligingly.  "Tell her to come in at once.  I'll
talk to her."

Splendid!  Dinny called Joan, who was in--and delighted.  She would
go over to Lacey's at once.  Mr. Forsythe?  Thanks! . . .  Dinny
should hear all about the interview when they met.  Yes--at once.
She'd be waiting.  Thanks again, Dinny!

"Such a busy morning!" exclaimed Joan, breathlessly, when he joined
her.  "I'm moving back to my old place on Eighty-Sixth, where I
lived before.  My trunk has gone out there already."

"How did you make out with Tommy Forsythe?" queried Dinny.

"Beautifully!"  Joan was radiant.  "He was so friendly.  I'm to be
in his department for a month, beginning Monday; and then, after
I've learned my way about, as he put it, I'm to be given a chance
in the Personnel . . .  I'm so happy . . .  What all did you tell
him, Dinny?"

He gave her a proud smile.

"Just that you were an acquaintance, daughter of my college
president, fine girl.  I didn't add that you were an adorable,
lovely--"

"Tut, tut!" cautioned Joan, softly.

"The taxi-driver won't tell--and, as for Tommy, he'll discover it.
Tommy's one of the best there is, Joan.  I hope you'll like him."

She was sure she would.  Tommy had treated her as an old friend.
She was going to like it at Lacey's.

"And so"--regretted Dinny, dolefully--"you're not to be my fair
employee, after all.  I'd quite counted on it, you know."

"Perhaps I can help you, anyway.  I wouldn't mind digging out
the story of what Sam Pepys did on Sundays.  I might do it,
evenings . . .  Any more work on the novel, today?"

"Very little . . .  No composition; just a few more rough notes,
and a short cross-section of conversation between Cecil and
Margery, who've got themselves in no end of a scrape."

"You mean YOU'VE got them into a scrape," accused Joan.  "You
created them; didn't you?"

"It's a fairly accurate picture of real life, I think," said Dinny,
defensively.  "Such things happen every day."

They had arrived at a little French restaurant on Forty-Fifth, a
favourite of his, and were investigating--Joan with curiosity--
their variegated assortment of hors d'oeuvres.  She had insisted on
knowing something more about the new story which Dinny had begun to
tell her last night.  Throughout the luncheon he talked and she
listened attentively, without more comment than little murmurs of
encouragement and interest.

When, however, he had brought the narrative up to date with the
stark outline of an episode considerably to the discredit of his
principal characters, Joan frowned--a little flushed.

"It had never occurred to me before," remarked Joan, when their
taxi had reached Fifth Avenue and had turned north en route to The
Metropolitan, "what a heavy responsibility rests on the shoulders
of a story-writer."

"In what way, dear? . . .  Let's have your theory."

She hesitated, groping for adequate phrases.

"Perhaps I can't express it, but it's something like this: when a
man builds a bridge, or a tower, or paints a picture, or composes a
song, he really isn't a creator in the sense that a novelist is a
creator. . . .  You--for example--created Cecil and Margery, just
as Jehovah created Adam and Eve--"

Dinny laughed, teasingly.

"That Garden of Eden affair points no moral, Joan.  That was just a
story--about Adam and Eve."

She nodded, victoriously.

"Exactly!--and so is this just a story--about Cecil and Margery.
Who's ever going to estimate the wholesale damage done to human
personality, through the ages, by that Eden tale? . . . .  No--I
don't believe it, and I know you don't, but millions have believed
it, and do believe, at this moment!  Think of the centuries of
unfair, unjust, belittling appraisals of God--all derived from some
ancient shepherd-minstrel's fantastic story, told at an evening
camp-fire on some desert oasis!"

"Bravo--Joan!  Proceed!  God!--that's good!"

"One of the best things you've done, Dinny, is to sneer and scowl
at that old story, and its monstrous implications.  Many times, in
your ridicule of orthodoxy, you've pointed the finger of scorn at a
crafty Jehovah who would bring an innocent pair of inquisitive
people into the world, and immediately direct their attention to
some experiment brimming with tragedy. . . .  But aren't you doing
the same thing to Cecil and Margery?"

"How absurd!" laughed Dinny.

"It's too serious to be absurd," persisted Joan, soberly.  "Your
new book will be on the stands in a few months.  It will have a
great sale among all the restless, scornful, idol-smashers in the
land.  They follow you as if you were a new messiah.  You've never
done a novel for them, and they'll grab at this one while it's
still damp from the binders."

"Laus Deo!" exclaimed Dinny, fervently.  "I hope you're right!"

"It's a very pretty picture you draw of Margery, innocently
yearning for an expanded life.  Little Glenville, Missouri, offers
security, three meals a day, and a minimum of struggle; but Margery
isn't quite satisfied with her easy Eden.  She wants a larger life.
Well--why in Heaven's Name, don't you give it to her?"

The taxi drew up at the kerb.  They sauntered up the steps,
momentarily diverted from their serious theme, traversed the
spacious foyer, and continued through to the huge chamber of
replicas and models of classic buildings.

"Let's sit here for a moment, Dinny . . .  I think I want to finish
what I was saying . . .  It's quite important--to me, at least."

She laid her hand lightly on his arm, and swept his face with an
entreating query.

"This Cecil--he was so discontented, too, in Sparrow, Minnesota;
wanted to go places and do things.  Why didn't you let him?"

"Didn't I?" protested Dinny.

"What makes it all seem so pitifully tragic," Joan went on,
unheeding, "is just the fact that a hundred thousand young Cecils
and Margerys, fretting and steaming in their little Glenvilles and
Sparrows, are sure to identify themselves with this pair of
revolutionists.  Can't you think of some better destination for
these people of yours, who are sure to be trailed by a nondescript
army of admirers, than this degrading wallow you've planned for
them?"

"Oh--it isn't quite that bad, Joan . . .  Come now!"

"Dinny--you've a great chance!  There isn't a priest or a preacher
or a poet or a professor in the whole world who has the opportunity
that you have. . . .  You haven't gone in for sentiment.  You
haven't had any use for religion.  You've been a fire-eating
iconoclast.  Every cynical young fellow, bent on freedom from the
old frustrations, is hanging on your words.  There isn't one single
idealist, in the whole crew of modern apostles, able to command the
attention of these discontented people--people like you and me. . . .
Why don't you capitalize this peculiar grip you've got on the
imagination of your--your Cave of Adullam, and show them the way
out! . . .  WHAT A CHANCE!"

"Nonsense, Joan!" scoffed Dinny, superiorly.  "What sort of a
figure d'you think I'd cut?  I'm not writing Rollo books.  There'd
be a laugh go up that you could hear to the poles! . . .  Besides--
I'd rather draw honest pictures of life as it is, no matter how
ugly, than to paint frescoes and friezes of the heavenly host.
I'll leave that job to the parsons."

Joan smiled a little, her expression reminding him of the gentle
dejection she had shown, one eventful night, in her parlour at
Magnolia.  She snapped the latch of her bag, absently, a few times,
and rose.

"Let's forget it--then," she said, strolling over to the model of
the Acropolis.

Dinny joined her, silently, and not a little troubled.

                        *  *  *  *  *

He had not seen Joan for five days.  She had begged off from
engagements on the ground of fatigue.  Her hours were long, her new
work was exacting because unfamiliar, a great deal depended upon
the record she might make for herself at Lacey's, especially
through these probationary days.  The excuse was valid, and Dinny
had tried to be patient.

Tonight they had dined at Dexter's and were now en route to a
musical show at The Strand.

"Been seeing much of old Tommy?"

"Of course--every day. . . .  We lunched together, yesterday."

"I didn't know that was customary," commented Dinny, with a
surprised little chuckle.  "You might as well have worked for ME."
He tried to make this sound like a pleasantry.

"Don't be silly.  Tommy thinks I've the makings of a buyer, and
wanted to tell me a lot of things there's no time for, when we're
working.  It was very interesting."

Dinny pretended interest in the traffic-jam, ahead.

"That's quite reasonable.  Tommy can do a great deal for you, if he
wants to--and evidently he does.  You've got on well with him. . . .
Calling him 'Tommy' now, eh?"

"He's just a big boy."  Joan's tone was maternal.  "It's awfully
easy to call him 'Tommy,' don't you think?  It was you got me into
it. . . .  Rather I'd not?"

"Why should I care?"  Dinny's magnanimity was almost militant.  "I
just asked out of curiosity.  I had hoped you two would like each
other. . . .  Well--here we are, dear."

The show was good; tuneful, colourful.  Joan seemed to enjoy every
minute of it.  Gad--how vital she was!  Dinny tried to share her
enthusiasm, but had to confess to himself that the piece was dull
and tedious.  Annoying little dissonances rasping from deep inside
him, shrilled the ensemble until the clamorous yelp of it tore at
his nerves.  He was glad when it was done, and inhaled the first
tonic draught of the outer air with reinvigorated spirits.

Joan was graciously remote, almost too interested in her
distractions to be giving much thought to the new phase of their
comradeship.  Whether she was still sensing the slight constraint
which had slowed them up, on that afternoon at The Metropolitan, or
had some other reason for mentally fending him off, Dinny could not
make sure.  They were on the way to her quarters, now--she had
insisted, because of her work--and within another five minutes
Dinny would be headed for home tormented by forebodings.

"Can't we take a little spin in the park before we put in?"
suggested Dinny.  "It isn't late."

"If you like."

He spoke to the driver, who nodded, and slackened the speed.

"Life has become very important, darling, since you came."  Dinny's
voice was tender.  He reached for her hand.

"I'm glad I came, too, Dinny," she responded, promptly.  "I never
was so happy before . . . almost as happy as I'd like to be."

"I wonder if I'm supposed to know what that means--about your--your
wish to be happier. . . .  Is it--anything I can do?"

Joan did not immediately reply.

"I--don't--know, dear," she said, at length, doubtfully.  "I rather
hoped you could, but--maybe not."

He drew her to him.

"Joan, dear--we do belong to each other, you know."

"Sometimes--I've thought that, too, Dinny."  There was a weary
little sigh.  "But--you see--I have to live.  I need air, light,
sunshine!  You don't seem to require it.  Sometimes we really do
belong--just for a moment . . . and then . . . well--we don't
belong any more than--than rocks and petunias belong!"

"But, darling, we needn't try to be alike!  That's the real beauty
of a comradeship like ours.  Neither has to sacrifice personality,
opinions, or individuality of outlook."

"No--we needn't try to be alike," repeated Joan, thoughtfully, "but
it would be preferable if we belonged to the same kingdom of
nature.  I'm for the world!  I like it!  It warms me, and I respond
to it. . . .  You're at war with it, Dinny."

"Oh, Joan, dear--can't you forget this silly little difference in
our viewpoint. . . .  I love you, darling."

"I know," murmured Joan, laying her cheek lightly against his
shoulder.

"And you?" he whispered.  "You do care--don't you, Joan?"

"Yes--Dinny--I care. . . .  I care so much that I simply couldn't
bear to live that close to perfect happiness--and--and be robbed of
it."

"I'll try--very hard--Joan," promised Dinny, sincerely.

"Do--please--Dinny!"

Joan's cheeks were wet with tears when he kissed her.  He was
stirred to an almost painful ecstasy by her response to that kiss.

For a long moment she clung to his lips; then, nestling her face
against his arm, with a tremulous little sigh, she said, with
passionate insistence:

"Don't fail me, Dinny. . . .  You know--now--how much I love you."



CHAPTER XIV


Joan, who had been crying, was mechanically collecting the remains
of their picnic; the mockingly gay paper plates, the paper cups,
the half-emptied little bottles of olives, artichoke hearts,
anchovies, the sandwiches, the devilled eggs, the chicken, the
ingenious French pastries.

"Don't bother, Dinny," she said, pensively, as he ventured to
assist.

He put down the salad plate and made quite a task of lighting his
pipe, uncomfortably wondering if Joan felt herself not only an
object of compassion but of chagrin, too, as she sat, tousled and
swollen-eyed, gathering up the pitifully absurd litter of the feast
she had spread, an hour earlier, with such a bright, confident air,
archly mystifying him with the delicacies she conjured from her
wicker basket.

It was rather debasing to Joan, wasn't it, to sit here and owlishly
watch her attend to these little drudgeries?  Perhaps it was even
more humiliating to her if he tried, awkwardly, to share them.

"Go take a stroll and smoke your pipe," she suggested, divining his
perplexity.  "I'm not very nice to look at, anyway."  She smiled,
with a sort of childish contrition.  "I'm sure my nose is red. . . .
Awfully sorry, Dinny."

"It was a crime for us to quarrel on a day like this," growled
Dinny.  "All my fault, Joan."

She shook her head, preoccupiedly.

"I'll divide the honours with you. . . .  Run along, dear.  I'd so
much rather you did . . .  And we won't talk about it again--
ever! . . .  Anyone would think we might have learned better--by
now."

"My God--yes!  We're a couple o' fools!"  Dinny unfolded his long
legs and scrambled to his feet.  "I'll be back presently, then.
You've the book. . . .  Think I'll saunter down and see the chap's
sailboat."

They had left shortly before eight, that June morning, bound for
the country in Dinny's new sport roadster which he had bought with
just such excursions in view.  They had had the streets to
themselves.  Dinny had called the tubby old Hoboken ferry their
private yacht.

Shady, lawn-clipped Montclair was still asleep when they rolled
softly through.  Except for an ambling group of little girls with
long curls and short skirts, three of them walking backwards,
obviously bound for Sunday School, and a slim, sedate lady of forty-
plus, carrying a black parasol loftily over a high-perched black
hat, who was being overtaken and passed by a square, craggy,
determined man with a Bible, the residence streets were deserted.

Joan had furnished most of the talk, gaily offering an unpunctuated
flow of light persiflage, undaunted by Dinny's silent and studious
attention to the road, for he was still far from a competent
driver.  It was clear, though, that he had something on his mind
besides his responsibility at the wheel.

Greenwood Lake, their objective, was all that Joan had hoped it
might be when, last night, they had touched heads over the road-map
in her little parlour.

The shiny blue car was parked in the grove, at eleven.

Suddenly shaking loose from his dourly reflective mood, Dinny made
up for his taciturnity on the road by exhibiting a noisy hilarity
as he unloaded their festival cargo and spread the new motor-rug on
the grass, fifty yards from the lake-shore.  But his impetuous
jollity bubbled by artifice, thought Joan.  It was not quite
spontaneous . . .  Perhaps he would tell her.

They were nearly finished with their luncheon when, Joan having
come to a full stop in her narrative of recent events at Lacey's,
Dinny, who had been fixedly staring at her face without hearing a
word she said, suddenly blurted out:

"I've some news for you."

Joan nodded, understandingly.

"I knew you had," she said, playfully, but a little anxious.

"I'm not sure you will approve," he warned, "but I've accepted the
editorship of Hallelujah . . .  Begin in September."

She recoiled as if he had struck her.

"Oh, Dinny--how could you--after what you'd promised?  There isn't
a magazine in the whole lot of them that's been so mean--and
cynical--and fault-finding . . .  It has hurt me when you even
contributed to it.  Now you're to operate it! . . .  I'm sorry you
told me."

Dinny did not meet her eyes, but gazed glassily at the lake,
scowling.

"Don't my feelings count, at all, dear?" persisted Joan, tenderly
reproachful.

He recalled himself, then, as from a distance, and regarded her
critically.

"I've never undertaken to discipline your thoughts, Joan," said
Dinny, crisply, "and--I hope this isn't going to sound too surly--I
dispute your right to regulate mine."

"In other words--it isn't any of my business."

Dinny leaned back on one elbow, toying with the fringes of the rug.

"I wouldn't have thought of using that phrase, Joan, but--is
it? . . .  You see"--Dinny's brows contracted as he felt for his
words--"it's very difficult to refashion another's mind, even if
both the--the redeemer and the sinner are--"

"I don't think that's very kind, Dinny . . .  And I dislike being
talked to that way," interrupted Joan, her lips trembling.

"Well--putting the mere choice of words aside--you've honestly and
lovingly wanted to make me over into something other than I am. . . .
And I have honestly and lovingly tried to accommodate you.  But
it's no good.  It won't work.  I can't do it.  If our difference of
taste were--Look here: if I hated golf, and you liked it, I would
go with you and play it--just because it brought you pleasure.  I'd
learn to like it for that reason.  But this is a different matter,
dear.  This is a problem of work and wages, bread and butter.  I'm
a journalist.  That's my profession.  I'm not omniscient, and I
can't write about just anything and everything.  My line is
criticism.  And when you ask me to leave off criticism, and go in
for hymn-writing and sappy little twitters set to the score of
'Buttercups and Daisies,' you've asked too much!"

Joan, with mounting indignation, made an impatient little cry, but
Dinny raised a hand, briefly, and went on doggedly:

"There's a whole battalion of sugary smilers, rocking and knitting
and purring on the front porches of 'Houses Built By the Side of
the Road.'  I doubt if there's room in the journalism of loving-
kindness for one more dulcet coo; and, if there were, I'm mighty
sure I haven't the voice for it.  I know you've set your heart on
my doing it; and, because I wanted to please you, I've made some
sincere experiments in that direction; bought a little volume of
verse entitled 'Just Folks,' and tried to set my big feet in those
dainty tracks, but it was hopeless, darling.  I put on my starchy
white pinafore, tied my little pink sunbonnet under my chin, and
went skipping merrily down the road with a nice basket of pansies
for rheumatic old Granny MacDoodle, but before I had gone very far
I found myself grinning again.  I can't help grinning, Joan.
You'll either have to get used to that grin--or--"

"Or--WHAT?" queried Joan, soberly.

Dinny was tardy with his reply.

"I'm afraid the alternative is--up to you."

"May I talk now?"

"Please do.  It's your turn."

"Well--I never asked you to scribble soft sentimentalities.  I hate
them, too.  There's been too much of it.  But there's a pretty wide
gap between 'Pollyanna' and Hallelujah.  It's easy enough to
understand why people crowd about the news-stands to buy Hallelujah.
They've been fed up to the throat on the other thing. . . .  But
Hallelujah isn't the right answer to their demand for something more
sturdy and sensible than mawkish slush.

"There are a few things that deserve better than to be ridiculed.
I looked through the last issue of Hallelujah--because you asked me
to.  One article was a reprint of a little booklet some man had
written for private circulation among his friends and neighbours.
It was dedicated to the Kiwanis Club.  He was its president in
Littlegrass, or somewhere, Oklahoma.  He and his wife had just
returned from a six-weeks' trip to Europe, and he wanted to tell
his friends what they had seen.  It was badly written, and full of
childish comments; but the man hadn't prepared it for the smart
young spoofers who read Hallelujah.  It was intended for simple-
hearted, inexperienced people who own the houses they live in, and
pay their bills, and go to church on Sunday, and have only one
wife. . . .  And Hallelujah--that's always ranting about the bad
manners of yokels who eat with their knives, and don't know whether
Chekhov won the last Irish sweepstakes or swam the Channel or
designed the dome for Saint Peter's--printed that friendly little
booklet--mistakes and all--to fetch a chuckle from the really
cultured people, the smart people who've been about, and know which
spoon comes first--and who wrote 'Ulysses.' . . .  I don't believe
I could bear it to see your name at the top of the staff in a
magazine so--so--"

"Yes?"

"--so self-consciously clever!  So pompously superior!  So
insolently vulgar! . . .  If that's the kind of company you find
yourself at home with, Dinny Brumm, I'm sure you'd never be very
happy with me! . . .  You've said you aren't 'omniscient,' and
mustn't be expected to write about everything.  That's just where
we disagree.  You DO think you're omniscient!  Hallelujah is
omniscient!  There isn't anything that Hallelujah doesn't know, far
better than anyone else.  It cackles at theology for being
dogmatic, and calls all the preachers idiots and all the creeds
rubbish--and after it's through ridiculing them, the all-wise
Hallelujah proceeds to be just as dogmatic and arbitrary as the
people it reviles. . . .  It's always poking fun at Jehovah. . . .
You'd think, from the way it hands down sublime oracles about Art,
the Drama, Music, Literature, that it expected the whole world to
reserve its opinion about any art-form until Hallelujah had
spoken. . . .  After that, the wise would know just what it would
be safe for them to think. . . .  And now you're going to be the
Solomon who supervises the schooling of the sophisticates. . . .
No--Dinny!--I don't believe I could live comfortably quite that
close to the summit of Olympus.  I'm afraid the bright light would
hurt my eyes.  I'd always be at a terrible disadvantage!"

"Very well, then," rasped Dinny, "that's that--and now we know
where we stand. . . .  It would be tragic for us to go on with it."

"I'm glad you see it, at last," agreed Joan, in the same tone.

Dinny's lip curled, unpleasantly.

"By the way," he drawled, dryly, "speaking of sarcasm and ridicule,
you're fairly good at it yourself.  I may be bitter enough, but I'd
never talk that way to anyone I loved. . . .  And I don't believe
you could, either."

Joan hung her head, and put both hands over her eyes, and wept like
a little child.

"Oh, Dinny, forgive me," she pleaded, brokenly.  "I didn't mean to
hurt you."

For an instant, he was moved to join her with assurances, but still
smarting under the sharp raps, he delayed; and the longer he
delayed the harder it was to conciliate.

Joan's little storm of emotion cleared.  She wiped her eyes, and
tried to smile.  Dinny stole a quick glance, and solemnly looked
away, heavy-eyed.  With a long sigh, broken by little sobs, she
began to gather up the fragments, Dinny watching her automatic
movements dully.  She was a typical picture, he thought, of Woman--
instinctively carrying on with the tasks Nature had assigned to
her, regardless of what tragedy might rake her heart. . . .  No man
would have done it.  A man would stalk away--and let the damned
dishes go to hell!

He pitied her, and his pity was tinctured with a trace of vicarious
mortification.  He could have wept, himself.  He picked up the
smeary little paper plate on which his salad had been served him,
and was in the act of passing it across to her.

"Don't bother, Dinny," she said, pensively.

He walked down to the shore where a tanned youth was untangling
some new white ropes in his little sailboat, and was surprised at
the steadiness and nonchalance of his own voice as he chatted,
amiably, with the young stranger.  Here he was--only three minutes
and one hundred and fifty feet away from a disaster that had pulled
his very house down about his ears--calmly puffing his pipe and
inquiring whether the yacht's ropes were the same thing as sash-
cord.

Did that mean, he asked himself, that his love for Joan was of less
consequence to his happiness than he had thought?  Or was his quick
recovery due to the fact that he was taking the instinctive course
of Man?  Woman, anchored to dishes and brooms and beds and babies,
always had had time to think--to grieve, to regret, to mope and
grow morbid.  Man, whacked over the head with a battle-axe, had had
no chance to sit down and nurse his hurts.  He must instantly be on
the alert for another wallop from some other direction. . . .  He
and Joan were faithful to their respective atavistic responses to
their mutual disaster.  She was sitting there on the grass, crying
softly, and telling herself her world had gone to smash.  He was
smoking his pipe, and talking to a stranger about different weights
and weaves of rope. . . .  But that didn't mean his little Paradise
hadn't been hurled to Purgatory--same as Joan's. . . .  Odd--
reflected Dinny. . . .  Elemental forces!--he had never felt their
grip, or appraised their long reach, quite so discriminatingly
before.

She joined him, after a little; sauntering down to the shore with
all the evidences of her grief discarded.  While he had been
philosophizing over the easy resilience of the male--the quick,
decisive rebound of the male who, no matter how straight the gate,
how charged with punishment the scroll, would remain the master of
his fate, the captain of his soul--the moody, brooding female had
deftly repacked the hamper, stowed it in the car, combed her hair,
adjusted her swanky little hat at a jaunty angle, powdered her
nose, reshaped her lips, donned a smile, and had now slipped a hand
through his arm as much as to say to the boy in the boat, "I've
tamed this Animal to drive single or double; rack, pace, trot,
run--or what gait would you like to see him do? . . .  I've been
training him for fifty thousand years. . . .  He doesn't know it,
of course.  The silly ass thinks he's the warden of the asylum
instead of a patient."

Dinny wasn't sure he liked to have his theories tossed about in
this reckless fashion.

"I've been thinking," he said, after they had driven a mile without
much talk.  "I've had my nose to the grindstone for a good while--
in my work, you know--and I believe a change of air would be good
for me.  I'm going abroad for a few weeks."

"Splendid!" enthused Joan.  "I wish I could."

He laid a hand gently on her arm.

"Very well--I'll take you."

"No, Dinny--we've settled that!"  Her voice was casual now.

"I'd be glad to, you know."

"I believe you would--but it's quite impossible."

The long silence that followed gave her words a chance to chisel
their way quite deeply into her memory.  She recalled them, with a
start, one September evening, when, in response to a similar
invitation as sincerely offered, she used them again, verbatim.

A swarthy gypsy girl, one afternoon, last summer, had padded softly
back to the little office in Uncle Jim Bailey's dimly lighted,
varnish-reeking furniture store, and, pausing before Joan's high
desk, had said:

"Your fortune--for four bits?"

Joan had declined.

"Please--I'm hongry."

The girl had slipped the half-dollar into a dirty, beaded purse
attached to her belt, and reached for her client's hand.

"Make it short," advised Joan.  "I'm busy."

The girl had stooped over the extended palm, scrutinizing it
intently, Joan, with equal interest, marvelling at the black,
straight, coarse hair on the bowed head, seeming to belong to a
well-groomed horse rather than a young woman.

"You are going on a far jorney . . . on a beeg boat . . . with a
tall man."

"Is that all?" asked Joan, as the girl moved off, with the slinky
gait of something born in the woods.

She paused, spread one brown hand high on her hip, tossed her head
arrogantly, and retorted, her white teeth gleaming in the twisted,
half-envious smile:

"Ees that not enough?"

                        *  *  *  *  *

According to Dinny's weekly letters, the cynical amusement he had
expressed in his first laconic, staccato, dash-sprinkled note,
scribbled on his return from viewing the changing of the guard at
Buckingham Palace, was giving way to an unexpected admiration for
monarchy.

Joan needed never to have been in England to guess what might be
Dinny's instant reaction to the ancient shrines and tombs of the
departed great.  He had a flair for making history vital, and was
extraordinarily well posted on the lives of British sovereigns.

As for the bronze and marble memorabilia of departed kings and
queens, Dinny's interest was assured, and Joan confidently expected
him to relay observations faithfully, interestingly reflecting the
half-dreamy mood in which he would saunter through the gloom of the
cathedrals.

She was quite unprepared, however, for his comments on contemporary
pageantry.

"It will have to go, of course," ruminated Dinny, in mid-July,
writing from the Victoria Hotel in London.  "The general drift is
toward republics, and the last of the kings have already been born.
There will be no revolution, no choppings-off, no slow tanning of
royal heads on iron-spiked towers.  The British manage to express
themselves with but few gestures.  They are not a yelping, mobbish,
excitable race.  When the time comes, the king will be retired on
half-pay and allowed to keep his horses, dogs, and grouse-gun.

"But it will be a great pity when 'the captains and the kings
depart'; especially the kings, though I presume you couldn't very
well have kings without captains.  They'll leave the stage
together.

"I'm afraid I've become quite a tory, Joan.  I have had time and
opportunity for a lot of thinking about this.  Humanity hasn't
evolved out of the king phase.  It's a wise, practical government.
Republics sound promising enough in their constitutions,
highfalutin slogans, apostrophes to 'liberty,' senatorial oratory,
and patriotic verse, but it's no good in practice.

"I'm for the king!  I'm for the divinely ordained king who can do
no wrong, no matter what capers he cuts.  America would be vastly
better off topped by a real, honest-to-goodness king, with twenty
million dollars' worth of diamonds in his hat, bells on his fingers
and rings on his toes, than a harried, worried, temporary president
whom any sleek-haired little squirt, paragraphing and cartooning
for some impudent, wisecracking editor, can smear with his
smartaleckisms."

"Why--Dinny!" exclaimed Joan, happily, to his photograph on her
table.  "Whatever's happened to you?"

"The whole king business is on the skids, no doubt; but it's a
great misfortune.  So's the Established Church close to the end of
the last inning.  Nobody on bases, two men cut, and two strikes
already called on a feeble bat. . . .  But it's a pity.  The
thing's had a sort of majestic dignity.  It's never been in a
suppliant attitude, penhandling the brethren and sisters for
sixpences to pay the parson's coal-bill.  It has been guaranteed by
The State, okayed by The Crown.  It's been lofty, confident, time-
worthy!

"Maybe it hasn't been quite so fussily, busily, frantically
energetic, and maybe the rank and file of the people have accepted
it rather perfunctorily--about the way they accepted breathing and
the circulation of their blood--but it has stood there calmly
certifying to an Eternal Fact (or at least an Everlasting Wish).
It will be voluntarily supported, pretty soon, I suppose.  And that
will be the end of its greatness. . . .  Oh--it will still go
through the motions; but its dignity will have departed.

"That's what ails the nine score different sects in the States.  No
dignity; because voluntarily financed by people whose Sunday dime
has given them the right to dictate its policies.  Even they--
especially they--who presume to manage the thing have no respect
for it.  How could they?  Don't I know?  Didn't I grow up in it?

"Wormy, shiny-elbowed, little Jonas B. Pring, lifetime errand-boy
and cuspidorian for some fusty old firm of lawyers, snubbed by his
betters, henpecked at home, hectored by bill-collectors, a measly
little nobody, contemptuously snooted by his own dog--he's quite
a tremendous fellow at The First Church of Christ. . . .  Only
place in the whole world where Jonas can let himself go, and be
somebody. . . .  Gets up at the annual business meeting and tells
the thirty-six women, nine old men, and four little girls, that
the Reverend Blubb is no executive and had best be asked to move
along. . . . And on what meat hath this our nasty, contemptible,
little Jonas fed?  How came he so important?

"Jonas was a subscriber.  For fifty cents a week, Jonas had bought
the right to swagger up and down the aisles, distributing hymn-
books, himself yelping the tune at the top of his lungs.  At the
small cost of twenty-six dollars annually, Jonas B. Pring, who
everywhere else was dodging sharp elbows, shoe-tips, snarls, and
skillets, could fold his important arms high over his inflated
chest, tuck in his forceful chin, draw a sagacious frown, and tell
'em all where to get off at when the Lord's business was under
discussion at The First Church of Christ."

Odd, reflected Joan, Dinny's concern about the Church of England.
The only comment she'd ever heard him make about the Anglicans was
a sour remark to the effect that their chief job was "to apologize
for the Reformation."

She did not commend him for his slightly altered attitude toward
"institutions," fearing her approval, however casually phrased,
might sound I-told-you-so-ish; evaded discussion of his new ideas;
filled her letters with current news, and doings at Lacey's.

There was a great deal in her letters about Tommy, inevitable
because her busy life was now bounded by Lacey's, and Tommy was
Lacey's so far as Joan was concerned.

She wrote much too much about Tommy without realizing what
conclusions Dinny might come to.  Tommy's luggage department had
been augmented by a line of motor-rugs and other whim-whams
relating to cars.  Tommy had had a raise.  Tommy had been to
Chicago, but was back now.

Tommy's brother Victor hadn't been at all pleased with the
reception he had received on his Western tour, and was thinking of
giving up th