The Vision Splendid. William MacLeod Raine

and buried himself in a book. It was not till they both rose to leave at the University station that he noticed the condition of Farnum. Even then he stood in momentary doubt.

      With a maudlin laugh Jeff quieted any possible explanation of sickness.

      “Been havin' little spree down town, Profeshor. Good deal like one ev'body been havin' out here. Yours shpiritual; mine shpirituous. Joke, see! Play on wor'd. Shpiritual—shpirituous.”

      “You're intoxicated, sir,” Perkin's told him sternly.

      “Betcherlife I am, old cock! Ever get shp—shp—shpiflicated yourself?”

      “Go home and go to bed, sir!”

      “Whaffor? 'S early yet. 'S reasonable man I ask whaffor?”

      The professor turned away, but Jeff caught at his sleeve.

      “Lesh not go to bed. Lesh talk economicsh.”

      “Release me at once, sir.”

      “Jush's you shay. Shancellor wants see me. I'll go now.”

      He did. What occurred at that interview had better be omitted. Jeff was very cordial and friendly, ready to make up any differences there might be between them. An ice statue would have been warm compared to the Chancellor.

      Next day Jeff was publicly expelled. At the time it did not trouble him in the least. He had brought a bottle home with him from town, and when the notice was posted he lay among the bushes in a sodden sleep half a mile from the campus.

Part 2

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      From a great distance there seemed to come to Jeff vaguely the sound of young rippling laughter and eager girlish voices. Drawn from heavy sleep, he was not yet fully awake. This merriment might be the music of fairy bells, such stuff as dreams are made of. He lay incurious, drowsiness still heavy on his eyelids.

      “Oh, Virgie, here's another bunch! Oh, girls, fields of them!”

      There was a little rush to the place, and with it a rustle of skirts that sounded authentic. Jeff began to believe that his nymphs were not born of fancy. He opened his eyes languidly to examine a strange world upon which he had not yet focused his mind.

      Out of the ferns a dryad was coming toward him, lance straight, slender, buoyantly youthful in the light tread and in the poise of the golden head.

      At sight of him she paused, held in her tracks, eyes grown big with solicitude.

      “You are ill.”

      Before he could answer she had dropped the anemones she carried, was on her knees beside him, and had his head cushioned against her arm.

      “Tell me! What can I do for you? What is the matter?”

      Jeff groaned. His head was aching as if it would blow up, but that was not the cause of the wave of pain which had swept over him. A realization had come to him of what was the matter with him. His eyes fell from hers. He made as if to get up, but her hand restrained him with a gentle firmness.

      “Don't! You mustn't.” Then aloud, she cried: “Girls—girls—there's a sick man here. Run and get help. Quick.”

      “No—no! I—I'm not sick.”

      A flood of shame and embarrassment drenched him. He could not escape her tender hands without actual force and his poignant shyness made that impossible. She was like a fairy tale, a creature of dreams. He dared not meet her frank pitiful eyes, though he was intensely aware of them. The odor of violets brings to him even to this day a vision of girlish charm and daintiness, together with a memory of the abased reverence that filled him.

      They came running, her companions, eager with question and suggestion. And hard upon their heels a teamster from the road broke through the thicket, summoned by their calls for help. He stooped to pick up something that his foot had struck. It was a bottle. He looked at it and then at Jeff.

      “Nothing the matter with him, Miss, but just plain drunk,” the man said with a grin. “He's been sleeping it off.”

      Jeff felt the quiver run through her. She rose, trembling, and with one frightened sidelong look at him walked quickly away. He had seen a wound in her eyes he would not soon forget. It was as if he had struck her down while she was holding out hands to help him.

CHAPTER 5

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      Lies need only age to make them respectable. Given that,

       they become traditions and are put upon a pedestal. Then the

       gentlest word for him who attacks them is traitor.—From

       the Note Book of a Dreamer.

      THE REBEL FOLLOWS THE RAMIFICATIONS OF BIG BUSINESS AND FINDS THAT THE PILLARS OF SOCIETY ARE NOT IN POLITICS FOR THEIR HEALTH

Part 1

       Table of Contents

      “Hmp! Want to be a reporter, do you?” Warren, city editor on the Advocate, leaned back in his chair and looked Jeff over sharply.

      “Yes.”

      “It's a hell of a life. Better keep out.”

      “I'd like to try it.”

      “Any experience?”

      “Only correspondence. I've had two years at college.”

      The city editor snorted. He had the unreasoning contempt for college men so often found in the old-time newspaper hack.

      “Then you don't want to be a reporter. You want to be a journalist,” he jeered.

      “They kicked me out,” Jeff went on quietly.

      “Sounds better. Why?”

      Jeff hesitated. “I got drunk.”

      “Can't use you,” Warren cut in hastily.

      “I've quit—sworn off.”

      The city editor was back on the job, his eyes devouring copy. “Heard that before. Nothing to it,” he grunted.

      “Give me a trial. I'll show you.”

      “Don't want a man that drinks. Office crowded with 'em already.”

      Jeff held his ground. For five minutes the attention of Warren was focused on his work.

      Suddenly he snapped out, “Well?”

      He met Farnum's ingratiating smile. “You haven't told me yet what to start doing.”

      “I told you I didn't want you.”

      “But you do. I'm on the wagon.”

      “For how long?” jeered the city editor.

      “For good.”

      Warren sized him up again. He saw a cleareyed young fellow without a superfluous ounce of flesh on him, not rugged but with a look of strength in the slender figure and the thin face. This young man somehow inspired confidence.

      “Sent in that Colby story to us, didn't you?”

      “Yes.”

      “Rotten story. Not half played up. Report to Jenkins