No More Learning

This instrument showed the depth to which he had
descended, but he had not looked at it before, for if anything would
make him nervous, it would be the continual consideration of the depth
to which he had descended.

The indicator showed that he had gone down fourteen and one-eighth
miles. Clewe turned and sat stiffly in his seat. He glanced down and saw
beneath him only an illuminated hole, fading away at the bottom. Then he
turned to speak to Bryce, but to his surprise, he could think of nothing
to say. After that he lighted another cigar and sat quietly.

Some minutes passed--he did not know how many--and he looked down
through the gratings in the floor of the car. The electric light
streamed downward through a deep [v]crevice, which did not now fade away
into nothingness, but ended in something dark and glittering. Then, as
he came nearer and nearer to this glittering thing, Clewe saw that it
was his automatic shell, lying on its side; only a part of it was
visible through the opening of the shaft which he was descending. In an
instant, as it seemed to him, the car emerged from the shaft, and he
seemed to be hanging in the air--at least there was nothing he could see
except that great shell, lying some forty feet below him. But it was
impossible that the shell should be lying on the air! He rang to stop
the car.

"Anything the matter? " cried Bryce.

"Nothing at all," Clewe replied. "It's all right; I am near the
bottom. "

In a state of the highest nervous excitement, Clewe gazed about him. He
was no longer in a shaft; but where was he? Look around on what side he
would, he saw nothing but the light going out from his lamps, light
which seemed to extend indefinitely all about him. There appeared to be
no limit to his vision in any direction. Then he leaned over the side of
his car and looked downward. There lay the great shell directly under
him, although under it and around it, extending as far beneath it as it
extended in every other direction, shone the light from his own lamp.
Nevertheless, that great shell, weighing many tons, lay as if it rested
upon the solid ground!

After a few moments, Clewe shut his eyes; they pained him. Something
seemed to be coming into them like a fine frost in a winter wind. Then
he called to Bryce to let the car descend very slowly. It went down,
down, gradually approaching the great shell. When the bottom of the car
was within two feet of it, Clewe rang to stop. He looked down at the
complicated machine he had worked upon so long, with something like a
feeling of affection. This he knew; it was his own. Gazing upon its
familiar form, he felt that he had a companion in this region of
unreality.

Pushing back the sliding door of the car, Clewe sat upon the bottom and
cautiously put out his feet and legs, lowering them until they touched
the shell. It was firm and solid. Although he knew it must be so, the
immovability of the great mass of iron gave him a sudden shock of
mysterious fear. How could it be immovable when there was nothing under
it--when it rested on air?

But he must get out of that car, he must explore, he must find out.
There certainly could be no danger so long as he clung to the shell.

He cautiously got out of the car and let himself down upon the shell. It
was not a pleasant surface to stand on, being uneven, with great spiral
ribs, and Clewe sat down upon it, clinging to it with his hands.
Presently he leaned over to one side and looked beneath him. The shadows
of that shell went down, down, down into space, until it made him sick
to look at them. He drew back quickly, clutched the shell with his arms,
and shut his eyes. He felt as if he were about to drop with it into a
measureless depth of atmosphere.

[Illustration: He Put Out One Foot]

But he soon raised himself. He had not come down there to be frightened,
to let his nerves run away with him. He had come to find out things.
What was it that this shell rested upon? Seizing two of the ribs with a
strong clutch, he let himself hang over the sides of the shell until his
feet were level with its lower side. They touched something hard. He
pressed them downward; it was very hard. He raised himself and stood
upon the substance which supported the shell. It was as solid as any
rock. He looked down and saw his shadow stretching far beneath him. It
seemed as if he were standing upon [v]petrified air. He put out one foot
and moved a little, still holding on to the shell. He walked, as if upon
solid air, to the foremost end of the long [v]projectile. It relieved
him to turn his thoughts from what was around him to this familiar
object. He found its conical end shattered.

After a little he slowly made his way back to the other end of the
shell, and now his eyes became somewhat accustomed to the great radiance
about him. He thought he could perceive here and there faint signs of
long, nearly horizontal lines--lines of different shades of light. Above
him, as if it hung in the air, was the round, dark hole through which he
had descended.

He rose, took his hands from the shell, and made a few steps. He trod
upon a horizontal surface, but in putting one foot forward, he felt a
slight incline. It seemed to him, that he was about to slip downward!
Instantly he retreated to the shell and clutched it in a sudden frenzy
of fear.

Standing thus, with his eyes still wandering, he heard the bell of the
telephone ring. Without hesitation he mounted the shell and got into the
car. Bryce was calling him.

"Come up," he said. "You have been down there long enough. No matter
what you have found, it is time for you to come up. "

"All right," said Roland. "You can haul me up, but go very slowly at
first. "

The car rose. When it reached the orifice in the top of the cave of
light, Clewe heard the conical steel top grate slightly as it touched
the edge, for the car was still swinging a little from the motion given
to it by his entrance; but it soon hung perfectly vertical and went
silently up the shaft.

Seated in the car, which was steadily ascending the great shaft, Roland
Clewe took no notice of anything about him. He did not look at the
brilliantly lighted interior of the shaft; he paid no attention to his
instruments; he did not consult his watch, or glance at the dial which
indicated the distance he had traveled. Several times the telephone bell
rang, and Bryce inquired how he was getting along; but these questions
he answered as briefly as possible, and sat looking down at his knees
and seeing nothing.

When he was half-way up, he suddenly became conscious that he was very
hungry. He hurriedly ate some sandwiches and drank some water, and again
gave himself up entirely to mental labor. When, at last, the noise of
machinery above him and the sound of voices aroused him from his
abstraction, and the car emerged upon the surface of the earth, Clewe
hastily slid back the door and stepped out. At that instant he felt
himself encircled by a pair of arms. Bryce was near by, and there were
other men by the engines, but the owner of those arms thought nothing
of this.

"Margaret! " cried Clewe, "how came you here? "

"I have been here all the time," she exclaimed; "or, at least, nearly
all the time. " And as she spoke she drew back and looked at him, her
eyes full of happy tears. "Mr. Bryce telegraphed to me the instant he
knew you were going down, and I was here before you had descended
half-way. "

"What! " he cried. "And all those messages came from you? "

"Nearly all," she answered. "But tell me, Roland--tell me; have you been
successful? "

"I am successful," he answered. "I have discovered everything! "

Bryce came forward.

"I will speak to you all very soon," said Clewe. "I can't tell you
anything now. Margaret, let us go. I wish to talk to you, but not until
I have been to my office. I will meet you at your house in a very few
minutes. " And with that he left the building and fairly ran to his
office.

A quarter of an hour later Roland entered Margaret's library, where she
sat awaiting him. He carefully closed the doors and windows. They sat
side by side upon the sofa.

"Now, Roland," she said, "I cannot wait one second longer. What is it
that you have discovered? "

"When I arrived at the bottom of the shaft," he began, "I found myself
in a cleft, I know not how large, made in a vast mass of transparent
substance, hard as the hardest rock and as transparent as air in the
light of my electric lamps. My shell rested securely upon this
substance. I walked upon it. It seemed as if I could see miles below me.
In my opinion, Margaret, that substance was once the head of a comet. "

"What is the substance? " she asked, hastily.

"It is a mass of solid diamond! "

Margaret screamed. She could not say one word.

"Yes," said he, "I believe the whole central portion of the earth is one
great diamond. When it was moving about in its orbit as a comet, the
light of the sun streamed through this diamond and spread an enormous
tail out into space; after a time this [v]nucleus began to burn. "

"Burn! " exclaimed Margaret.

"Yes, the diamond is almost pure [v]carbon; why should it not burn? It
burned and burned and burned. Ashes formed upon it and encircled it; it
still burned, and when it was entirely covered with ashes it ceased to
be transparent and ceased to be a comet; it became a planet, and
revolved in a different orbit. It still burned within its covering of
ashes, and these gradually changed to rock, to metal, to everything that
forms the crust of the earth. "

She gazed upon him, entranced.

"Some parts of this great central mass of carbon burn more fiercely than
other parts. Some parts do not burn at all. In volcanic regions the
fires rage; where my great shell went down it no longer burns. Now you
have my theory. It is crude and rough, for I have tried to give it to
you in as few words as possible. "

"Oh, Roland," she cried, "it is absurd! Diamond! Why, people will think
you are crazy. You must not say such a thing as that to anybody. It is
simply impossible that the greater part of this earth should be an
enormous diamond. "

"Margaret," he answered, "nothing is impossible. The central portion of
this earth is composed of something; it might just as well be diamond as
anything else. In fact, if you consider the matter, it is more likely to
be, because diamond is a very original substance. As I have said, it is
almost pure carbon. I do not intend to repeat a word of what I have told
you to any one--at least until the matter has been well considered--but
I am not afraid of being thought crazy. Margaret, will you look at
these? "

He took from his pocket some shining substances resembling glass. Some
of them were flat, some round; the largest was as big as a lemon; others
were smaller fragments of various sizes.

"These are pieces of the great diamond which were broken when the shell
struck the bottom of the cave in which I found it. I picked them up as
I felt my way around this shell, when walking upon what seemed to me
solid air. I thrust them into my pocket, and I would not come to you,
Margaret, with this story, until I had visited my office to find out
what these fragments are. I tested them; their substance is diamond! "

Half-dazed, she took the largest piece in her hand.

"Roland," she whispered, "if this is really a diamond, there is nothing
like it known to man! "

"Nothing, indeed," said he.

She sat staring at the great piece of glowing mineral which lay in her
hand. Its surface was irregular; it had many faces; the subdued light
from the window gave it the appearance of animated water. He felt it
necessary to speak.

"Even these little pieces," he said, "are most valuable jewels. "

"Roland," she suddenly cried, excitedly, "these are riches beyond
imagination! What is common wealth to what you have discovered? Every
living being on earth could--"

"Ah, Margaret," he interrupted, "do not let your thoughts run that way.
If my discovery should be put to the use of which you are thinking, it
would bring poverty to the world, not wealth, and every diamond on earth
would be worthless. "

She trembled. "And these--are they to be valued as common pebbles? "

"Oh no," said he; "these broken fragments I have found are to us riches
far beyond our wildest imagination. "

"Roland," she cried, "are you going down into that shaft for more of
them? "

"Never, never, never again," he answered. "What we have here is enough
for us, and if I were offered all the good that there is in this world,
which money cannot buy, I would never go down into that cleft again.
There was one moment, as I stood in that cave, when an awful terror shot
into my soul that I shall never be able to forget. In the light of my
electric lamps, sent through a vast transparent mass, I could see
nothing, but I could feel. I put out my foot, and I found it was upon a
sloping surface. In another instant I might have slid--where? I cannot
bear to think of it! " FRANK E. STOCKTON.

=HELPS TO STUDY=

What happened to Clewe's automatic shell? What did he decide to do?
Tell of the preparations he made for his descent. What occurred
when he reached the end of the shaft? Of what was Clewe thinking so
intently while making his ascent? Why did he go at once to his
office? What conclusion did he reach as to the central part of the
earth? What did he have to prove the correctness of his theory? Why
was he unwilling ever to make the descent again? This story was
written about the end of the nineteenth century: what great
scientific discoveries have been made since then?


SUPPLEMENTARY READING

A Journey to the Center of the Earth--Jules Verne.
The Adventures of Captain Horn--Frank R. Stockton.


FOOTNOTE:

[391-*] Copyright by Harper & Brothers.




A STOP AT SUZANNE'S


The author of this sketch, a young American aviator, a resident of
Richmond, Virginia, was killed in battle in August, 1918.

Suzanne is a very pretty girl, I was told, but the charm of "Suzanne's"
wasn't with her alone, for, always, one spoke of the deliciously-tasting
meal, how nice the old madame is, and how fine a chap is her _mari_, the
father of Suzanne. Then of the garden in the back--and before you had
finished listening you didn't know which was the most important thing
about "Suzanne's. " All you knew was that it was the place to go when on
an aeroplane voyage.

At the pilotage office I found five others ahead of me; all of us were
bound in the same direction. We were given [v]barographs, altimeters and
maps and full directions as to forced landings and what to do when lost.
We hung around the voyage hangar until about eight in the morning, but
there was a low mist and cloudy sky, so we could not start out until
afternoon; and I didn't have luncheon at "Suzanne's. "

After noon several of the others started out, but I wanted to plan my
supper stop for the second point, so I waited until about four o'clock
before starting.

Almost before I knew it a village, which on the map was twelve
kilometers away, was slipping by beneath me and then off to one side was
a forest, green and cool-looking and very regular around the edges.
Pretty soon I came to a deep blue streak bordered by trees, and was so
interested in it--it wound around under a railroad track, came up and
brushed by lots of back gates and, finally, fell in a wide splash of
silver over a little fall by a mill--that I forgot all about flying and
suddenly woke up to the fact that one wing was about as low as it could
get and that the nose of the machine was doing its best to follow the
wing.

Long before I came to the stopping point, I could see the little white
hangar. The field is not large, but it is strange, so you come down
rather anxiously, for if you can't make that field the first time, you
never will be able to fly, they tell you before leaving. I glided down
easily enough, for, after all, it is just that--either you can or you
can't--and made a good-enough landing.
The sergeant signed my paper, and
a few minutes later away I went for "Suzanne's. " The next stop is near a
little village--Suzanne's village--so when I came to the field and
landed I was sure to be too tired to go up again immediately. Instead,
off I went to town after making things right with the man in charge.
That wasn't a bit difficult, either, for all I did was to wink as hard
as I could, and he understood perfectly.

I knew where "Suzanne's" was, so I made directly for it. It was a little
early, but you should never miss the [v]_apertif_. With that first,
success is assured; without it, it is like getting out of bed on the
wrong foot.

Up I marched to the unimposing door and walked in to the main room--a
big room, with long, wooden tables and benches and a zinc bar at one
end, where all kinds of bottles rested. It isn't called "Suzanne's," of
course; it only has that name among us.

As I closed the door behind me and looked about, a _bonne_ was serving
several men at a corner table, and behind the bar a big, red-faced,
stout man was pouring stuff into bottles. He looked at me a moment and
then with a tremendous "_Tiens! _" he came out from behind the tables and
advanced toward me.

"_Bon jour_," he said; "do you come from far? "

"Oh, no," I answered, "only from ----. "

"_Tiens! _" he repeated; then, "Ah, you are from the school. " _L'ecole_,
he called it.

From _l'ecole_, I admitted, and, taking me by the arm, he led me to a
door at the rear. Through this he propelled me, and then in his huge
voice he called "_Suzanne, un [v]pilote! _" and I was introduced.

As he shut the door, I could just see the corner table with the three
old men staring open-mouthed, the wine before them forgotten, the bread
and cheese in their hands untasted; then, down the stairs came light
steps and a rustle of skirts, and Suzanne was before me with smiling
face and outstretched hand.

Her instant welcome, the genuine smile! Almost immediately, I understood
the fame of this little station, so far from everything but the air
route.

Her charm is indescribable. She is pretty, she is well dressed, but it
isn't that. It is a sincerity of manner, complete hospitality; at once
you are accepted as a bosom friend of the family--that is the charm of
Suzanne's.

After a few questions as to where I came from, how long I had been
there, and where I was going, Suzanne led me upstairs to be presented to
[v]"_Ma belle mere_," a white-haired old lady sitting in a big,
straight-backed chair. Then, after more courtesies had been extended to
me, Suzanne preceded me down to the garden and left me alone while she
went in to see that the supper was exceptionally good.

A soft footstep on the gravel walk sounded behind me, and I turned to
see one of the most beautiful women I ever beheld. She was tall and
slender, and as she came gracefully across the lawn she swung a little
work bag from one arm. All in black she was, with a lace shawl over her
bare head. Like every one in that most charming and hospitable house,
there was no formality or show about her. She came, smiling, and sat on
the bench beside me, drawing open her work bag. I could not help
noticing, particularly, her beautiful eyes, for they told the story, a
story too common here, except that her eyes had changed now to an
expression of resigned peace. Then she told me about Suzanne.

Long before, ages and ages ago it seemed, but really only four years, a
huge, ungainly bird fell crashing to earth and from the wreck a man was
taken, unconscious. He was carried to "Suzanne's," and she nursed him
and cared for him until he was well again. "Suzanne was very happy
then," madame told me. And no wonder, for the daring aviator and Suzanne
were in love. She nursed him back to health, but when he went away he
left his heart forever with her.

They were engaged, and every little while he would fly over from his
station to see Suzanne. Those were in the early days and aviation--well,
even at that, it hasn't changed so much.

One day a letter came for Suzanne, and with a catch at her throbbing
heart she read that her _fiancé_ had been killed. [v]"_Mort pour la
patrie_," it said, and Suzanne was never the same afterward.

For many months the poor girl grieved, but, finally, she began to
realize that what had happened to her had happened to thousands of other
girls, too, and, gradually, she took up the attitude that you find
throughout this glorious country. Only her eyes now tell the sad story.

One evening two men walked into the café and from their talk Suzanne
knew they were from _l'ecole_. She sat down and listened to them. They
talked about the war, about aviation, about deeds of heroism, and
Suzanne drank in every word, for they were talking the language of her
dead lover. The two aviators stayed to dinner, but the big room was not
good enough. They must come back to the family dinner--to the intimacy
of the back room.

They stayed all night and left early next morning, but before they left
they wrote their names in a big book. To-day, Suzanne has the book,
filled full of names, many now famous, many names that are only a
memory--that is how it started.

When the two pilots went back to _l'ecole_, they spoke in glowing terms
of "Suzanne's," of the soft beds, of the delicious dinner, and, I think,
mostly of Suzanne.

Visitors came after that to eat at "Suzanne's," and to see her famous
book. They came regularly and, finally, "Suzanne's" became an
institution.

Always, a _pilote_ was taken into the back room; he ate with the family,
he told them all the news from _l'ecole_, and, in exchange, he heard
stories about the early days, stories that will never be printed, but
which embody examples of the heroism and intelligence that have done
their part to develop aviation.

Soon, we went in to dinner, and such a dinner! Truly, nothing is too
good for an aviator at "Suzanne's," and they give of their best to these
wandering strangers. They do not ask your name, they call every one
_Monsieur_, but before you leave you sign the book and they all crowd
around to look, without saying anything. Your name means nothing yet,
but a year from now, perhaps, who can tell? In the first pages are
names that have been bywords for years and some that are famous the
world over.

After dinner, Suzanne slipped away, presently to reappear with a special
bottle and glasses. I felt sure this was part of the entertainment
afforded all their winged visitors, for they went about it in a
practised manner; each was familiar with his or her part, but to me it
was all delightfully new.

Our glasses were filled, and Suzanne raised hers up first. Without a
word, she looked around the circle. Her eyes met them all, then rested
with madame. She had not said a word; it was "papa" who proposed my
health, and as the bottoms went up, Suzanne and madame both had a
struggle to repress a tear. They were drinking my health, but their
thoughts were far away, and in my heart I was wishing that happiness
might again come to them. Suzanne certainly deserves it.

When I returned to school, they asked, "Did you stop at 'Suzanne's'? "
And now to the others, just ready to make the voyage, I always say, "Be
sure to stop at 'Suzanne's'. "

GREAYER CLOVER.




THE MAKING OF A MAN


I

Marmaduke, otherwise Doggie, Trevor owned a pleasant home set on fifteen
acres of ground. He had an income of three thousand pounds a year. Old
Peddle, the butler, and his wife, the housekeeper, saved him from
domestic cares. He led a well-regulated life. His meals, his toilet, his
music, his wall-papers, his drawing and embroidery, his sweet peas, his
chrysanthemums, his postage stamps, and his social engagements filled
the hours not claimed by slumber.

In the town of Durdlebury, Doggie Trevor began to feel appreciated. He
could play the piano, the harp, the viola, the flute, and the
clarionette, and sing a mild tenor. Besides music, Doggie had other
accomplishments. He could choose the exact shade of silk for a
drawing-room sofa cushion, and he had an excellent gift for the
selection of wedding-presents. All in all, Marmaduke Trevor was a young
gentleman of exquisite taste.

After breakfast on a certain July morning, Doggie, attired in a green
shot-silk dressing-gown, entered his own particular room and sat down to
think. In its way it was a very beautiful room--high, spacious,
well-proportioned, facing southeast. The wall-paper, which Doggie had
designed himself, was ivory white, with trimmings of peacock blue.
[v]Vellum-bound books filled the cases; delicate water-colors adorned
the walls. On his writing-table lay an ivory set: inkstand, pen-tray,
blotter, and calendar. Bits of old embroidery, harmonizing with the
peacock shades, were spread here and there. A spinet inlaid with ivory
formed the center for the arrangement of other musical instruments--a
viol, mandolins, and flutes. One tall, closed cabinet was devoted to
Doggie's collection of wall-papers. Another held a collection of little
dogs in china and porcelain--thousands of them; he got them from dealers
from all over the world.

An unwonted frown creased Doggie's brow, for several problems disturbed
him. The morning sun disclosed, beyond doubt, discolorations, stains,
and streaks on the wall-paper. It would have to be renewed.

Then, his thoughts ran on to his cousin, Oliver Manningtree, who had
just returned from the South Sea. It was Oliver, the strong and
masculine, who had given him the name of Doggie years before, to his
infinite disgust. And now every one in Durdlebury seemed to have gone
crazy over the fellow. Doggie's uncle and aunt had hung on his lips
while Oliver had boasted unblushingly of his adventures. Even the fair
cousin Peggy, with whom Doggie was mildly in love, had listened
open-eyed and open-mouthed to Oliver's tales of shipwreck in distant
seas.

Doggie had reached this point in his reflections when, to his horror,
he heard a familiar voice outside the door.

"All right," it said. "Don't worry, Peddle. I'll show myself in. "

The door burst open, and Oliver, pipe in mouth and hat on one side, came
into the room.

"Hello, Doggie! " he cried boisterously. "Thought I'd look you up. Hope
I'm not disturbing you. "

"Not at all," said Doggie. "Do sit down. "

But Oliver walked about and looked at things.

"I like your water colors," he said. "Did you collect them yourself! "

"Yes. "

"I congratulate you on your taste. This is a beauty. "

The appreciation brought Doggie at once to his side. He took Oliver
delightedly around the pictures, expounding their merits and their
little histories. Doggie was just beginning to like the big fellow,
when, stopping before the collection of china dogs, the latter spoiled
everything.

"My dear Doggie," he said, "is that your family? "

"It's the finest collection of the kind in the world," replied Doggie
stiffly, "and is worth several thousand pounds. "

Oliver heaved himself into a chair--that was Doggie's impression of his
method of sitting down.

"Forgive me, Doggie," he said, "but you're so funny. Pictures and music
I can understand. But what on earth is the point of these little dogs? "

Doggie was hurt. "It would be useless to try to explain," he said, with
dignity. "And my name is Marmaduke. "

Oliver took off his hat and sent it skimming to the couch.

"Look here, old chap," he said, "I seem to have put my foot in it. I
didn't mean to, really. I'll call you Marmaduke, if you like, instead of
Doggie--though it's a beast of a name. I'm a rough sort of chap. I've
had ten years' pretty tough training. I've slept on boards; I've slept
in the open without a cent to hire a board. I've gone cold and I've gone
hungry, and men have knocked me about, and I've lost most of my
politeness. In the wilds if a man once gets the name, say, of Duck-Eyed
Joe, it sticks to him, and he accepts it, and answers to it, and signs
it. "

"But I'm not in the wilds," objected Marmaduke, "and haven't the
slightest intention of ever leading the unnatural and frightful life you
describe. So what you say doesn't apply to me. "

Oliver, laughing, clapped him on the shoulder.

"You don't give a fellow a chance," he said. "Look here, tell me, as man
to man, what are you going to do with your life? Here you are, young,
strong, educated, intelligent--"

"I'm not strong," said Doggie.

"A month's exercise would make you as strong as a mule," returned
Oliver. "Here you are--what are you going to do with yourself? "

"I don't admit that you have any right to question me," said Doggie.

"Peggy and I had a talk," declared Oliver. "I said I'd take you out with
me to the Islands and give you a taste for fresh air and salt water and
exercise. I'll teach you how to sail a schooner and how to go about
barefoot and swab decks. "

Doggie smiled pityingly, but said politely, "Your offer is kind, Oliver,
but I don't think that sort of life would suit me. "

Being a man of intelligence, he realized that Oliver's offer arose from
a genuine desire to do him service. But if a friendly bull out of the
fulness of its affection invited you to accompany it to the meadow and
eat grass, what could you do but courteously decline the invitation?

"I'm really most obliged to you, Oliver," said Doggie, finally. "But our
ideas are entirely different. You're primitive, you know. You seem to
find your happiness in defying the elements, whereas I find mine in
adopting the resources of civilization to defeat them. "

"Which means," said Oliver, rudely, "that you're afraid to roughen your
hands and spoil your complexion. "

"If you like to put it that way. "

"You're an [v]effeminate little creature! " cried Oliver, losing his
temper. "And I'm through with you. Go sit up and beg for biscuits. "

"Stop! " shouted Doggie, white with sudden anger, which shook him from
head to foot. He marched to the door, his green silk dressing-gown
flapping about him, and threw it wide open.

"This is my house," he said. "I'm sorry to have to ask you to get out of
it. "

And when the door was shut on Oliver, he threw himself, shaken, on the
couch, hating Oliver and all his works more than ever. Go about barefoot
and swab decks! It was madness. Besides being dangerous to health, it
would be excruciating discomfort. And to be insulted for not grasping at
such martyrdom! It was intolerable; and Doggie remained justly indignant
the whole day long.


II

Then the war came. Doggie Trevor was both patriotic and polite. Having a
fragment of the British army in his house, he did his best to make it
comfortable. By January he had no doubt that the empire was in peril,
that it was every man's duty to do his bit. He welcomed the newcomers
with open arms, having unconsciously abandoned his attitude of
superiority over mere brawn. It was every patriotic Englishman's duty
to encourage brawn. He threw himself heart and soul into the
entertainment of officers and men. They thought Doggie a capital fellow.

"My dear chap," one would protest, "you're spoiling us. I don't say we
don't like it and aren't grateful. We are. But we're supposed to rough
it--to lead the simple life. You're treating us too well. "

"Impossible! " Doggie would reply. "Don't I know what we owe you fellows?
In what other way can a helpless, delicate being like myself show his
gratitude and in some sort of way serve his country? "

When the sympathetic guest would ask what was the nature of his malady,
Doggie would tap his chest vaguely and reply:

"Constitutional. I've never been able to do things like other fellows.
The least thing bowls me out. "

"Hard lines--especially just now! " the soldier would murmur.

"Yes, isn't it? " Doggie would answer.

Doggie never questioned his physical incapacity. His mother had brought
him up to look on himself as a singularly frail creature, and the idea
was as real to him as the war. He went about pitying himself and seeking
pity.