No More Learning

"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.

The months passed. The soldiers moved away from Durdlebury, and Doggie
was left alone in his house. He felt solitary and restless. News came
from Oliver that he had accepted an infantry commission and was in
France. "A month of this sort of thing," he wrote, "would make our dear
old Doggie sit up. " Doggie sighed. If only he had been blessed with
Oliver's constitution!

One morning Briggins, his chauffeur, announced that he could stick it
out no longer and was going to enlist. Then Doggie remembered a talk he
had had with one of the young officers, who had expressed astonishment
at his not being able to drive a car.

"I shouldn't have the nerve," he had replied. "My nerves are all
wrong--and I shouldn't have the strength to change tires and things. "

But now Doggie was confronted by the necessity of driving his own car,
for chauffeurs were no longer to be had. To his amazement, he found that
he did not die of nervous collapse when a dog crossed the road in front
of the automobile, and that the fitting of detachable wheels did not
require the strength of a Hercules. The first time he took Peggy out
driving, he swelled with pride.

"I'm so glad you can do something! " she said, after a silence.

Although the girl was as kind as ever, Doggie had noticed of late a
curious reserve in her manner. Conversation did not flow easily. She had
fits of abstraction, from which, when rallied, she roused herself with
an effort. Finally, one day, Peggy asked him blankly why he did not
enlist.

Doggie was horrified. "I'm not fit," he said, "I've no constitution. I'm
an impossibility. "

"You thought you had nerves until you learned to drive the car," she
answered. "Then you discovered that you hadn't. You fancy you've a weak
heart. Perhaps if you walked thirty miles a day, you would discover that
you hadn't that, either. And so with the rest of it. "

He swung round toward her. "Do you think I'm shamming so as to get out
of serving in the army? " he demanded.

"Not consciously. Unconsciously, I think you are. What does your doctor
say? "

Doggie was taken aback. He had no doctor, having no need for one. He
made confession of the surprising fact. Peggy smiled.

"That proves it," she said. "I don't believe you have anything wrong
with you. This is plain talking. It's horrid, I know, but it's best to
get through with it once and for all. "

Some men would have taken deep offense, but Doggie, conscientious if
ineffective, was gnawed for the first time by a suspicion that Peggy
might possibly be right. He desired to act honorably.

"I'll do," he said, "whatever you think proper. "

"Good! " said Peggy. "Get Doctor Murdoch to overhaul you thoroughly with
a view to the army. If he passes you, take a commission. "

She put out her hand. Doggie took it firmly.

"Very well," he said. "I agree. "

"You're flabby," announced Doctor Murdoch, the next morning, to an
anxious Doggie, after some minutes of thumping and listening, "but
that's merely a matter of unused muscles. Physical training will set it
right in no time. Otherwise, my dear Trevor, you're in splendid health.
There's not a flaw in your whole constitution. "

Doggie crept out of bed, put on a violet dressing-gown, and wandered to
his breakfast like a man in a nightmare. But he could not eat. He
swallowed a cup of coffee and took refuge in his own room. He was
frightened--horribly frightened, caught in a net from which there was no
escape. He had given his word to join the army if he should be passed by
Murdoch. He had been more than passed! Now he would have to join; he
would have to fight. He would have to live in a muddy trench, sleep in
mud, eat in mud, plow through mud. Doggie was shaken to his soul, but he
had given his word and he had no thought of going back on it.

The fateful little letter bestowing a commission on Doggie arrived two
weeks later; he was a second lieutenant in a battalion of the new army.
A few days afterward he set off for the training-camp.

He wrote to Peggy regularly. The work was very hard, he said, and the
hours were long. Sometimes he confessed himself too tired to write more
than a few lines. It was a very strange life--one he never dreamed could
have existed. There was the riding-school. Why hadn't he learned to ride
as a boy? Peggy was filled with admiration for his courage. She realized
that he was suffering acutely in his new and rough environment, but he
made no complaint.

Then there came a time when Doggie's letters grew rarer and shorter. At
last they ceased altogether. One evening an unstamped envelope addressed
to Peggy was put in the letter-box. The envelope contained a copy of the
_Gazette_, and a sentence was underlined and adorned with exclamation
marks:

"Royal Fusileers. Second Lieutenant J. M. Trevor resigned his
commission. "

* * * * *

It had been a terrible blow to Doggie. The colonel had dealt as gently
as he could in the final interview with him. He put his hand in a
fatherly way on Doggie's shoulder and bade him not take the thing too
much to heart. He--Doggie--had done his best, but the simple fact was
that he was not cut out for an officer. These were merciless times, and
in matters of life and death there could be no weak links in the chain.
In Doggie's case there was no personal discredit. He had always
conducted himself like a gentleman, but he lacked the qualities
necessary for the command of men. He must send in his resignation.

Doggie, after leaving the camp, took a room in a hotel and sat there
most of the day, the mere pulp of a man. His one desire now was to
escape from the eyes of his fellow-men. He felt that he bore the marks
of his disgrace, obvious at a glance. He had been turned out of the army
as a hopeless incompetent; he was worse than a slacker, for the slacker
might have latent qualities he was without.

Presently the sight of his late brother-officers added the gnaw of envy
to his heart-ache. On the third day of his exile he moved into lodgings
in Woburn Place. Here at least he could be quiet, untroubled by
heart-rending sights and sounds. He spent most of his time in dull
reading and dispirited walking.

His failure preyed on his mind. He walked for miles every day, though
without enjoyment. He wandered one evening in the dusk to Waterloo
Bridge and gazed out over the parapet. The river stretched below, dark
and peaceful. As he looked down on the rippling water, he presently
became aware of a presence by his side. Turning his head, he found a
soldier, an ordinary private, also leaning over the parapet.

"I thought I wasn't mistaken in Mr. Marmaduke Trevor," said the soldier.

Doggie started away, on the point of flight, dreading the possible
insolence of one of the men of his late regiment. But the voice of the
speaker rang in his ears with a strange familiarity, and the great
fleshy nose, the high cheekbones, and the little gray eyes in the
weather-beaten face suggested vaguely some one of the long ago. His
dawning recognition amused the soldier.

"Yes, laddie, it's your old Phineas. Phineas McPhail, M. A. --now private
P. McPhail. "

It was no other than Doggie's tutor of his childhood days.

"Very glad to see you," Doggie murmured.

Phineas, gaunt and bony, took his arm. Doggie's instinctive craving for
companionship made Phineas suddenly welcome.

"Let us have a talk," he said. "Come to my rooms. There will be some
dinner. "

"Will I come? Will I have dinner? Laddie, I will. "

In the Strand they hailed a taxi-cab and drove to Doggie's place.

"You mention your rooms," said Phineas. "Are you residing permanently in
London? "

"Yes," said Doggie, sadly. "I never expect to leave it. "

A few minutes later they reached Woburn Place. Doggie showed Phineas
into the sitting-room. The table was set for Doggie's dinner. Phineas
looked around him in surprise. The tasteless furniture, the dreadful
pictures on the walls, the coarse glass and the well-used plate on the
table, the crumpled napkin in a ring--all came as a shock to Phineas,
who had expected to find Marmaduke's rooms a reproduction of the
fastidious prettiness of the peacock and ivory room in Durdlebury.

"Laddie," he said, gravely, "you must excuse me if I take a liberty, but
I cannot fit you into this environment. It cannot be that you have come
down in the world? "

"To bed-rock," replied Doggie.

"Man, I'm sorry," said Phineas. "I know what coming down feels like. If
I had money--"

Doggie broke in with a laugh. "Pray don't distress yourself, Phineas.
It's not a question of money at all. The last thing in the world I've
had to think of has been money. "

"What is the trouble?