"Mr. Carpenter's reputation for doing the 'fair thing' is rated very much above par on the Street."

Carpenter started under the taunt. His nerves, already stretched too tight by his mental struggle between love and ambition, by the victory which his passion had finally won over his will, snapped suddenly. His hatred of the man before him, the hatred of one man for another who opposes him too often, drove all else to the background. His next words came with a strange quiet decision wholly foreign to his manner of a few seconds before.

"Barret, I came to this room resolved for reasons of my own to let you off easily. I would have sold you your wheat at your selling price. But now"

His voice grew louder and stronger with the rasp of his fighting nature in it.

"Now I'll lose everything I ever had or ever hoped to have on God's earth before I'll let you off one point lower than the highest. My selling price is $1.15. To-morrow it will be higher."

Barret rose with an easy, confident air which he knew would irritate Carpenter. He was resolved to die hard. He glanced at his watch.

"It is now 1.15 A. M., Carpenter," he said. "Tomorrow, you see, is yet afar off. My lawyer will call upon you this afternoon and arrange a settlement. I have the pleasure to wish you good evening."

Carpenter remained seated before the table, twirling an empty wine glass in his fingers. Slowly the light of conquest died in his eyes and his face grew more sad as the worn, weary look of his features seemed to deepen. At last he rose, and struggling into his overcoat, passed out into the street. The night wind swept searchingly down the avenue. He shivered slightly.

C. W. K.

Comments

A WILD-EYED Son of Belial from some other college once grew obnoxious over the fact that we have no college life here at Columbia. We slew the wretch in rage, but of late, grim repentance has seized upon us. We hope this feeling will be as temporary as the stagnation in interest in college affairs which is so prevalent at present. MORNINGSIDE as a magazine feels it very much. Too many men here who can write if they wish to, appear to be so busy elsewhere that they neglect to support us. This coldness is noticeable in regard to the King's Crown and the Deutscher Verein also. The undergrads. do not take hold as they should and make things hum. Columbia's undergraduate life should tingle with that vitality which is characteristic of New York city-and this, too, dormitories or no dormitories, College Hall or no College Hall. It is the will to do the thing that's going to count, and not the buildings.

THE Deutscher Verein room is draped with black, and sadness has seized the Sons of Germania. Prince Henry is not coming to Columbia! With what anticipation the Vereiners looked forward to that impressive scene, when the august brother of the strenuous William was to march majestically around the campus accompanied by the sweet voices of the Vereiners chanting their Bierelei. Earl Hall was to be draped with frankfurters, the fountains in South Court were to gush forth lager; the pavements were to be laid with pretzels, while instead of the usual straw covering on tree and bush, the succulent sauerkraut plant was to rear its head to the breeze. But it cannot was! The Vereiners' aspirations to titles are blighted. The Bierfuchs will continue to be Bierfuchs and not Hofratgieskannewienerschnitzelgrafssiegelfürst in extenso. There is wehmut and ach in the hearts of the Deutscher Verein.

By the Law of Dreams

PARACELSUS FLAGLER, the great historian, author of the "History of Other Peoples' Times," in 39 quarto volumes with an appendix, fell asleep. Now in the usual course of events, Flagler should have dreamed, and his dream should have been a nightmare. Flagler's wife, too, later on in the dim morning, should have been aroused from her slumbers to hear him shout out some of the unintelligible stuff with which his brain was choked. But this night Flagler did not dream; his little body lay peacefully in bed and a quiet smile played about the corners of his tired mouth. But, gentle reader, do not blame old Morpheus for this omission, nor give him credit for wishing to relieve Flagler just this one time. Nay, rather leave the old fellow out of the question entirely, for far away in the Kingdom of Somnolence, Morpheus ruled drowsily and knew nothing about it. And you may be sure that when he did finally find it out, he was very wrathy indeed.

It came about thus: Flagler's dreams were in F. 19 in the third row of the second dream gallery, which is known as L. N., standing for Learned Nightmares. The whole number of each dream then would be something like this:

F 19 L. N 1906 B

of which the latter number changed with each dream. And each individual dream was set free by a dream imp who pushed the lever to the left twice, let go, rang a bell and the dream would start in Flagler's direction. Now the dream-imp who had charge of that second row was usually faithful; indeed, he was so used to the movements necessary to release Flag

ler's dreams from their spring, that it was almost reflex action with him to go through them every morning at 2, when Flagler pushed aside his documents and stumbled blindly to bed. That night, however, something must have broken in the machinery, or maybe the imp didn't push the button hard enough-who knows? At any rate, Flagler's dream went astray, and for once Flagler slept the sleep of the just. And the dream? The dream intact, but canted to one side, feebly moving down from Slumberland, and continually tacking away from the direction of Flagler's house, came down toward the Earth. Now, as you all may not know, a dream astray upon the earth must attach itself to the brain of the first man it meets. This is the infallible Law of Dreams.

Thus it happened that Jonas Hinkley, clerk, emerging from the Bon Ton Pool Parlor, corner of 94th Street and Lenox Avenue, suddenly stopped short, with a puzzled expression on his face, and began to act so queerly that the corner policeman followed him for full two blocks before he satisfied his own Irish mind that Jonas was but ordínarily drunk. You and I, however, gentle reader, know better. We know that as the puzzled expression gradually wore away from Jonas' face, it was T. Paracelsus Flagler's dream settling down to business in Hinkley's brain.

He walked along oblivious to everything except the shadowy forest-path, whose gradually ascending curves he was briskly following. The song of birds was all around him, and the scent of blossoms hung heavily upon the air. He felt himself lightly borne up by a mingled sense of elation and anxiety, such as he had never known before. Gradually the leafy twilight of the woods turned to brighter day, and finally the trees ceased altogether, and he emerged into a clearing on the crest of a hill whence he could dominate much of the surrounding country.

The sight that met his eyes was a most astonishing one. Before him, the land sloped pleasantly down to a wide plain which, miles away, undulated upward again into a line of misty hills. But the smiling valley between was filled with two huge armies of mailed men engaged in fiercest combat. The white, gold, and crimson streamers of the royal standards fluttered in the strife, and the blare of trumpets filled the air. The dead and dying lay thick on the field, and some were even panting their last at the foot of the hill upon which Jonas stood. "There are the English," he cried. "The Germans attack the left wing." A fierce joy tugged at his heart. "Ventre Saint Gris!" he exclaimed in a perfect French wholly unnatural to his dreamless hours. ""Tis the strife at Bouvines, Anno Domini 1214, and Philip our liege lord of France is sore beset. They must fly, the coward English. I, too, must be in the thick of it. Dieu Merci, I am in time." And having blessed himself, again in purest French, he plunged down the hill, impeded a little, it is true, by his heavy armor, which he now noticed for the first time. Near the foot, he became aware of a magnificent white charger in full battle array, which was prancing martially toward him. Equally martial, he met it half way and leaped impulsively into the saddle. Away they went with the stones clattering behind them, and the costly trappings of the horse jangling in the wind. In a moment Jonas was in the midst of the fight, hacking right and left with his heavy sword. The foe fell before him in his mad career. "Ah tonnerre, mordious, sacrébleu, piff paff!" he shouted with true Gallic fervor. "Ah, te voila, Coquin, Renard de Boulogne!" and he charged vigorously into a tall slender Englishman who stood insolently blocking his way.

Just then, T. Paracelsus Flagler awoke, and the dream, released, left Jonas' brain. And to this day Jonas cannot explain how he got to the hospital with a broken leg on the day after he left the Bon Ton