two types—the new type, highly qualified, official, administrative, scientific, public-spirited; the old type, capitalistic, with a pretentious house and equipment, the doctor with a brougham, and a dispensary, the schoolmaster or schoolmistress with some huge old stucco house converted by jerry-built extensions to meet scholastic needs. Who would not rather, one may ask, choose the former way who was not already irrevocably committed to the latter? Well, I with my Socialist dreams would like to answer “No one,” but I’m learning to check my buoyant optimism. The imagination and science in a young man may cry out for the public position, for the valiant public work, for the hard, honourable, creative years. He may sit with his fellow-students and his fellow-workers in a nocturnal cloud of tobacco smoke and fine talk, and vow himself to research and the creative world state. In the morning he will think he has dreamed; he will recall what the world is, what Socialists are, what he has heard wild Socialists say


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No, it would be a world generally poor, a tired but chastened world getting itself into order again.... Would there be much music in the years ahead? Much writing or art? Would there be a new theatre and the excitement of first nights again? Should we presently travel by aeroplane, and find all the world within a few days journey? They were both prepared to resign themselves to ten years of work and scarcity, but they both clung to the hope of returning prosperity and freedom after that.

He looked at me in amazement, and then he said he had never voted in his life. It was his expression rather than his words that impressed me. This expression told me how out of touch he was with the world about him. He had, in fact, as I learned, no family, no home, friends, trade; he belonged to no society; he had, so far as I could learn, no views on life. In the very midst of this great city he was as solitary as a hermit.

Gathered in a circle were a score or more of Hatcher's people.

"Youth, ah, un-van-quish-able youth," Judy chanted happily by herself. "Flashing like a meteor across the chess fir-ma-ment. Morphy, Angler, Judy Kaplan...."

Adjournment time neared. Serek, the exchange down but with considerable time on his clock, sealed his forty-sixth move against Sherevsky and handed the envelope to Vanderhoef. It would be opened when the game was resumed at the morning session. Dr. Krakatower studied the position on his board and then quietly tipped over his king. He sat there for a moment as if he hadn't the strength to rise. Then he shook himself a little, smiled, got up, clasped hands briefly with Lysmov and wandered over to watch the Angler-Jal game.


But it is a very different matter when the author of a book like mine ventures, as I have done for sufficient reasons but at the same time with regret, to sit in judgment on the works of men of research and experts, who belong to our own time and who exert a lively influence on their generation. In this case the author can no longer appeal to the consentient opinion of his contemporaries; he finds them divided into parties, and involuntarily belongs to a party himself. But it is a still more weighty consideration that he may subsequently change his own point of view, and may arrive at a more profound insight into the value of the works which he has criticised; continued study and maturer years may teach him that he overestimated some things fifteen or twenty years ago and perhaps undervalued others, and facts, once assumed to be well established, may now be acknowledged to be incorrect.

“The injury is serious, then?” I asked.

And grasp their rifles and prepare

1.chapter 1

2.“Nonsinse” ses Mr. James, “shes at the keyhole lissening.”


He rose from the bed, and felt his way towards his dressing-table. As he was groping for the matches, his hand fell upon an unopened letter. From Marian, without a doubt; he felt his heart throbbing; at once he struck a light and looked hurriedly for the familiar writing. No, not from Marian! Totally unlike her square neatly written notes; a large blue letter, directed in a straggling hand, and awkwardly folded. Though Joyce was disappointed and, vexed for an instant, he quickly recovered himself, and he took the letter up and smiled at it pleasantly, for he had recognised the style and the writing, and he knew that it had come from old Jack Byrne.



In his early manhood Bantock travelled a good deal in the East, not so much by choice, but because circumstances drove him thither. Yet I often feel that the 250East is his natural home. Whether or not he has any close acquaintance with Eastern languages, I do not know, but he certainly likes his friends to think he has, and many of the letters he has sent me contain quotations and odd words written in what I take to be Persian and Chinese characters. I should not, however, be in the least surprised to learn that these are “faked,” for Bantock loves nothing so much as gently pulling the legs of his friends.


Hartford set his bitcher low. "Abunai yo!" he said to his guerrillas, sprawled out all along the ledge like figurines on a mantlepiece. "Be cautious. Shoot your dart and get behind something. From now on, be silent. The enemy is near."


and had nothing of the raw-head-and-bloody-bones appearance which his character would indicate.”

. . .