companionship of his fellow-men. He could not endure to be alone. He was fond of telling long, detailed stories, and of these he invariably made himself the protagonist. Any event of which he had heard became "a funny thing that happened to me" when Bones told it, or, if this was not possible, he took the viewpoint of the actual eye-witness. "I yelled at him, but he didn't hear me in time" . . . "I just happened to be rounding the corner at that minute" . . . Most of his sentences began with the first person pronoun, like those in a "true tale" publication.
But on the other hand, he was the soul of generosity. He was sincere in his devotion to his friends. He was even-tempered and cheerful always, as human beings are who skim the surface of life and hence encounter little to make them sad. You liked to be with him for, although he said nothing you could carry away with you, he gave you a sense that the world was light and delicious, and existence in it a treat to be appreciated.
Bones' contributions to the decorative scheme of the room he shared with Jock were just what might have been expected. Banners and pennants. Pictures of footlight favorites. Several rather obscene postcards purchased from a porter on a Pullman car. Posters depicting one phase or another of college life. Innumerable photographs of girls. . . . Jock's contributions were similar except for a sparse few choice items, representing the real Jock. These he produced rather shamefacedly and began to hang here and there in nottoo-conspicuous places. As he had feared, there was instant protest: "Hey, what's that funny-looking thing?"
"That's a Japanese print, and a darn good one."
"But say, Jock, listen"
Jock was firm, however; and as a result, the com-
