old came once more upon the editorial board of the Tate "Tattler," eight sober youths looking as editorial as possible, and spotted the Harlow Gaines of a decade back, spectacled and over-supplied with hair. Thence to the glee and mandolin clubs, stiff in dress suits. And to the cherubic society slickers of the Junior Promenade committee. He read for the fifteenth time the account of the show, "The Duchess of Dreams," produced that year by the Sock and Buskin Club, and scanned the illustrations of undersized undergraduates dresssd to impersonate girls and looking precisely like undersized undergraduates dressed to impersonate girls.
Harold closed the book with a sigh. Harlow Gaines was a lucky man. Harlow Gaines had lived. Outside the hose still swished and the children shouted and the twangy voice from Cleveland still discoursed on "Bank Failures."
Harold got up, replaced the book upon his dresser, and, opening a drawer, drew out four well-thumbed copies of a four-page newspaper. Returning to his bed, he turned the hot pillow over and resumed his sitting posture, opening the first of the newspapers upon his lap. It was the Tate "Tattler" dated but a month ago.
A stalwart, well-groomed youth in a foot-
