the show. Pheasant not bad on The Soldier. Red ribbon. Motored home. Row about lottery ticket for canary. Gran absolutely awful. Had two glasses of port!! Saw Joan."
He sucked the abrasions on his knuckles and let his eyes run over the entries of the preceding days. There was more or less variety in these. School was more or less rotten. There were noted several good times with Leigh, and a "h of an evening" with George and Tom. One peculiarity was common to all the entries. They all ended with the name "Joan." It was either "Saw Joan" or "Did not see Joan."
In looking over the entries, Finch saw nothing either pathetic or ridiculous in them. Nevertheless he took care to conceal the diary behind some textbooks on the shelf before he began his evening's work. He did not intend to run any risk of its being discovered by the prying eyes of Pheasant or young Wake.
He took out his Euclid and laid it on the table before him. The upper right-hand corner had to be placed on an old ink stain in the wood. The book had a habit of opening of itself at page 107. He hoped it would not do that to-night because, if it did, he might be unable to study. His jaw dropped and his hand shook as he raised the cover—107 stared up at him. . . . The pencil he held between his fingers fell with a small clatter to the floor. He was afraid he would not be able to pick it up. He stared blankly at the number on the corner of the page—107. Why did he fear it? 1—that was the same as I . . . I, Finch Whiteoak. 0—that was nothing . . . he, Finch, was nothing! Ah, he was getting at it! That was why he dreaded the number, and no wonder! Then, 7—that, of course, was magic. Magic 7. I, Finch, am nothing. He closed the Euclid sharply and opened it in a fresh place. Page 70 this time. Again the magic 7, and after that naught. Magic followed by nothingness, void. . . . That was life, magic, with naught to follow! He tried again. Page 123. Again the I. Then two . . . I and another. Two of us. . . . Then three. I and the other have made a third. Three of us. . . . He
