the Turk mooned, Carl wrote short honest notes to Gertie, to his
banker employer, to Bennie Rusk, whom he addressed as "Friend Ben." He
found himself writing a long and spirited letter to Bone Stillman, who
came out of the backwater of ineffectuality as a man who had dared.
Frankly he wrote to his mother--his mammy he wistfully called her. To
his father he could not write. With quick thumps of his fist he
stamped the letters, then glanced at the Turk. He was gay, mature,
business-like, ready for anything. "I'll pull out in half an hour
now," he chuckled.

"Gosh!" sighed the Turk. "I feel as if I was responsible for
everything. Oh, say, here's a letter I forgot to give you. Came this
afternoon."

The letter was from Gertie.

DEAR CARL,--I hear that you _are_ standing for that Frazer
just as much as ever and really Carl I think you might
consider other people's feelings a little and not be so selfish----

Without finishing it, Carl tore up the letter in a fury. Then, "Poor
kid; guess she means well," he thought, and made an imaginary bow to
her in farewell.

There was a certain amount of the milk of human-kindness in the frozen
husk he had for a time become. But he must be blamed for icily
rejecting the Turk's blundering attempts to make peace. He
courteously--courtesy, between these two!--declined the Turk's offer
to help him carry his suit-cases to the station. That was like a slap.

"Good-by. Hang on tight," he said, as he stooped to the heavy
suit-cases and marched out of the door without looking back.

By some providence he was saved from the crime of chilly
self-righteousness. On the darkness of the stairs he felt all at once
how responsive a chum the Turk had been. He dropped the suit-cases,
not caring how they fell, rushed back into the room, and found the
Turk still staring at the door. He cried:

"Old man, I was----Say, you yahoo, are you going to make me carry both
my valises to the depot?"

They rushed off together, laughing, promising to write to each other.

The Minneapolis train pulled out, with Carl trying to appear
commonplace. None of the sleepy passengers saw that the Golden Fleece
was draped about him or that under his arm he bore the harp of
Ulysses. He was merely a young man taking a train at a way-station.

Part II

THE ADVENTURE OF ADVENTURING

CHAPTER XIII

There are to-day in the mind of Carl Ericson many confused
recollections of the purposeless