ealousy had called before his eyes a forgotten moonlight gale,
and as Professor Caldwell made him see again the Northeast Trade herding
the white billows across the purple sea, so, from moment to moment, not
disconcerting but rather identifying and classifying, new memory-visions
rose before him, or spread under his eyelids, or were thrown upon the
screen of his consciousness. These visions came out of the actions and
sensations of the past, out of things and events and books of yesterday
and last week--a countless host of apparitions that, waking or sleeping,
forever thronged his mind.

So it was, as he listened to Professor Caldwell's easy flow of speech--the
conversation of a clever, cultured man--that Martin kept seeing himself
down all his past. He saw himself when he had been quite the hoodlum,
wearing a "stiff-rim" Stetson hat and a square-cut, double-breasted coat,
with a certain swagger to the shoulders and possessing the ideal of being
as tough as the police permitted. He did not disguise it to himself, nor
attempt to palliate it. At one time in his life he had been just a
common hoodlum, the leader of a gang that worried the police and
terrorized honest, working-class householders. But his ideals had
changed. He glanced about him at the well-bred, well-dressed men and
women, and breathed into his lungs the atmosphere of culture and
refinement, and at the same moment the ghost of his early youth, in stiff-
rim and square-cut, with swagger and toughness, stalked across the room.
This figure, of the corner hoodlum, he saw merge into himself, sitting
and talking with an actual university professor.

For, after all, he had never found his permanent abiding place. He had
fitted in wherever he found himself, been a favorite always and
everywhere by virtue of holding his own at work and at play and by his
willingness and ability to fight for his rights and command respect. But
he had never taken root. He had fitted in sufficiently to satisfy his
fellows but not to satisfy himself. He had been perturbed always by a
feeling of unrest, had heard always the call of something from beyond,
and had wandered on through life seeking it until he found books and art
and love. And here he was, in the midst of all this, the only one of all
the comrades he had adventured with who could have made themselves
eligible for the inside of the Morse home.

But such thoughts and visions did not prevent him from following
Prof