ith their red-headed neighbor. "He'll get
over it," he concluded confidently. "He's just been lonely."

Carl puffed contemplatively at his pipe for a few minutes before
replying. Hugh waited, watching the slender boy stretched out in a big
chair before the fire, his ankles crossed, his face gentle and boyish in
the ruddy, flickering light. The shadows, heavy and wavering, played
magic with the room; it was vast, mysterious.

"No," said Carl, pausing again to puff his pipe; "no, he won't get over
it. He'll go home."

"Aw, shucks. A big guy like that isn't going to stay a baby all his
life." Hugh was frankly derisive. "Soon as he gets to know a lot of
fellows, he'll forget home and mother."

Carl smiled vaguely, his eyes dreamy as he gazed into the hypnotizing
flames. The mask of sophistication had slipped off his face; he was
pleasantly in the control of a gentle mood, a mood that erased the last
vestige of protective coloring.

He shook his head slowly. "You don't understand, Hugh. Morse is sick,
_sick_--not lonesome. He's got something worse than flu. Nobody can
stand what he's got."

Hugh looked at him in bewilderment. This was a new Carl, some one he
hadn't met before. Gone was the slang flippancy, the hard roughness.
Even his voice was softened.

Carl knocked his pipe empty on the knob of an andiron, sank deeper into
his chair, and began to speak slowly.

"I think I'm going to tell you a thing or two about myself. We've got to
room together, and I--well, I like you. You're a good egg, but you don't
get me at all. I guess you've never run up against anybody like me
before." He paused. Hugh said nothing, afraid to break into Carl's mood.
He was intensely curious. He leaned forward and watched Carl, who was
staring dreamily into the fire.

"I told you once, I think," he continued, "that my old man had left us a
lot of jack. That's true. We're rich, awfully rich. I have my own
account and can spend as much as I like. The sky's the limit. What I
didn't tell you is that we're _nouveau riche_--no class at all. My old
man made all his money the first year of the war. He was a
commission-merchant, a middleman. Money just rolled in, I guess. He
bought stocks with it, and they boomed; and he had sense enough to sell
them when they were at the top. Six years ago we didn't have hardly
anything. Now we're rich."

"My old man was a good scout, but he didn't have much education; neither
has the old lady. Both of 'em we