place at the
Club.

* * * * *

At the end of an address delivered a year afterward before a close
medical meeting Dr. Alaric Randolph said:

"A bit of bright, cut glass, and a healthy will, and the proportional
training did this thing. I have not given the man's name, not only on
account of his high social standing and marked mental ability, but also
because he himself is still ignorant of the facts. I have no fear of a
relapse. He has forgotten that he ever believed himself to have murdered
a woman who never existed. But he has not forgotten that he no longer
drinks. This case is now a tested cure. My first successful experiment
in this great, unknown field, rests upon its facts. Alcoholism is
probably as serious an illustration as we could present. The hypnotic
therapeutics have come to stay."

SCUD.

It was the morning after my arrival. I had just come, jaded from
examination papers, agued with the incessant ring of orations, abhorrent
of the rustle of white tarlatans, distrustful of the future attitude of
trustees, and utterly wilted from the effect of a country academy
exhibition held in the heat of June in the torridest of Western towns. I
had never seen the ocean, and before my window the glorious old Atlantic
heaved solemnly. Its intermittent swash upon the rocks sent peace into
my soul. I found myself near enough even to throw something into the
water. The longing to communicate with this new friend, dreamed of for
so many inland years, overpowered me. A box of buttons was all I had,
and I leaned far out into the air, pungent with a mixture of fish and
kelp, and cast into the deep these feminine necessities, one by one.
Now a tiny disk of mother-of-pearl would glance on the float and bounce
off into a gray ripple; and then a bit of jet would clatter on the red
granite rocks, and be swallowed by a lapping wavelet that seemed to rise
on purpose for this strange offering. Too soon the box was emptied of
its contents; then there came a mad desire to throw cologne, shoes,
satchel, anything, everything, myself, from the second-story window into
this mysterious, beckoning, repelling Atlantic tide beneath me. Leaning
on the sill, with my whole soul absorbed in this new Nirvana, I was
suddenly and yet not unpleasantly aroused by a strident yell:

"Hellow, Scud! Wha'che got this mornin'?"

"Oh, no-thin', only twenty-six little 'uns, an' a couple bucket o'
bait."

The answ