list to his words of wisdom."

"You forgot to give um the address: 1658 Brimstone Avenue, Fiery
Heights, Hell," Gunch chuckled, but the others felt that this was
irreligious. And besides--"probably it was just Chum making the knocks,
but still, if there did happen to be something to all this, be exciting
to talk to an old fellow belonging to--way back in early times--"

A thud. The spirit of Dante had come to the parlor of George F. Babbitt.

He was, it seemed, quite ready to answer their questions. He was "glad
to be with them, this evening."

Frink spelled out the messages by running through the alphabet till the
spirit interpreter knocked at the right letter.

Littlefield asked, in a learned tone, "Do you like it in the Paradiso,
Messire?"

"We are very happy on the higher plane, Signor. We are glad that you are
studying this great truth of spiritualism," Dante replied.

The circle moved with an awed creaking of stays and shirt-fronts.
"Suppose--suppose there were something to this?"

Babbitt had a different worry. "Suppose Chum Frink was really one of
these spiritualists! Chum had, for a literary fellow, always seemed to
be a Regular Guy; he belonged to the Chatham Road Presbyterian Church
and went to the Boosters' lunches and liked cigars and motors and racy
stories. But suppose that secretly--After all, you never could tell
about these darn highbrows; and to be an out-and-out spiritualist would
be almost like being a socialist!"

No one could long be serious in the presence of Vergil Gunch. "Ask Dant'
how Jack Shakespeare and old Verg'--the guy they named after me--are
gettin' along, and don't they wish they could get into the movie game!"
he blared, and instantly all was mirth. Mrs. Jones shrieked, and Eddie
Swanson desired to know whether Dante didn't catch cold with nothing on
but his wreath.

The pleased Dante made humble answer.

But Babbitt--the curst discontent was torturing him again, and heavily,
in the impersonal darkness, he pondered, "I don't--We're all so flip and
think we're so smart. There'd be--A fellow like Dante--I wish I'd read
some of his pieces. I don't suppose I ever will, now."

He had, without explanation, the impression of a slaggy cliff and on it,
in silhouette against menacing clouds, a lone and austere figure. He was
dismayed by a sudden contempt for his surest friends. He grasped Louetta
Swanson's hand, and found the comfort of human warmth. Habit came, a
veteran warrior;