at night. In
his room at the top of the Schoolhouse. Yet the things that he had
written seemed trivial as he thought of them. What he wanted was to
strike a ringing note. To have the fellows say when they read it, "If it
is true for him it is true for me."

Yet when one came to think of it, there were really not any "fellows."
Not in the sense that it had been "over there." They were scattered to
the four winds, dispersed to the seven seas--the A. E. F. was
extinct--as extinct--as the Trumpeter Swan!

And now his thoughts ran fast, and faster. Here was his theme. Where was
that glorious company of young men who had once sounded their trumpets
to the world? Gone, as the swans were gone--leaving the memory of their
whiteness--leaving the memory of their beauty--leaving the memory of
their--song----

He wanted to turn back at once. To drive Little Sister at breakneck
speed towards pen and paper. But some instinct drove him doggedly
towards the matter on hand. One might write masterpieces, but there were
cars to be sold.

He sold one----; quite strangely and unexpectedly he found that the
transaction was not difficult. The man whom he had come to see was on
the front porch and was glad of company. Randy explained his errand. "It
is new business for me. But I've got something to offer you that you'll
find you'll want----"

He found that he could say many things truthful about the merits of
Little Sister. He had a convincing manner; the young farmer listened.

"Let me take you for a ride," Randy offered, and away they went along
the country roads, and through the main streets of the town in less time
that it takes to say--"Jack Robinson."

When they came back, the children ran out to see, and Randy took them
down the road and back again. "You can carry the whole family," he said,
"when you go----"

The man's wife came out. She refused to ride. She was afraid.

But Randy talked her over. "My mother felt like that. But once you are
in it is different."

She climbed in, and came back with her face shining.

"I am going to buy the car," her husband said to her.

Randy's heart jumped. Somehow he had felt that it would not really
happen. He had had little faith in his qualities as salesman. Yet, after
all, it had happened, and he had sold his car.

Riding down the hill, he was conscious of a new sense of achievement. It
was all very well to dream of writing masterpieces. But here was
something tangible.

"Nellie,