" he said, "things are picking up."

Nellie laid her nose on his knee and looked up at him. It had been a
long ride, and she was glad they were on the homeward stretch. But she
wagged her tail. Nellie knew when things were going well with her
master. And when his world went wrong, her sky darkened.

III

The sale of one car, however, does not make a fortune. Randy realized as
the days went on that if he sold them and sold them and sold them,
Dalton would still outdistance him financially.

There remained, therefore, fame, and the story in the back of his mind.
If he could lay a thing like that at Becky's feet! He had the lover's
urge towards some heaven-kissing act which should exalt his mistress----
A book for all the world to read--a picture painted with a flaming
brush, a statue carved with a magic instrument. It was for Becky that
Randy would work and strive hoping that by some divine chance he might
draw her to him.

He worked at night until the Major finally remonstrated.

"Do you ever go to bed?"

Randy laughed. "Sometimes."

"Are you writing?"

"Trying to."

"Hard work?"

"I like it,"--succinctly.

The Major smoked for a while in silence. Then he said, "I suppose you
don't want to talk about it."

It was a starry night and a still one. The younger boarders had gone for
a ride. The older boarders were in bed. The Major was stretched in his
long chair. Randy sat as usual on the steps.

"Yes," he said, "I'd like to talk about it. I have a big idea, and I
can't put it on paper."

He hugged his knees and talked. His young voice thrilled with the
majesty of his conception. Here, he said, was the idea. Once upon a time
there had been a race of wonderful swans, with plumage so white that
when they rested in flocks on the river banks they made a blanket of
snow. Their flight was a marvellous thing--they flew so high that the
eye of man could not see them--but the sound of their trumpets could be
heard. The years passed and the swans came no more to their old haunts.
Men had hunted them and killed them--but there were those who held that
on still nights they could be heard--sounding their trumpets----

"I want to link that up with the A. E. F. We were like the swans--a
white company which flew to France---- Our idealism was the song which
we sounded high up. And the world listened--and caught the sound---- And
now, as a body we are extinct, but if men will listen, they may still
hear our trumpets--