as some trivial irritation of it that kept us from hearing his
philosophy that night, and, more important to me, that sent another to
expound ideas far different than could ever have come from the famous
thinker. All the college, all in Harlansburg who were well-to-do and
wise, watched for his coming expectantly; but when the door on the chapel
platform opened and Judge Bundy stepped forth, he had on his arm, not the
monumental preacher of the clean-shaven face and rolling black hair, but
a man who in no line met the hopes raised by the impressive picture. A
murmur of disappointment ran through the hall. Doctor Todd, following
the great men in the humble capacity of beadle, stilled it with a raised
hand.

To Judge Bundy's mind, as he expressed it to us, there was no cause for
disappointment. While the Reverend Valerian Harassan's bronchial
affection was unfortunate for us and for him, yet for us it was in a way,
too, a blessing, for he had sent in his place to speak to us on "Life" no
other than the famous journalist and traveller Andrew Henderson. The
judge paused to give time for a play of our imaginations, and such a play
was needed. I do not think that a soul in the audience had ever heard of
the famous journalist and traveller, but we should not have admitted it,
and set ourselves to looking as though his name were a household word.
It was enough that Judge Bundy declared him to be famous. It was
decreed, and for Harlansburg, at least, he became a celebrity. Having
given us time to imagine the deeds which had won fame for the lecturer,
Judge Bundy saw no need to trouble himself with specifications. The
rolling periods of his speech would have been rudely halted by facts, so
he spoke in general terms of the inspiration it would give to the young
men before him to see such a man face to face--a man who knew life, a man
who had lived life, who had ideas on life. It seemed as though the judge
himself was about to deliver the lecture on "Life," but he paused, out of
breath, and Andrew Henderson, mistaking the moment of rest for the end of
the introduction, rose from the chair about which he had been shifting
uneasily and came to the rostrum's edge.

He came with a shambling gait. The tall, thin, loose-jointed man,
resting with one hand on the pulpit at his side, in every way belied the
pompous tribute which had just been paid him.

I watched him. I studied the face masked in a close-cropped gray beard.
I s