enly become the world's worst radical."

Burne hurried on, and it was several days before Amory heard an account
of the ensuing conversation. Burne had come into the editor's sanctum
displaying the paper cheerfully.

"Hello, Jesse."

"Hello there, Savonarola."

"I just read your editorial."

"Good boy--didn't know you stooped that low."

"Jesse, you startled me."

"How so?"

"Aren't you afraid the faculty'll get after you if you pull this
irreligious stuff?"

"What?"

"Like this morning."

"What the devil--that editorial was on the coaching system."

"Yes, but that quotation--"

Jesse sat up.

"What quotation?"

"You know: 'He who is not with me is against me.'"

"Well--what about it?"

Jesse was puzzled but not alarmed.

"Well, you say here--let me see." Burne opened the paper and read:
"'_He who is not with me is against me_, as that gentleman said who
was notoriously capable of only coarse distinctions and puerile
generalities.'"

"What of it?" Ferrenby began to look alarmed. "Oliver Cromwell said it,
didn't he? or was it Washington, or one of the saints? Good Lord, I've
forgotten."

Burne roared with laughter.

"Oh, Jesse, oh, good, kind Jesse."

"Who said it, for Pete's sake?"

"Well," said Burne, recovering his voice, "St. Matthew attributes it to
Christ."

"My God!" cried Jesse, and collapsed backward into the waste-basket.

*****

AMORY WRITES A POEM

The weeks tore by. Amory wandered occasionally to New York on the chance
of finding a new shining green auto-bus, that its stick-of-candy
glamour might penetrate his disposition. One day he ventured into a
stock-company revival of a play whose name was faintly familiar. The
curtain rose--he watched casually as a girl entered. A few phrases rang
in his ear and touched a faint chord of memory. Where--? When--?

Then he seemed to hear a voice whispering beside him, a very soft,
vibrant voice: "Oh, I'm such a poor little fool; _do_ tell me when I do
wrong."

The solution came in a flash and he had a quick, glad memory of
Isabelle.

He found a blank space on his programme, and began to scribble rapidly:

"Here in the figured dark I watch once more,
There, with the curtain, roll the years away;
Two years of years--there was an idle day
Of ours, when happy endings didn't bore
Our unfermented souls; I could adore
Your eager face beside me, wide-eyed, gay,
Smiling a repertoire while