otic or Alma-Matriotic football.

Teed had no intention of enduring either of these inconveniences; he
trusted to fate to inspire him somehow with some scheme for attaining
his diploma without delay. His future job depended on his diploma--and
his girl depended on his job.

He did not intend to be kept from either by any ancient authors. He had
not the faintest idea how he was going to bridge that chasm--but, as he
wrote his Fansy-pansy, "Love will find the way."

While Teed was taking thought for the beginning of his life-work Litton
was completing his--or at least he thought he was. With the splendid
devotion of the scholar he had selected for his contribution to human
welfare the best possible edition of the work least likely to be read by
anybody. A firm of publishers had kindly consented to print it--at
Litton's expense.

Litton would donate a copy to his own university; two or three college
libraries would purchase copies out of respect to the learned professor;
and Litton would give away a few more. The rest would stand in an
undisturbed stack of increasing dust, there to remain unread as long
perhaps as the myriads of Babylonian classics that Assurbani-pal had
copied in brick volumes for his great library at Nineveh.

Professor Litton had chosen for his life-work a recension of the
ponderous epic in forty-eight books that old Nonnus wrote in Egypt, the
labyrinthine Dionysiaka describing the voyage of Bacchus to India and
back.

A pretty theme for an old water-drinker who had never tasted wine! But
Litton toiled over the Greek text, added copious notes as to minute
variants, appallingly learned prolegomena, an index, and finally an
English version in prose. He had begun to translate it into hexameters,
but he feared that he would never live to finish it. It was hard enough
for a man like Litton to express at all the florid spirit of an author
whose theme was "the voluptuous phalanxes" of Bacchus' army--"the heroic
race of such unusual warriors; the shaggy satyrs; the breed of centaurs;
the tribes of Sileni, whose legs bristle with hair; and the battalions
of Bassarids."

He had kept at it all these years, however, and it was ready now for the
eyes of a world that would never see it. He had watched it through the
compositors' hands, keeping a tireless eye on the infinite nuisance of
Greek accents. He had read the galley proofs, the page proofs, and now
at last the black-bordered foundry proofs. He scorned