and Mundy one day announced that his salary had been
raised ten dollars.

All that, however, was the brighter side. Often during those hot, heavy
nights, while he pieced together the day's complicated pattern, George
envied the fortunates who could play away from pavements and baking
walls. He found himself counting the days until he would go back to
Princeton and football, and Betty's charm; but even that prospect was
shadowed by his doubt as to how he would emerge from the club tangle.

He didn't meet Sylvia, but one day he saw Old Planter step from an
automobile and enter the marble temple where he was accustomed to
sacrifice corporations and people to the gods of his pocket-book. The
great man used a heavy stick and climbed the steps rather slowly,
flanked by obsequious underlings, gaped at by a crowd, buzzing and
over-impressed. Somehow George couldn't fancy Blodgett with the gout--it
was too delightfully bred.

He peered in the automobile, but of course Sylvia wasn't there, nor, he
gathered from his mother's occasional notes to thank him for the little
money he could send her, was she much at Oakmont.

"I'll see her this fall," he told himself, "and next winter. I've
started to do what I said I would."

As far as Wall Street was concerned, Blodgett evidently agreed with him.

"I can put up with you next summer," he said at parting. "I'll write Mr.
Alston you're fit for something besides football."

Mundy displayed a pastoral sadness.

"You ought to stay right here," he said. "College is all right if you
don't want to amount to a hill of beans. It's rotten for making money."

Nevertheless, he agreed to send George a weekly letter, giving his wise
views as to what was going on among the money makers. They all made him
feel that even in that rushing place his exit had caused a perceptible
ripple.

XXII

The smallness, the untidiness, the pure joy of Squibs Bailly's study!

The tutor ran his hands over George's muscles.

"You're looking older and a good deal worn," he said, "but thank God
you're still hard."

Mrs. Bailly sat there, too. They were both anxious for his experiences,
yet when he had told them everything he sensed a reservation in their
praise.

"I think I should turn my share of the laundry back," he said,
defiantly. "I've something like three thousand dollars of my own now."

"Does it make you feel very rich?" Mrs. Bailly asked.

He laughed.

"It's a tiny start, but I won't need