hed things."

Jeff sat up on the bed. Points of light were dancing in his big eyes.
"That's what the Pharisees said to Jesus when he wouldn't stand for lies
because they were deep rooted and for injustice because it had become
respectable."

"Oh, if you're going to compare yourself to Christ--"

"Verden University is supposed to stand for Christianity, isn't it?
It was because Jesus whanged away at social and industrial freedom, at
fraternity, at love on earth, that he had to endure the Cross. He got
under the upper class skin when he attacked the traditional lies of
vested interests. Now why doesn't Bland preach the things that Jesus
taught?"

"He does."

"Yes, he does," Jeff scoffed. "He preaches good form, respectability,
a narrow personal righteousness, a salvation canned and petrified three
hundred years ago."

"Do you want him to preach socialism?"

"I want him to preach the square deal in our social life, intellectual
honesty, and a vital spiritual life. Think of what this college might
mean, how it might stand for democracy It ought to pour out into the
state hundreds of specialists on the problems of the country. Instead,
it is only a reflection of the caste system that is growing up in
America."

James shrugged his broad shoulders. "I've been through all that. It's
a phase we pass. You'll get over it. You've got to if you are going to
succeed."

A quizzical grin wrinkled Jeff's lean face. "What is success?"

"It's setting a high goal and reaching it. It's taking the world by the
throat and shaking from it whatever you want." James leaned across the
table, his eyes shining. "It's the journey's end for the strong, that's
what it is. I don't care whether a man is gathering gilt or fame, he's
got to pound away with his eye right on it. And he's got to trample down
the things that get in his way."

Jeff's eye fell upon a book on the table. "Ever hear of a chap called
Goldsmith?"

"Of course. He wrote 'The School for Scandal.' What's he got to do with
it?"

Jeff smiled, without correcting his cousin. "I've been reading about
him. Seems to have been a poor hack writer 'who threw away his life in
handfuls.' He wrote the finest poem, the best novel, the most charming
comedy of his day. He knew how to give, but he didn't know how to take.
So he died alone in a garret. He was a failure."

"Probably his own fault."

"And on the day of his funeral the stairway was crowded with poor people
he had helpe