core," he announced with finality, speaking of the
United States, in answer to a question. "What are the idols we
worship? Law, the chain which binds an enslaved people; thrift, born
of childish fear; love of country, which is another name for crass
provincialism. I--I am a Cosmopolite, not an American. Bohemia is my
land, and all free souls are my brothers. Why should I get wrinkles
because Germany sunk the Lusitania a month or two ago? That's her
business, not mine."

Clay leaned forward on a search for information. "Excuse me for
buttin' in, and me a stranger. But isn't it yore business when she
murders American women and children?"

The pasty-faced man looked at him with thinly disguised contempt. "You
wouldn't understand if I explained."

"Mebbeso I wouldn't, but you take a whirl at it and I'll listen high,
wide, and handsome."

The man in velveteens unexpectedly found himself doing as he was told.
There was a suggestion of compulsion about the gray-blue eyes fastened
on his, something in the clamp of the strong jaw that brought him up
for a moment against stark reality.

"The intelligentsia of a country knows that there can be no freedom
until there is no law. Every man's duty is to disregard duty. So, by
faring far on the wings of desire, he helps break down the slavery that
binds us. Obey the Cosmic Urge of your soul regardless of where it
leads you, young man."

It was unfortunate for the poet of Bohemia that at this precise moment
Kitty Mason, dressed in sandals and a lilac-patterned smock, stood
before him with a tray of cigarettes asking for his trade. The naive
appeal in her soft eyes had its weight with the poet. What is the use
of living in Bohemia if one cannot be free to follow impulse? He
slipped an arm about the girl and kissed the crimson lips upturned to
him.

Kitty started back with a little cry of distress.

The freedom taken by the near-poet was instantly avenged.

A Cosmic Urge beat in the veins of the savage from Arizona. He took
the poet's advice and followed his Lawless Impulse where it led.
Across the table a long arm reached. Sinewy fingers closed upon the
flowing neckwear of the fat-faced orator and dragged him forward,
leaving overturned glasses in the wake of his course.

The man in velveteens met the eyes of the energetic manhandler and
quailed. This brown-faced barbarian looked very much like business.

"Don't you touch me! Don't you dare touch me!" th