aloft, as I think I am too likely to do, I have to
be very firm in the wings, else the sight of Fergus MacGregor, with his
red hair, his scorched face, and his angular wiry frame, will bring me
straight down to earth. He brought me down the first morning I laid eyes
on him. As I stood there in the printing-office, looking about me,
Fergus glanced up from the "Adventures of Tom Sawyer" and said:

"Wull?"

I can't tell you what worlds of solid reality were packed into that
single word. At once all my imaginings came tumbling about me. What,
after all, had I come for? Why was I in this absurd printing-office?
What wild-goose chase was I on? I should really be at home planting
potatoes. Potatoes, cows, corn, cash--surely there were no other
realities in life! For an instant the visions of the fields died within
me, and I felt sick and weak. You will understand--if you understand.

I thought, as I stood there stupidly, that this was indeed the man who
would say "Fudge!" to all the world.

I groped in a wandering mind for some adequate way of escape, and it
occurred to me presently that I could order a thousand envelopes, with
my name printed in the corner, and bring him to terms. No, I'd order
_five_ thousand--and utterly obliterate him!

"Wull?" said Fergus.

If it had not been for this second "Wull?" I might have gone back to my
immemorial existence and never have brought my new vision to the hard
test of life, never have known Anthy, never have felt the glory of a new
earth.

But with that second "Wull?" which was even more devastating than the
first, I felt something electric, warm, strong, stinging through me. I
had a curious sense of high happiness, and before I knew it I was
saying:

"After all, men _do_ fly!"

I laugh still when I remember how Fergus MacGregor looked at me. For a
long moment he said nothing as eloquently as ever I heard it said. I
began to feel the humour of the situation (humour is the fellow that
always waits just around the corner until the danger is past), but I
said in all seriousness:

"I'm looking for the man who wrote an editorial last week headed
'Fudge.' He doesn't appear to approve of flying machines."

Fergus had not stirred by so much as the fraction of an inch. He looked
at me for another instant and then paid me, if I had known it, a most
surprising compliment. He smiled. His face slowly cracked open--I can
express it no other way--and remained cracked for the space of tw