in this
world."

"Free of what, Nort?" I asked.

"Ed Smith--for one thing."

"Have you thought that wherever you go you will be meeting Ed Smiths?"

He did not reply.

"I'm sorry," I said, "that you've surrendered."

"Surrendered?" He winced as though I had cut him.

"Yes, surrendered. Haven't you sent for money? Haven't you given up?
Aren't you trying to run away?"

Nort jumped from his place.

"No!" he shouted. "Ed Smith discharged me. I would rather cut off my
right hand than work in the same county with him again."

"So you have balked at the first hurdle--and are going to run away!"

I have thought often since then of that perilous moment, of how much in
Nort's future life turned upon it.

Nort's eyes, usually so blue and smiling, grew as black as night.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I mean just what I said"--I looked him in the eye--"you are running
away before the battle begins."

For a moment I thought I had lost him, and my heart began to sink within
me, and then--it was beautiful--he stepped impulsively toward me:

"Well, what do you think I should do, anyway?"

"Nort," I said, "only yesterday you were enthusiastic over the idea of
getting the truth about Hempfield, of publishing a really great country
newspaper."

"What an ass I was!"

"Wrong!" I said.

"David," he cut in petulantly, "I don't get what you mean."

"I'll tell you, Nort: The greatest joy in this world to a man like you
is the joy of new ideas, of wonderful plans---- Now, isn't it?"

"Yes. I certainly thought for a few days last week that I had found the
pot at the end of the rainbow."

"It was only the rainbow, Nort: if you want the pot you've got to dig
for it."

"What do you mean?"

"You think that you can stop with enthusiastic dreams and vast ideas.
But no vision and no idea is worth a copper cent unless it is brought
down to earth, patiently harnessed, painfully trained, and set to work.
There is a beautiful analogy that comes often to my mind. We conceive an
idea, as a child is conceived, in a transport of joy; but after that
there are long months of growth in the close dark warmth of the soul, to
which every part of one's personality must contribute, and then there is
the painful hour of travail when at last the idea is given to the world.
It is a process that cannot be hurried nor borne without suffering. And
the punishment of those who stop with the joy of conception, thinking
they can skim the delig