you, my hearty? I believe you miss your soft iron
couch. Or did you leave it this morning left foot foremost? Anyhow,
Quell, don't get on your ear. We'll push to town as soon as it's
twilight, and I know a little crib near the river where we can have all
we want to eat and drink. Do you hear--drink!" Quell made no answer. The
other continued:--

"Besides, I don't see why you've turned sulky simply because your family
sent you up to the Hermitage. It's no disgrace. In fact, it steadies the
nerves, and you can get plenty of booze."

"If you have the price," snapped his friend.

"Money or no money, McKracken's asylum--no, it's bad taste to call it
that; his retreat, ah, there's the word!--is not so awful. I've a theory
that our keepers are crazy as loons; though you can't blame them,
watching us, as they must, from six o'clock in the morning until
midnight. Say, why were you put away?"

"Crazy, like yourself, I suppose." Quell grinned.

"And now we're cured. We cured ourselves by flight. How can they call us
crazy when we planned the job so neatly?"

Arved began to be interested in the sound of his own voice. He searched
his pockets and after some vain fumbling found a half package of
cigarettes.

"Take some and be happy, my boy. They are boon-sticks indeed." Quell
suddenly arose.

"Arved, what were you sent up for, may I ask?"

The poet stretched his big legs, rolled over on his back again, and
scratching his tangled beard, smoked the cigarette he had just lighted.
In the hot hum of the woods there was heard the occasional dropping of
pine cones as the wind fanned lazy music from the leaves. They could not
see the sun; its power was felt. Perspiration beaded their shiny faces
and presently they removed collars and coats, sitting at ease in
shirt-sleeves.... Arved's tongue began to speed:--

"Though I've only known you twenty-four hours, my son, I feel impelled
to tell you the history of my happy life--for happiness has its
histories, no matter what the poets say. But the day is hot, our time
limited. Wait until we are recaptured, then I'll spin you a yarn."

"You expect to get caught for sure?"

"I do. So do you. No need to argue--your face tells me that. But we'll
have the time of our life before they gather us in. Anyhow, we'll want
to go back. The whole world is crazy, but ashamed to acknowledge it. We
are not. Pascal said men are so mad that he who would not be is a madman
of a new kind. To escape ineff