my world," the general rose and waved his poker
as if to beat down the forces of materialism about him, "my world is
the substance of things hoped for, and the evidence of things not
seen." He paused. "As I was saying," he continued at last, "if this is
a real world, if matter actually exists and this world is not a dream
of my consciousness, whose world is it, my world, your world, Watts
McHurdie's world, Lige's world, or John's world? It can't be all of
'em." He put the poker across the stove hearth, and sank his hands
deeply into his pockets as he continued: "The question that philosophy
never has answered is this: Am I a spectre and you an essence, or are
you a spectre and am I an essence? Is it your world or mine?"

The two men looked instinctively at the rattling doorknob, and John
Barclay limped into the room. His face was red with the cold and the
driving mist. He walked to the stove and unbuttoned his ulster, while
the colonel put the subject of the debate before him. The general
amended the colonel's statement from time to time, but the young man
only smiled tolerantly and shook his head. Then he went to his desk
and pulled a letter from a drawer.

"Colonel, I've got a letter here from Bob. The thing doesn't seem to
be moving. He only sold about a thousand dollars' worth of stock last
month--a falling off of forty per cent, and we must have more or we
can't take up our leases. He's begging like a dog to come home for a
week, but I can't let him. We need that week." He limped over to the
elder and put his hand on the tall man's arm as he said: "Now,
Colonel, that was what I sent for you about. You kind of speak to
Molly and have her write him and tell him to hold on a little while.
It's business, you know, and we can't afford to have sentiment
interfere with business."

The colonel, standing by the window, replied, after a pause: "I can
see where you are right, John. Business is business. You got to
consider that." He looked into the street below and saw General
Hendricks come shuddering into the cold wind. "How's he getting on?"
asked Culpepper, nodding towards Hendricks, who seemed unequal to the
gale.

"Oh, I don't know, Colonel,--times are hard."

"My, how he's aging!" said the colonel, softly.

After a silence Barclay said: "There's one thing sure--I've got it
into his hard old head that Bob is doing something back there, and he
couldn't earn his salt here. Besides," added Barclay, as if to justify