e. And
you sold as many books as our best agent in our best field."

"I'll never go as agent again," said Scarborough. "The experience was
invaluable--but sufficient."

"We don't want you to go as agent. Our proposition is for much easier
and more dignified work."

At the word dignified, Scarborough could not restrain a smile. "I've
practically made my plans for the summer," he said.

"I think we've got something worth your while, Mr. Scarborough. Our
idea is for you to select about a hundred of the young fellows who're
working their way through here, and train them in your methods of
approaching people. Then you'll take them to Wisconsin and Minnesota
and send them out, each man to a district you select for him. In that
way you'll help a hundred young men to earn a year at college and
you'll make a good sum for yourself--two or three times what you made
last summer."

Scarborough had intended to get admitted to the bar in June, to spend
the summer at an apprenticeship in a law office and to set up for
himself in the fall. But this plan was most attractive--it would give
him a new kind of experience and would put him in funds for the wait
for clients. The next day he signed an advantageous contract--his
expenses for the summer and a guaranty of not less than three thousand
dollars clear.

He selected a hundred young men and twelve young women, the most
intelligent of the five hundred self-supporting students at Battle
Field. Pierson, having promised to behave himself, was permitted to
attend the first lesson. The scholars at the Scarborough, School for
Book Agents filled his quarters and overflowed in swarms without the
windows and the door. The weather was still cool; but all must hear,
and the rooms would hold barely half the brigade.

"I assume that you've read the book," began Scarborough. He was
standing at the table with the paraphernalia of a book agent spread
upon it. "But you must read it again and again, until you know what's
on every page, until you have by heart the passages I'll point out to
you." He looked at Drexel--a freshman of twenty-two, with earnest,
sleepless eyes and a lofty forehead; in the past winter he had become
acquainted with hunger and with that cold which creeps into the room,
crawls through the thin covers and closes in, icy as death, about the
heart. "What do you think of the book, Drexel?"

The young man--he is high in the national administration
to-day--flushed