ome back and claim Penelope when she could be proud
to own me as her father." He brought his fist down on his knee again.
"She couldn't be very proud now, but I'll show them!"

It was hard to combat so overwhelming a pride as this, a pride which
seemed to thrive in the ashes of hope. I tried to break it by speaking
of his brother and daughter, giving him an account of my renewed
acquaintance with them and of their talk of him. The effect was to set
him smoking a very black pipe. Rising and leaning over the foot-rail
of the bed, much as in the old days he leaned lazily over the store
counter, he held his eyes fixed on mine, and smoked while I argued. He
was a patient listener. My own story was interwoven with his, and that
he might understand my relations with his brother and Penelope, I told
him briefly all that had occurred with me since that day when we parted
in the clearing. When I came to the college lecture, and my efforts to
see him then, and to find him, he made a motion as though to interrupt.
I paused. He commanded me to go on, and the smile which came to his
face at my mention of his discourse on "Life" held there until I had
finished. But my story, intended to give force to my arguments for him
to surrender his pride, only served to put him in a reminiscent mood.

"That was a lecture, wasn't it, David?" he said, laughing. "Why, do
you know that when I talked that night I almost imagined that I was a
success in life. It was the introduction that did it--distinguished
traveller--famous journalist. And you, I suppose, accepted it all as
truth. Still, you may be thankful you didn't have to hear Harassan--a
gigantic windbag, if there ever was one. I fell in with him one day in
a smoking-car and got to talking about my travels. He was preparing a
lecture on China, and as he had never been there, I was useful, so he
took me into his house until he had pumped me dry. I substituted for
him that night at your college for half the fee--was to read his
lecture, but when I got started on it I couldn't stand it. An
astonishing man, Harassan! When he died he left a modest fortune made
in spouting buncombe; and yet--" The Professor held out a hand in
appeal. "How many men are called great because they succeed in talking
buncombe and selling rubbish! That is what discourages me so; and
doesn't it make you a little bitter when you meet men surrounded by
every material evidence of success and go fishing in