y the detail of actual construction.
And now the characters were hovering in the recesses of his brain, were
yearning to leave that many-winded labyrinth to become real beings of
paper and ink. He would probably have tarried overlong in this fanciful
mansion, had not the reappearance of an unexpected guest broken his
reverie.

"Jack!" he exclaimed in surprise, "I thought you a hundred miles away
from here."

"That shows that you no longer care for me," Jack playfully answered.
"When our friendship was young, you always had a presentiment of my
presence."

"Ah, perhaps I had. But tell me, where do you hail from?"

"Clarke called me up on the telephone--long-distance, you know. I
suppose it was meant as a surprise for you. And you certainly looked
surprised--not even pleasantly. I am really head-over-heels at work.
But you know how it is. Sometimes a little imp whispers into my ears
daring me to do a thing which I know is foolish. But what of it? My legs
are strong enough not to permit my follies to overtake me."

"It was certainly good of you to come. In fact, you make me very glad. I
feel that I need you to-night--I don't know why. The feeling came
suddenly--suddenly as you. I only know I need you. How long can you
stay?"

"I must leave you to-morrow morning. I have to hustle somewhat. You know
my examinations are taking place in a day or two and I've got to cram up
a lot of things."

"Still," remarked Ernest, "your visit will repay you for the loss of
time. Clarke will read to us to-night his masterpiece."

"What is it?"

"I don't know. I only know it's the real thing. It's worth all the
wisdom bald-headed professors may administer to you in concentrated
doses at five thousand a year."

"Come now," Jack could not help saying, "is your memory giving way?
Don't you remember your own days in college--especially the mathematical
examinations? You know that your marks came always pretty near the
absolute zero."

"Jack," cried Ernest in honest indignation, "not the last time. The last
time I didn't flunk."

"No, because your sonnet on Cartesian geometry roused even the
math-fiend to compassion. And don't you remember Professor Squeeler,
whose heart seemed to leap with delight whenever he could tell you that,
in spite of incessant toil on your part, he had again flunked you in
physics with fifty-nine and a half per cent.?"

"And he wouldn't raise the mark to sixty! God forgive him,--I cannot."

Here their