knows it. The fond mammas
here in the club consider him a catch. I am not exactly a pauper myself,
but I may be if this N. O. & G. deal goes against me.

I wonder how it would seem to be poor? I wonder if Miss Harding would
care to play golf with me if she knew I had to work for a living? I
wonder what I would work at?

I dreamed last night that N.O. & G. stock went down and down until it was
worth less than nothing, and that I had lost every dollar in the world
and owed several millions.

It was an awful dream. I was in jail for a time, and when they let me
out I did not have the car fare to get back to Woodvale. I walked all
the way, and was chased by dogs. When I got here, the steward presented
my bill, which amounted to several hundred dollars. I told him I could
not pay it, and he marked my name off the membership list. I met Carter
and several others and they would not speak to me. I was dying from
hunger, and looked longingly at the remnants of a steak left by
Chilvers, but one of the servants told me to move on.

Then the scene changed, as things move in dreams, and I was at work on
Bishop's farm. I was cutting and shocking corn, and the boss of the
hired help swore because I was so slow. My hands were bleeding from
scratches where the sharp edges of the bayonet-like blades had cut them,
and I was so hungry and tired that I was ready to lie down and die. My
wages were fifteen dollars a month, and every cent of it had been levied
against by my Wall Street creditors. Not until I was seventy years old
would any of the money I earned be coming to me. The other hired men
looked on me as a weakling, and laughed at the torn golf suit in which I
was clothed.

I was happy when I awoke and realised it was only a nightmare.

I raised the curtain so as to let in the cool air. The links were bathed
in a flood of moonlight. Half a mile away were Bishop's cornfields in
which the dreamland fiends had tortured me. It was not yet midnight, and
down the lane I made out the forms of Chilvers, Marshall, Lawson, and
other nighthawks. Chilvers was singing, the others coming in the chorus
of the last line, drawing it out to the full length and strength of a
parody of the old negro song:

"Where, oh where are the long, long drivers?
Where, oh where are the long, long drivers?;
Where, oh where are the long, long drivers?
'Way down yander in the corn field."

[Illustration: The dream]

ENTRY NO.