distant day--I would
terribly overthrow that little old pantaloon.

"Now, Ray, we must get someone to dictate a few of these lines to
you."

I looked up and smiled. "Thank you very much, sir," and I
unconsciously pressed his hand.

"Doe is your friend. We'll test his metal and see whether he thinks
friendship is something more than getting into scrapes together." He
touched a bell. "I'll send for him."

I gave a sudden shiver. Doe was out in the world with Freedham,
probably without an "exeat," and certainly without a hat. I began to
wonder whether by a dramatic _denouement_ I was to be the cause of
Doe's capture.

"You rang, sir?" inquired the manservant.

"Yes; find Master Doe. He's in the house."

"Yes, sir." The door closed, and it was too late. Too late for what?
I was sure I didn't know, for there was nothing I could have done to
prevent the search for Doe. Late emotion had left, I suppose, my
imagination in an overwrought state. And I had reason to wonder if I
was moving in a dream, when, after a knock at the door, Doe walked
in, his eyes sparkling at having been sent for by the object of his
worship.

"Now, Doe," began Radley, with a smile--

"This life's mostly froth and bubble.
Two things stand like stone:
Kindness in another's trouble,
Courage in your own.

Ray's just got a thousand lines of Cicero. But he understands all
about 'courage in your own,' and you understand all about 'kindness
in another's trouble.'"

"Yes, sir," agreed Doe, a bit bewildered, but instantly prepared to
live up to this noble reputation.

"Well, what do you say to dictating some of the lines to him?"

"Rather, sir. I'll dictate them.... Besides, sir," he added, as if
this explained everything, "Ray and I are twins."

Sec.2

And not a game did Doe play until he had dictated all those lines.
It occupied a week and two days. When I dropped my pen, having
written the last word, the relief of thinking that I had no more
lines to write was almost painful. I felt suddenly ill. My loins,
aching alarmingly, reminded me that I had been in a sitting posture
for many a weary hour; and my fingers, suffering from what I judged
to be rheumatism or gout, fidgeted to go on writing. My mind, too,
was confused so that I found myself repeating whole lines of Cicero,
sometimes aloud; and my face was pale, save for a dangerous pink
flush on the forehead.

Life, however, seemed brigh