d souls, a "smart negro" was still a
freak.

So Halliday went back home because the people knew him there and would
respect his struggles and encourage his ambitions.

He had been home two days, and the old town had begun to take on its
remembered aspect as he wandered through the streets and along the
river banks. On this second day he was going up Main street deep in a
brown study when he heard his name called by a young man who was
approaching him, and saw an outstretched hand.

"Why, how de do, Bert, how are you? Glad to see you back. I hear you
have been astonishing them up at college."

Halliday's reverie had been so suddenly broken into that for a moment,
the young fellow's identity wavered elusively before his mind and then
it materialized, and his consciousness took hold of it. He remembered
him, not as an intimate, but as an acquaintance whom he had often met
upon the football and baseball fields.

"How do you do? It's Bob Dickson," he said, shaking the proffered
hand, which at the mention of the name, had grown unaccountably cold
in his grasp.

"Yes, I'm Mr. Dickson," said the young man, patronizingly. "You seem
to have developed wonderfully, you hardly seem like the same Bert
Halliday I used to know."

"Yes, but I'm the same Mr. Halliday."

"Oh--ah--yes," said the young man, "well, I'm glad to have seen you.
Ah--good-bye, Bert."

"Good-bye, Bob."

"Presumptuous darky!" murmured Mr. Dickson.

"Insolent puppy!" said Mr. Halliday to himself.

But the incident made no impression on his mind as bearing upon his
status in the public eye. He only thought the fellow a cad, and went
hopefully on. He was rather amused than otherwise. In this frame of
mind, he turned into one of the large office-buildings that lined the
street and made his way to a business suite over whose door was the
inscription, "H.G. Featherton, Counsellor and Attorney-at-Law." Mr.
Featherton had shown considerable interest in Bert in his school days,
and he hoped much from him.

As he entered the public office, a man sitting at the large desk in
the centre of the room turned and faced him. He was a fair man of an
indeterminate age, for you could not tell whether those were streaks
of grey shining in his light hair, or only the glint which it took on
in the sun. His face was dry, lean and intellectual. He smiled now
and then, and his smile was like a flash of winter lightning, so cold
and quick it was. It went as suddenly as it c