Chapter II

Mr. Pffiefer was a stout man with a sense of humour; but since he was a
lawyer, having his dealings with a dour people who had one public joke
which served the whole county when recited at farmers’ conventions, and
one private obscenity which, told in a smoky atmosphere ’twixt shuffle
and cut, had convulsed generations of hearers, he never displayed the
bubbling sense of fun that lay behind his pink mask of a face.

He could have filled his untidy office with unholy laughter now, but he
kept a solemn face, for the man who sat on the opposite side of a table
covered with uneven mounds of papers, law books and personal memoranda,
was a great personage, a justice of the peace and the leading farmer in
the county.

“Let me get this thing right, Mr. Pffiefer,” Andrew Elmer’s harsh voice
was tense with anxiety. “I get noth’n’ out of this estate unless October
is married on her twen’y-first anniversary?”

Mr. Pffiefer inclined his head gravely.

“That is how the will reads.” His podgy fingers smoothed out the
typewritten document before him.

“To my brother-in-law twenty thousand dollars and the residue of
my estate to my daughter October Jones to be conveyed on the
marriage of my daughter on or before her twenty-first
anniversary of her birth.”

Andrew Elmer scratched his head irritably.

“That lawyer over in Ogdensburg figured it out this way. I get twenty
thousand dollars, anyway. Then when October marries——”

“Who is responsible for this curious instrument?” interrupted the
lawyer.

Andrew shifted uneasily.

“Well—I guess I drew it up. Jenny left most all her business to me.”

He was a thin man with a hard, angular face and the habit of moving his
lips in silent speech. He held long conversations with himself, his
straight slit of a mouth working at a great speed, though no sound came.
Now he spoke to himself rapidly, his upper lip going up and down almost
comically.

“Never was any reason to have this thing tested,” he said at last.
“Jenny’s money was tied up in mortgages an’ they only just fell in. It
was that bank president over at Ogdensburg that allowed I didn’t ought
to touch the money till October was married. I figured it out this way.
That the residoo’s all that concerns her. . . .”

“Is there any residue, Mr. Elmer?”

There was a certain dryness in the lawyer’s tone, but Elmer saw nothing
offensive in the question.

“Why, no: not much. Naturally there’s always a home for October with me
an’ Mrs. Elmer. That’s God’s holy ord’nance—to protect the fatherless
an’ everything. She’s been a great expense . . . college an’ clothes,
an’ the wedding’ll cost something. I figured it out when I drawed up
that will——”

Mr. Pffiefer sighed heavily.

“Your legacy is contingent—just as October’s is contingent. When is the
wedding to be?”

Like a ghost of wintry sunlight was the fleeting brightness which came
to Elmer’s harsh face.

“To-night; that’s why I dropped in to see you. Mrs. Elmer figured it
this way: you can be too economic, says she. For a dollar ’r so you can
get the law of it, so’s there’ll be no come-back. I’d feel pretty mean
if after October was out of the . . . was fixed up, there was a rumpus
over the will.”

“Marrying Sam Wasser, ain’t she?”

Mr. Elmer nodded, his eyes fixed on the buggy and the lean horse that
was hitched just outside the window. That cadaverous animal was eating
greedily from the back of a hay trolley which had been incautiously
drawn up within reach.

“Yeh—Sam’s a nice feller.”

He ruminated on this for a while.

“October’s kind of crazy—no, not about Sam. Obstinate as an old mule.
She goes mad—yes, sir. Seen her stand on the top of the well an’ say,
‘You touch me an’ I’ll jump right in’—yes, sir. Sparin’ the rod’s the
ruin of this generation. My father took a slat to all of us, boy an’
girl alike. An’ I’m her guardian, ain’t I? Mrs. Elmer reckons that a
spankin’ is just what October wants. But there it is—she didn’t holler
’r anything, just walked to the well an’ said, ‘If you beat me I’ll jump
in.’ I figure that self-destruction is about the wickedest thing anybody
can talk about. It goes plumb clean in the face of divine Providence.
That’s October. She’ll do most anything, but it’s got to be done her
way. Sam’s a nice, slick young feller. His pa’s got building lots and
apartment houses down in Ogdensburg, besides the store, and Sam’s made
money. I’m not sayin’ that I’d like to make profit on the
degradation—to the level of the beasts in the field—of my fellow
critters . . . but the money’s good.”

The lawyer pieced together and interpreted, from this disjointed
evidence of October’s wickedness and Sam Wasser’s virtues, a certain
difficulty in the operation of match-making.

“October’s just as hard as a flint stone. She’s never found grace,
though me an’ Mrs. Elmer’s prayed an’ prayed till we’re just sick of
prayin’, an’ Reverend Stevens has put in a whole lot of private
supplications to the Throne. I guess Satan does a lot of work around
these high schools.”

There was a silence. Mr. Elmer’s long, shaven upper lip wrinkled and
straightened with uncanny rapidity. A student of lip-reading, the
fascinated Mr. Pffiefer saw words—“October,” “Giving trouble,” and,
many times, “Money.”

He became audible.

“You never know where you’re at with October. S’pose you say, ‘October,
there’s a chicken pie for dinner,’ she says ‘Yes.’ And when you hand out
the plate she says, ‘I don’t eat chicken pie,’ just like that. Don’t say
anything till you push the plate at her.”

Mr. Elmer relapsed into silence: evidently his mind had reverted to the
will. The lawyer read “residue” and “hell” and other words.

“She’s fast, too. Smoking on Main Street only this morning, and after I
prayed her an’ Mrs. Elmer almost went down on her knees . . .

“What was the great idea?” Mr. Pffiefer permitted himself the question.
“This will, I mean. Why residue, why marriage, before October’s
twenty-first anniversary?”

Mr. Elmer glanced at him resentfully.

“Jenny believed in marryin’ young for one thing. And that’s right, Mr.
Pffiefer. The psalmist said, ‘A maid——’ ”

“Yes, yes,” said the lawyer, a little testily, “we know what _he_ said.
But David never was my idea of a Sabbath school teacher. Mrs. Jones’s
views are understandable. But fixing the will that way—I can’t get
round that somehow. Almost looks as if it was a bribe to get October off
your hands.”

His bright eyes transfixed Mr. Elmer for a second, but that worthy and
conscientious man stared dumbly through the window. If he heard the
challenge he did not accept.

“Almost looks,” said Pffiefer, with a hint of rising heat, “as if this
humbug about the residue of an estate, which palpably and obviously has
no existence, was a lure to a likely bridegroom. Sounds grand, ‘residue
of my estate,’ but so far as I can see, Elmer, there are ten acres of
marsh and a cottage that no man or woman could ever live in—say five
hundred dollars——?”

He jerked his head on one side inquiringly.

“Twen’y-five hundred dollars,” murmured Mr. Elmer. “Got a feller over
from Ogdens’ to value it. He said the new Lakes canal might be cut right
through that property. What’ll I be owing you, Mr. Pffiefer?”

The lawyer’s first inclination was to say “Nothing,” but he thought
better of that.

“Ten dollars,” he said briefly, and saw the old man wince.

Mr. Elmer paid on the nail, but he paid with pain. At the door of the
office he paused. A thought occurred to the lawyer.

“Say, Mr. Elmer, suppose Sam doesn’t want to marry? He’s got kind of
smart lately. And he has more money than seems right.”

Mr. Elmer shifted uncomfortably.

“Sam’s a worker,” he said. “He’s made money out of real estate——”

“Where?” asked the other bluntly. “I know as much about realty in this
country as the next man, and I don’t remember seein’ Sam’s name figurin’
in any deal.”

Mr. Elmer was edging to the door.

“I think the rain’ll hold up long enough to get in the corn,” he stated.
“Roots are just no good at all. Maybe I’ll get you to fix that new lease
I’ve gave to Orson Clark.”

On this good and promising line he made his exit.

Mr. Pffiefer saw him climb slowly into the buggy and untie the lines. He
had touched a very sore place: Mr. Elmer was panic-stricken. And there
was every reason why he should be.

Give a dog a bad name and hang him. Give a man, or, worse, a woman, a
name which is neither Mary nor Jane, but hovers somewhere about the
opposite end of the pole, and she attracts to herself qualities and
weaknesses which in some ineffable way are traceable to her misguided
nomenclature.

They who named October Jones were with the shades, though one of them
had lived long enough to repent of his enterprise.

October, under local and topical influences, had at various times and on
particular occasions styled herself Doris Mabel, and Mary Victoria, and
Gloria Wendy. At the McCube College she was Virginia Guinevere: she
chose that name before she left home and had her baggage boldly
initialled V. G. J.

“I guess I can’t get rid of the Jones,” she said thoughtfully, her
disapproving eye upon the ‘J.’ “That old sea-man will kind of hang
around, with his chubby little knees under my ears, all time.”

“I am afraid so,” said her parent wearily.

He had been a tall man, hollow-cheeked, long-bearded. Children did not
interest him; October bored him. She had a trick of borrowing rare
volumes from his library and leaving them on a wood-pile or amidst the
golden rod or wherever she happened to be when it started raining.

“Jones was a pretty mean kind of name,” she suggested. “Can’t you change
it, daddy?”

Mr. Jones sighed and tapped his nose with a tortoiseshell paper-knife.

“It satisfied my father, my grandfather and my great-grandfather and
innumerable ancestors before them——”

Her brows knit.

“Who was the first Jones?” she demanded. “I’ll have to get the biology
of that. I guess they sort of came out of their protoplasms
simultaneous.”

“—ly!” murmured Mr. Jones. “I wish you would get out of that habit,
October——”

October groaned.

“What is the matter with Virginia?” she asked. “That is one cute little
name!”

There was nothing that was October in her appearance, for October is a
red and brown month, and she was pinkish and whitish: she had April eyes
and hair that was harvest colour, and she had a queer, searching habit
of glance that was disconcerting. People who did not know her read into
this an offensive scepticism, whilst in reality it was eagerness for
knowledge.

As to her moral character:

Miss Washburton Flemming, Principal of the Flemming Preparatory School
for Girls, wrote to her father:

“. . . _I would point out one characteristic of October’s which
may have escaped your observation, and that is her Intense
Romanticism, which, linked as it is with an Exaltation of
Spirit, may lead her into ways which we should all deplore. It
is unfortunate that the dear child was denied the inestimable
boon of a Mother’s Love. Perhaps she is more self-controlled
to-day than she was when she came under our care_. . . .”

“How much more of this stuff?” snarled Stedman Jones as he turned the
page—there were three more pages and a two-page postscript. He dropped
the letter on the floor.

He really didn’t care how intense or how romantic October was, or how
exalted she might be. Whilst he paid her fees and her amazing extras, he
did not wish people to write letters to him about her or anybody or
anything. He had not to buy her dresses, thank heavens. There was an
income from his wife’s estate administered by a lout of a brother-in-law
whom he had only met twice in his lifetime and with whom, in
consequence, he had only quarrelled twice.

Stedman was a bibliophile, the author of a scholarly volume of mediæval
French history, and the only times he was ever really cheerful with
October were the last week of her short vacation.

Nobody ever called her Virginia or Alys or Gloria Wendy or Guinevere or
anything but October—the nearest she got to an acceptable nickname was
when somebody, reasoning along intelligent lines, called her “Huit.” In
another age she would have been a Joan of Arc: lost causes had for her
an attraction which she could not resist. She was by turns a parlour
Socialist, a Worker of the World, an anarchist and a good Christian
woman.

Cross October in the pursuit of her legitimate rainbows, and she was
terrible; thwart her, and you trebled her resolution; forbid her, and
she bared her feet for the red-hot shares across which she was prepared
to walk to her objective.

Her father died the second year she was at McCubes. She spent two days
trying to be sorry—trying to remember something that made him different
and dearer. She confided to the principal, who consoled her with
conventional references to the source of all comfort, that she had not
been greatly successful.

“There is really nothing intrinsically precious about fathers—or
mothers either,” she said, to the good lady’s distress. “You give back
people all that they give to you. Parents are only precious when they
love their children—otherwise they are just Mr. Jones and Mr. Hobson.
That is how I feel about Daddy. I tried hard to be sorry, but the only
tear I’ve shed is when I got maudlin about being an orphan. There’s an
awful lot of self-pity about us orphans!”

Miss Washburton Flemming felt it necessary to straighten a dangerous
angle.

“Your father, my dear, worked very hard for you. He gave you a
comfortable home, he bought you all that you have, and paid your
fees. . . .”

“He’d have been arrested if he hadn’t,” said October. “I’m terribly
sorry, Miss Flemming, but I’ve just got to get this thing right from my
own point of view. I don’t think any other matters to me, just now.”

Her father left practically no money—he never had any to leave; she
learnt this from the big, uncouth Andrew Elmer. Mr. Jones had merely an
annuity which died with him. Mr. Elmer, whom she remembered dimly, was
an uncle, the brother-in-law of her mother and sole executor of her
mother’s estate. Incidentally her guardian by law and soon to be her
most unwilling host.

The translation from the intenseness of McCubes to the modified
placidity of Four Beech Farm had at first the illusion of a desirable
change; it was as though she had come through the buffets and tossings
of a whirlpool to calm waters. In twenty-four hours those calm waters
had the appearance of a stagnant pool on which the green scum was
already forming. And Mrs. Adelaide Elmer was a shocking substitute for
the human contacts she had broken.

October did not rebel: rebellion was her normal state of being. The
wildness of a tiger is unaffected by a change of cages; the new keeper
had met with nothing fiercer than the domestic cat, and was outraged
because her charge showed her teeth when she should have purred. Wise
Miss Flemming had fixed an imponderable average of behaviour, balancing
periodic atheisms against rhapsodical pieties, and discovered a standard
of spiritual excellence which was altogether admirable. Mrs. Elmer
lacked the qualities of discrimination. She was in truth on the side of
uncharity, having been strictly trained in a school which enjoined
obedience to parents, blind faith in the Holy Word, and the meek and
awe-stricken silence of all children in the presence of their elders.

The Reverend Stevens was called in, his assistance invoked. He came one
Saturday afternoon, bringing in his large hand three little books of
counsel and comfort. October was not impressed by him, and in truth his
education had been of an intensive character and there were certain
appalling gaps which only social experience or innate goodness of heart
could have bridged.

“He has all the thrones and oil paintings of theology, but there is no
carpet on his floor and he eats with his fingers,” said October
metaphorically.

Mrs. Elmer, who took this literally, was momentarily paralysed.

“A nicer man never lived”—her voice was a cracked falsetto when she was
agitated—“and uses a knife and fork same as you, October. I never heard
a wickeder story. . . .”

October did not argue. She never argued unless there was a victory to be
gained.

The proposal that she should marry, nervously offered by Andrew Elmer,
was accepted with remarkable patience.

“Really?” October was interested. “Who have you got?”

Andrew repressed a desire to expatiate on the cold-bloodedness of the
question.

“I been talking to Lee Wasser . . .” he began.

The next day Samuel was introduced. He was rather sure of himself and he
spoke unceasingly on his favourite topic. October listened with downcast
eyes. When he had gone, she asked:

“Does this young man know anybody besides himself?”

Mr. Elmer did not understand her.

Samuel brought flowers and candy and new facts and anecdotes which
showed him in an heroic light. He had a neat turn of humour and a gift
of repartee. He told her all about this. His conversation was larded
with: “So I says to Ed,” and “So Al says to me,” and he invariably
concluded every such narrative with the assurance: “I thought they’d
died laughin’.”

Once she asked if anybody had ever died in these happy circumstances,
and he was taken aback.

“Well . . . I mean . . . of course they didn’t _die_ . . . what I meant
was . . . well, _you_ know.”

He went home that night, his mind clouded with doubt. Once, when they
were alone, sitting on the porch on a hot June night, he grew
sentimental . . . tried to kiss her. It was his right, as he explained
afterwards. There was no unseemly struggle or resistance, no lips
seeking lips and pecking at an ear. She held him back with one athletic
hand and asked him not to be a fool.

No date had been fixed for the wedding. The announcement on the part of
Andrew Elmer that, by a clause in her mother’s will, October must be
married on her twenty-first birthday, came in the nature of a shock to
everybody but October. When she was told, a week before the date, she
merely said “Oh?”

Sam had a consultation with his father and ordered an expensive suite at
an hotel romantically situated on the banks of the Oswegatchie.

Thus matters stood when Mr. Elmer had his interview with Joe Pffiefer,
the man of law, and found his worst fears fully justified.

The old grey horse ambled on at his own pace; the buggy rocked from side
to side as its spidery-web wheels met an obstruction, and Mr. Elmer
rocked with it. His shrewd eye surveyed the street. Old man Wasser was
standing outside Wasser’s Universal Stores, running his hairy hand
through and again through his mat of grey hair. His octagonal glasses
had slipped down his nose, pugnacity was in the thrust of his long jaw.
With his free hand he was gesticulating to point his observation. And
his audience was Sam, very serious. Not the seriousness of one who was
at that moment an object of admonition, but rather he seemed to have a
partnership in seriousness; his manner spoke agreement. Every time the
waving hand fell to thump an invisible tub, Sam nodded deeply.

Mr. Elmer sniffed: he always sniffed rapidly when he was perturbed: and
guided the languid grey to the broad sidewalk.

“. . . I was just saying to Sam that it don’t feel like a wedding day
for nobody. Seems like when you’re camping and find out round about
supper-time that it’s been Sunday all day. It don’t seem like
Sunday—and it don’t seem like Sam’s wedding day.”

Sam shook his head. It only felt like a wedding day to him because he
was uncomfortable and nervous and rather unhappy.

“It ought to be—different,” said Mr. Wasser Senior, glaring up at the
man in the buggy. “Ought to have a kind of excitement and—well, it
ought to be different. I’m not so sure . . .”

He shook his head. Sam also shook his head.

“I don’t see what’s the matter with the day——” began Elmer.

“It’s the feeling. Kind of hunch, here!” Old Wasser struck his chest.
“You got to be reasonable, Andrew; you got to put yourself in my place.
Sam’s my only boy—can’t afford to spoil his young life. That’s the
point. And October—her wedding day, and here was she, not ’n hour ago,
on this very board walk with a cigarette an’ everybody looking at her
and remarking. Old Doctor Vinner and Miss Selby and the city people over
at Linsberg House. And Sam—what did she tell you, Sam?”

Sam emerged from the background and testified.

“She said one man’s like another man—only this morning. And she didn’t
love me. She said she’d as soon marry a tramp as marry me—she wasn’t
particular. She said that a girl had to make a start somewhere an’ maybe
I’d do to begin with——”

Mr. Elmer drew a deep, whistling breath.

“Wish she’d seen that bum I was talkin’ to, she’d change her mind pretty
quick,” said Sam, encouraged to eloquence. “I told her that wasn’t the
kind of talk I liked to hear from a girl who was wearin’ my betrothal
ring. She took it off and heaved it at me. Said she wasn’t going to
limit the—what was it?—limit the expression of her personality for
fifty dollars’ worth of bad taste——”

“H-w-w-w!” breathed Andrew Elmer. Mr. Wasser’s face was all smiling
triumph.

“She said maybe she’d change her mind, she wasn’t sure—that’s when she
told me that one man was like another as far as she was concerned.”

“Sam’s got the ring in his pocket,” confirmed Mr. Wasser.

“She’s young.” Andrew spoke urgently. “They get that way: doubt their
own judgment. It’s natural. She’s always spoke well about you to me. I
get plumb tired of hearing her talk of you. It’s ‘Sam this’ and ‘Sam
that’ mornin’ till night. She’s proud and likes to hide her feelings.”

“Wish she’d hide the line she sold me,” said Sam, not wholly convinced,
and yet, since he was a man and young, finding a difficulty in
disbelieving this story of the secret praises which had been lavished
upon him.

He looked at his father. The smile had left Mr. Wasser’s face; he was
glum and perplexed.

“And we ought to have had her marriage deed fixed, Andrew. What’s the
hurry, anyway? Give these young people a month or so to think it
over. . . .”

He pleaded, but could not insist. Andrew Elmer was in a sense a partner
in his real estate transactions; he had unsuspected pulls, controlled a
certain board of management, was in every way the wrong man to
antagonise.

“It don’t feel like a wedding, Andrew. No party, nothing. Kind of mean
and underhand. It will do us no good.”

Mr. Elmer gathered up the lines: it was the psychological moment.

“If you and Sam ain’t up to Four Beeches round about nine o’clock
to-night, I guess I’ve got enough sense to know that you’ve backed out,”
he said sombrely, and laid his whip across the old grey’s withers.

Anyway, he ruminated with satisfaction, he had avoided discussing the
very delicate matter of October’s financial position.

As he was turning at the fork, a long-bodied touring car came slowly
past him. He had a glimpse of a thin-faced man at the wheel. An
Englishman, he guessed by the monocle. The machine had a Canadian
number. Strangers are rare in Littleburg; he turned his head and looked
back after the car, saw it stop before the Berg House Hotel. A few
minutes later he saw two men who were also strangers. A tall, thick-set
man with a short red beard, and a fat little man whose face was broader
than it was long, the breadth being emphasised by the straight black
eyebrows and moustache. They were striding out side by side, the little
man’s head no higher than his companion’s shoulder. They favoured Mr.
Elmer with a quick, sidelong stare and marched past with no other
greeting.

“Littleburg’s goin’ ahead,” said Mr. Elmer.

He had large interests in Littleburg real estate, and had every reason
to be pleased at this slender evidence of the town’s growing popularity.

The two men marched on without exchanging a word and turned into Berg
House with the precision of soldiers. A tall, thin man in a long
dust-coat was talking to the clerk. He was an Englishman: his accent
betrayed him. Good-looking, though his face and features were small,
sleek-haired, a little petulant.

“. . . the roads are abominable. Isn’t there a post road to Ogdensburg?”

The two men hardly paused in their stride: they heard this as they
passed to the stairway. A stocky, sandy-haired man, who had been dozing
in one of the long chairs that abounded in the vestibule, opened one eye
as they came abreast of him, straightened up, relit the stub of his dead
cigar, and followed them up the stairs. Evidently he knew their
habitation, for he knocked on No. 7 and a voice barked permission to
enter.

“’Morning, boys.” He nodded affably to the two, and such was his perfect
assurance that there was no need for him to display the silver badge
that was pinned on the inside of his coat.

“Heard you were in town. Stayin’ long?”

Red Beard finished the glass of water he was drinking when the detective
entered, wiped his moustache daintily with a silk handkerchief and
jerked a cigar from his pocket.

“Me and my friend are just stoppin’ over to look round,” he said. “We
reckon to go on to Philadelphia, N.Y., by the night train. Thasso,
Lenny?” He looked to his friend for support.

“Thasso,” said Lenny.

The sandy man lit the cigar.

“Chief asked me to make a call,” he said apologetically. “Thought maybe
you mightn’t know we’d seen you arrive. Pretty poor place, Littleburg.
You’d starve here, and that’s a fact. Ogdensburg’s not much better. The
police have had a clean-up lately and they’re mighty sore with folks who
think they’re easy. Chief was on the line to them this morning, and they
reckoned Ogdensburg wouldn’t be healthy for you.”

“Philadelphia,” said Red Beard, “and we’re only stopping off. Utica’s
our home.”

“Fine,” said the sandy man, by nature and training a sceptic. “Either of
you boys got a gun?”

Red Beard spread out his arms invitingly, and the detective made a quick
search first of one and then of the other. No lethal weapon was
discovered.

“That’s fine,” said the sandy man cheerfully. “I’ll be seeing you at the
depot about nine?”

“Sure thing,” said Red Beard as heartily.

The detective went down through the vestibule and telephoned. The
Englishman had departed.

“Some of these guys want the earth,” complained the clerk. “’Is Lordship
wants a new post road.”

“English?”

“And some,” said the clerk.

An hour later Red Beard and his friend came down to the lounge and were
silent spectators of a ceremony.

A number of high-spirited young men of Littleburg had formed a ring
about an embarrassed young man and they were chanting a ribald chorus.
Red Beard gathered from this that the young gentleman in the centre was
on the verge of matrimony. They were chanting the lay of a local poet
and were by now word perfect.

“Aw . . . listen, fellers . . . !”

“Aw, listen, fellers!”

The circle broke into a formless little group from which great noises
emerged.

“You are, Sam! And so you are . . . you old skinflint!” “Aw, listen!
. . . say, come along to my apartment. . . .”

The crowd billowed unevenly towards the door, Mr. Bennett, the
proprietor of Berg House, rubbing his hands in the background and
looking happy for the first time since this congregation had irrupted
into his hotel.

Sam Wasser’s “apartment” was above the garage of his suffering parent.
Sam, who was a strangely old boy, gave little parties here at times.
There were secret closets wherein The Right Stuff was stored, and an odd
assortment of glasses.

Towards the end of the afternoon Sam made a suggestion.

“Lishen, fellers . . . got an idea. There’sh an ole hobo up in the woods
. . . good feller . . . man of the world. Le’s go right along an’ gim a
drink. Bet he ain’t tasted the Right Stuff in years. . . . Le’s all be
bums. . . . Glor’us Fraternity Men who Love Wide Open Spacesh. . . .
Le’s . . .”