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The Hidden Road

Is she steering a well-charted course with all sails set, or helplessly drifting? Eleanor Grantley comes perilously close to the breakers that guard the land of her desire.

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VIII

By Wadsworth Camp

Illustrated by George E. Wolfe

T was significant that the women's chatter didn't falter while the men remained speechless during the moment before Eleanor Grantley disappeared. Jack Berry burst out then: "I say, Mr. Ashmead, who's the Botticelli lady? How did she jump out of her frame?"

"Best girl our office has caught in a dog's age." "Too bad you had to interfere with the poor thing's holiday," his wife murmured.

Mr. Ashmead spread his hands, speaking with his judicial manner. "The courts are no respecters of comforts. If people choose to plunge into difficulties, lawyers have to help them out."

"I'd heard," Jack Berry said, "the Twickham crowd. Makes you sit up.'

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"Art course," Berry apologized uneasily. took it on because nobody's ever flunked it except one chap who didn't bother to turn his paper in. Surprising how much sticks. But that kind of picture always appealed to me. Most of the others too stout. Excuse meThe actuality of Nicolas's vision did wander then, graceful, seeking, flushed, through the Ashmead house; seemed to glide threateningly in front of Mary Morley. No wonder Hal punctuated his moodiness with trips to the sideboard. How could Nicolas help? Could Hal be brought to his senses save through the sacrifice of that fate-pursued girl?

Hal, when Nicolas saw him later, appeared abundantly aware of her presence. On his return from the pond he had gone directly to a glass-inclosed veranda in which a fire burned. He sat there, a servant within call, while he drank and stared at the night as it concealed the white hills beneath its purple cloak. "Have a drink," he urged his friends. "Cheer you for being dragged to such a deadly. show."

Dicky Goodhue studied him with an air of bewildertment.

"Most pleasant party," Wandel yawned. "Cocktails, Mason!" Hal called to the servant impatiently. "Don't be miserly either. Got to change in a jiffy."

THIS humor was more disturbing than his forced THIS cheeriness the other day at the club. He was like a wanderer suffering on the bank of a stream without the strength to stoop and appease his thirst. Nicolas didn't care to study such impotence. He swallowed his cocktail and started for his room. On the stairs he found Driggs Wandel at his heels, but without saying anything hurried on. Wandel, however, stepped in after, closing the door. Nicolas had ora nervous impulse to drive him out. "I won't have in any more warnings."

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"Why should you?" Wandel asked. "They would be superfluous."

He strolled to the window, and for a time stared at the cramping dusk.

"Your bath is probably drawn," Nicolas reminded him.

Wandel didn't turn. His voice rang with an unusual earnestness. "I might point out that Hal and I have been fond friends these many years.' Nicolas strode to him and touched his shoulder. "Of course, Driggs. I'm sorry. I'd give much if his father hadn't dragged that girl here."

Wandel nodded. "Do you question, as I do, Whether your friendship would survive his mutilation of a charming picture? Have you ever observed, Nicolas, that excessive consumption of

From a window overlooking the pond Mary Morley's eyes followed Hal among the skaters. It wasn't difficult to believe she had learned to care for him

alcohol deadens one's inhibitions, enlivens one's less worthy impulses?"

Nicolas turned away. "How should I?" he asked impatiently. "I'm not a drunkard."

Wandel yawned. "How eccentric these dry days!" He tapped with his finger on the frosted pane. "I'd feel much easier," he mused, "if his indulgence made our Harold more cheerful. The moon to-night will be a bad loser to the snow clouds."

He turned, smiling. "As a graduate in the school of love, my dear Nick, perhaps you can tell me if the ice on a dark evening gives particular desirability to the girl at hand."

Nicolas recalled his own estimate of Mrs. Ashmead's tactics. He nodded. Wandel knew as well as the Ashmeads what was afoot.

"The ice will probably see it through," he answered frankly.

"And," Wandel reminded him cheerfully, "pictures that work for their living can't very well skate." He went to the door, turning there and stretching his arms over his head. "Too bad sharp country weather makes one sleepy. See you in the gallery on the ice, my Nick."

WH

WHILE he dressed Nicolas marveled that Hal should avoid the fact that his actions, if not for identical reasons, were the chief concern of the entire house. Downstairs Hal yielded no concession to his importance. He descended among the last, his eyes too bright, his manner overgracious. From that very alteration, however, Nicolas drew encouragement. At last his indulgence was making Hal more cheerful, consequently more pliable; but Nicolas found it difficult to meet Mary Morley's eyes.

As he gazed at the laughing faces and the bril liantly gowned women, who lifted glasses from Mason's tray; as their chatter, mingled with masculine tones, crowded his ears, he responded to a reluctant sympathy for the stenographer, more striking than any of them, who in some lonely room upstairs,

over a solitary meal, endured the hollow echoes of their merriment. Rather more painful than a view of abundance from her garage window! He wished her back there, for, in spite of everything, she had set sail and had drifted perilously close to the breakers that guarded the glittering land of her desire.

Mary Morley had the appearance of a wanderer, too, but of one wearily uninterested in her destination. At dinner, next to Hal, and opposite Nicolas, she sipped her wine, nodded, and let escape the necessary words of a disingenuous attention. Hal's dutiful chatter, from what Nicolas caught of it, was feverishly centered on wholly impersonal subjectsairy plans for a southern cruise in February, the probable selections for the polo team, a new comic opera of which good reports had strayed even this far; and Janet, he realized, without his knowledge, was as watchful and puzzled as he. Nicolas glanced Beau Ashmead at the head of the table had reminded them of their submerged housemate. He cackled an inquiry to Mrs. Ashmead, who assured him the girl was well looked after. Nicolas caught Hal's momentary silence, the effort with which he escaped it.

up.

Beau Ashmead's indiscretion, moreover, didn't halt there. He seemed driven by sullen memories of his own sunk youth. When Nicolas, toward eleven o'clock, came down ready for the pond, he found the old man waiting with Mr. and Mrs. Ashmead by the hall fire. At the warnings of a general descent Beau Ashmead faced his son aggressively. "Where's that gel of yours, Alfred?"

"I hope catching up with what I gave her this afternoon."

"Were you ever young, Alfred?"

Mr. Ashmead's laugh was indulgent. "You ought to know."

Beau Ashmead shook his head. "Seems to me, as I look back, you were older than I am when you were born. That gel's young. You're doing your best to make her forget it."

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Eleanor Grantley, side by side with Beau Ashmead, stood poised on the edge of the pond, drawing the surprised glances of everyone on the ice

"If you were younger yourself," Mrs. Ashmead smiled, "one would suspect

"Complimented if you did," the old man snapped, "but I never expect flattery from my children. Go on and have your fun. I'll rout her out and take her down to the ice for a breath of fresh air."

TICOLAS'S sympathy was conquered by an alarm

which vanished at once. He thought he had seen chough of Eleanor Grantley to know she couldn't possibly be forced to accept such an invitation. She wouldn't go; but the grandfather's kindness might make her a trifle less discontented.

"It wouldn't do," Mrs. Ashmead was saying. "Why not?"

"It would only make her uncomfortable." Her husband agreed. Beau Ashmead's infused eyes narrowed.

"Seems I brought my children up a great deal better than I did myself," he grumbled. "I'm a failure. Admit it, 'cause I've never got over the darn-fool notion that a person can be human without money, and the queer notions that go with it." Mrs. Ashmead raised her eyebrows. "You might spare Nick." "Nonsense," Beau Ashmead rattled. "Nick's neither blind nor deaf. He told me so the other day. Go on to the pond. I'll air this high-grade animal of yours, Alfred."

The stairs filled with bundled skaters. Beau Ashmead wandered off, calling for Mason. Nicolas shared Mrs. Ashmead's resigned amusement for the patriarch's favorite pose, which his senility had caused to flower into a social inconsistency. Since in this instance it couldn't reasonably cause complications, Nicolas left the house for the pond with one concern-the outcome of the evening for Mary. Hand in hand Janet and he floundered through the snow to the brink of the hollow behind Hill's End. There, in a blaze of illumination, their clasp was broken. Vigorous tongues from the bonfire which had been lighted on the ice snapped their greed across the hollow and filled it, as the wind caught and scattered them, with saffron, changing

flashes. Nicolas saw that the lower end of the pond sulked in an inky blackness. The setting was so congenial Mrs. Ashmead might have seen even to that significant detail.

Ahead, through the grotesque, irresolute shadows, the party streaked noisily down the slope. Lady Mary, her daughter, and Hal wandered just ahead. Hal drew a sled, piled with rugs and made comfortable through an improvised back rest. No trouble was spared for that tired, apprehensive girl. Janet evidently shared his premonition of a climax, for she spoke with nervous impatience: "I wish Mary would try to skate." Nicolas shared her misgivings. The desirability of the girl at hand must at all costs be impressed upon Hal to-night. Janet's haste hinted an anxiety to be at that task; yet there was little enough either of them could do. She sat on a log that sprawled in the snow at the brink of the pond, urging him to hurry with the fastening of her skating shoes.

He saw Hal place Mary Morley on the sled, tuck rugs about her, then stand awkwardly, the end of the rope dangling from his fingers. His pose suggested a final resistance. Then he was off, skating gracefully, swinging the sled in widening circles, but always in the vicinity of the bonfire. The younger people glided here and there. Lady Mary, Mrs. Goodhue, Mrs. Warden, and Mrs. Ashmead, from chairs placed near the warmth, watched placidly. The sled came scraping by the log. As he straightened, Nicolas heard his cousin say::

"But you really oughtn't to fret about me. I'm quite content, you know, to look on." Janet made an uncontrollable gesture of disapproval. Hal's receding laugh was polite.

NICOL, they curved about the edge of the pond,

ICOLAS drew Janet to her feet, and, hand in

called greetings to other pairs, paused at last near the log as if summoned by a dry crunching in the snow of the slope. Janet's hand tightened in Nicolas's. As he followed her glance, all his notions of Eleanor Grantley tumbled about his ears, for the girl came down the hill, side by side with Beau Ash

mead, Mason at her heels. Janet's voice was sharp: "What does she mean?"

Nicolas covered his surprise.

"Your grandfather said something about seeing she got some air."

"But why should she come here?" Janet cried "What's she thinking of?"

The girl must know what she was doing in this instance. Certainly she hadn't placed herself in such a graceless position without a motive. Nicolas felt baffled. He tried to tell himself she was no longer worth worrying about since she appeared to seek unhappiness, the inevitable and fatal crash among the breakers. He looked around uneasily. There was Hal flashing the sled about beyond the bonfire. When he turned back Eleanor Grantley stood poised on the edge of the pond, without effort drawing the surprised glances of everyone on the ice, even the admiration of the indolent watchers in the chairs. It suggested a studied exhibition, yet Nicolas guessed it might very well be nothing of the sort; rather an unconscious and not unnatural embarrassment as to what to do next. The others went on with their occupations, but Janet and Nicolas continued to look, and perhaps Hal over there, chained by his duty, was wide-eyed too.

By Jove, her pose was unstudied; any attitude to be so arresting must possess complete unconcern for its details. A long cloak with fur at the neck covered her in graceful folds-a garment probably snatched up by Beau Ashmead and flung, against her protests, across her shoulders. A fur cap rested on her ruddy hair, which seemed to give the key to the whole preposterous picture; for the blaze from the pond outlined her in flame, even lent to her long, attenuated shadow on the snow a warming tinge of crimson.

"Go over and see what it's all about," Janet shot at Nicolas.

He had a quick suspicion, brushed aside as un justifiable, that Janet wished to destroy the imper tinent girl's sudden and outlandish predominance of the pond.

By the time he had

(Continued on page 17)

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W

ELL, it looks like the Senate's got police protection again!" remarked Uncle Henry, putting aside his news

Uncle Henry

On Senator Tom Watson and the Bull-Jawed Brute

aper. "The press gallery's fillin' up with sporting riters, Cal Coolidge has hired Jack Dempsey for is understudy, 'n' there's brisk bidding for the otion-picture rights. Why, it's almost like the good ld days when they made Ben Tillman wear a muzzle, 'wouldn't let Joe Bailey come in until he'd checked cis hot Southern blood at the door.

"Yes, sir, I certainly must get a ringside seat 'n' ratch this Tom Watson the next time he goes into ction. Big 'n' rawboned from the shoulders up, n' jaw muscles that make the coils of a python look ike the failures at a candy pull. An' a demon for pdurance! Never stops even for a comma!

"Debates under his own name too. Nothin' like hese Battling O'Briens that answer to the name of Moe at home. A sterling American product, hailing rom those hardy uplands of Georgia just a few days' ravel off the rock road as you go south, where corn 3 still put to its natural use 'n' only books are vile. one of your fancy articles is Tom, but real home rew. Never wore clothes until he was twenty-one, 'then they had to hunt him down with hounds 'n' ope him.

"Don't you remember how he hit the Senate a few onths ago? No fiddlin' around, waiting for Jim eed to reach a colon, but an instant appeal for onsideration. Calm 'n' gentlemanly, of course, as ecame a descendant of the Cavaliers, but still suffisiently positive to make the agent of a plate-glass surance company order cancellation on every Washgton policy. Five Western senators, wakin' up with wful starts, began to beg the reporters not to men

tion their names, before they realized where they were. Brandegee, dreaming of the second comin' of Mark Hanna, fell out of his seat, 'n' Reed Smoot dropped the life of Brigham Young that he was readin'.

"Insensate despots!' cried Tom. 'Malevolent tyrants! Not content with dragging the flower of American youth into degrading contact with the degenerate scions of decadent France and the no less depraved Briton, but taking advantage of distance to enforce a loathsome servitude upon hundreds of thousands of free-born youths, even to the point of salutes, which is no more than a cunning. modernization of the pull at the forelock with which the vassals of old greeted the lord of the manor as he took his morning, walk across their faces, and compélling servile obedience by the lash, the blackjack, loaded canes, fence rails, rocks, boots, and even by the gallows, until there wasn't an unoccupied tree in the whole of France or a hip in the American Expeditionary Forces that had not known its humiliation. Swimmers in blood!' he yelled. 'Apocalyptical beasts!'

""Bravo!' cried Henry Cabot Lodge. 'Admirable, even if somewhat restrained.'

""Hush!' hissed Frelinghuysen. he's talking about!'

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'It's the army

'Holy Theodore!' gasped Henry. 'I thought he meant Woodrow Wilson.'

"By now the Billingsgate Lad was going good. Words, jammin' at the source, fled screamin' from every pore. Language, first no more than pools on the floor, rose higher and higher until it lapped

Cal Coolidge's, ankles, 'n' a page, who couldn't swim, was only saved by clinging to a Congressional Record, the one dry spot in the chamber. On and on went Tom. The slaughter was terrible. Inside of ten minutes he'd hung three whole divisions, maimed a brigade, 'n' was proving that General Pershing always returned a salute with brass knucks. Over in a corner Hell-Roaring Hi Johnson of California turned so bright a green that Walsh of Massachusetts moved his appointment as ambassador and referee extraordinary to the Irish Free-for-all State. Reed, once as fine a debater as ever heaved an ink bottle, turned away in mute acceptance of defeat.

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"I think I shall cry shame!' exclaimed Lodge. ''No, no!' said Moses hastily. "They might not know who you meant.'

""He must be answered,' cried brave New of Indiana. 'Spring at him, McCormick,' he said.

"I would in a minute,' said the senator from Chicago, 'but we've never been introduced.'

"You do it, Henry!' shrilled the gallant Hale. ""Treat him with contempt!' piped Spencer of Missouri.

""Poot!" said Poindexter. 'He's been in politics too long to mind it.'

He's Talking About the Army

"AN' just then in came Wadsworth, genially remark

ing: 'What ho!' or maybe it was: 'Pip-pip!'

"It's this man Watson,' they told him. 'He's talking about the army.'

"Eh, what!' gasped the senator for New York north of Albany. 'A bit (Continued on page 28)

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The Man They Cannot Forget

NE of the permanent possessions of a human heart is the memory of its great enthusiasms. You may have come to disdain and even despise them,. but they are never uprooted. Then you reached your highest-and you know it.

When a noble ideal kindles such enthusiasms, that ideal becomes one of those things that without warning, at rare intervals, flares up. And you sit in the light of the flare and ponder. Why did it fail? Not because it was not beautiful-right-desirable. Was it because you were not fit for beauty, righteousness, desirability?

Peoples are like men. They may lay aside their great hopes, but to the end there are hours when they sit with them and ponder.

Perhaps that is the explanation of the persistent, mysterious, unconscious way in which men to-day draw together around Woodrow Wilson. It requires explanation. Why, in Washington for months now, has the sight-seeing wagon followed his car? Why do the chattering tourists inside grow silent as they pass it? They don't peer. They lift their hats and sigh, and it sometimes takes minutes and striking sights to break the mood the fleeting glimpse of that drawn, long white face has stirred.

Why is it that on Sundays and holidays men and women and children-most of them busy through the week-walk to his house. and stand there in groups, speak together in hushed tones as if something solemn and ennobling moved in them? Curiosity? Men chatter and gibe and jostle in curiosity. These people are silent, gentle, and orderly. You will see them before the theatre on nights when it is known that Mr. Wilson is within, quietly waiting. for him to come out. There will be fifty, a hundred, even sometimes a thousand.

They cheer him as he passes, and there are often chokes in the cheers, and always tenderness. Why do they do it? Nothing more instinctive, more unplanned, goes on in Washington. Let it be known that he is in his seat in a theatre, and the whole house will rise in homage. Let his face be thrown on the screen, and it will draw a greeting that the face of no other living American receives. And that is not true in Washington alone.

Why should the vast throng that packed Pennsylvania Avenue from end to end on Armistice Day have stood reverently, with heads bared in silence as the bier of the Unknown Soldier passed, attended by all the official greatness of the moment-the President, his Cabinet, the Supreme Court, the House, the Senate, the Diplomatic Corps, Pershing, Foch-why should this great crowd have watched in silence until, quite unexpectedly, a carriage far down the line came to view? Why should this crowd, unconscious of what it was doing, have broken into a low cry of sympathy and grief: "There's Wilson!" The cry flew down the long avenue.

They saw him as the man who had called into service the boy they honored, who had put the wonderful light in his eye, that light of which a great French surgeon said: "The American soldier is different from all others. I don't know what it is, whether it is God, the Monroe doctrine, or President Wilson; but he has something in his eye." Yes, Wilson's place was by the dead soldier, and the people knew it, and told him so by their unconscious outburst.

Woodrow Wilson means something to the people of the United States: something profound, something they cannot forget. People think of him now as the man who was behind the inspiration of their greatest moments; who stirred them to a fresh understanding

of the meaning of words that had become mere patter on many tongues-"democracy," "union." He made them realities, personal deep-showed them as the reason of all that is good in our present all that is hopeful in our future, the working basis on which men may strive to liberty of soul and peaceful achievement. He made them literally things to die for, lifting all of our plain, humble thou sands who never knew applause or wealth or the honor of office into the ranks of those who are willing to die for an ideal—the highest plane that humans reach.

People are thinking, also, of his work in that after-war period when the hate, revenge, and bitterness that war has loosed have none of the restraints that war compels, and we must, by reason and good will and patience, restore our controls-that terrible period we speak of as reconstruction. There too he kindled enthusiasms. "Now," he said, "let us do what men have long dreamed-give to each people its chance, cut down the foolish barriers of trade limit our armaments, enter into a union of all nations pledged to cooperation and peace.'

The peoples of the earth rallied to his plan, pledged themselves And then the loosed passions began their war on him. Those who wanted peace and believed it easy; those who hated peace and be lieved it impossible;. those who envied his place, differed with his judgments, failed of his favor-these and many more joined in an attack such as few men have ever faced in the history of this earth. He fought to a finish, that he might secure the pledge of the nations to the ideal of world cooperation.

He won-won with the peoples of the world, if not with all of their governments. They look to him as the man who drove that ideal so deep into the soul of the nations that no man or men can ever destroy it. It has become an asset of tormented humanity, a possible way out of slaughter and hate. Through all the future men will be building upon it, adapting, expanding, as men have built on Washington's work, on Lincoln's work, knowing that their efforts rest on something essentially sound and secure.

They are simple people, remember, those thousands whose hearts he had enkindled. They are the people who do the work of the world, and their minds are easily bewildered. "He has deceived you," they were told. "He has given you dreams. Dreams are not for men. You live by realities, not ideals. Out with him! Down with him! As a great nation, you have strength, you have gold. Keep them Stand alone. Do not forget that you do not live by ideals."

And the people withdrew-bewildered. But the shouting over they remembered their long days of exaltation, of sacrifice, of free dom and boldness, of worthwhileness. Was it only a deception? Was all they had felt a mere magic of words on their untrained minds, the stir of a fleeting passion in their lives? Was ther no sense, no reality, in it all?

That is what thousands upon thousands have been asking i these past days. And slowly they are turning to him who led them His suffering face and palsied side are a symbol of their cripple hopes. "How is it with him," they ask, "a living sacrifice to tha faith and that vision? Does he still believe? Has he lost faith a well as strength?"

And so they seek him. He means something to them; they don' quite know what. He is a living link with their noblest phase. Thos who destroyed that phase are giving them nothing in its place. Wha does it all mean? And so they follow his carriage, gather befor his house, stand in rain and snow and cold before the theatre to ge even the most fleeting glimpse, something that will bid them liv again as they did in those great moments.

Outwitting the Thief

WHAT would you think of a man who left a diamond ring o

the sidewalk, unguarded and in full view, while he was insid the building? You would wonder when his keepers would appea to take him back to the asylum. But the man or woman who leave. an automobile unlocked and unwatched at the curb is just as rec less. He or she invites one of the big clan of motor-car thieves t jump in and take the car away.

What we can learn, both from such practitioners and from th police, comes down to this: Thieves don't, as a rule, steal cars whic are locked or equipped with good antitheft devices. There are to many loose cars standing around at curbs waiting to be taken. You car should be locked as well as skill can lock it, and should hav

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ur name in some place where you can find it-and a thief can't. are tires are choice bits for sneak thieves. The old-time ckpocket finds tires better business than ordinary watches and ndkerchiefs. But he is particular: seldom takes used tires. Therere it is wise to put your spare tires on the rims and run them for day or so. It is good for them, and makes the thief scorn them. little common sense along these lines will keep a great many thouad cars, tires, and tools in the hands of those who earned them, id for them, deserve to keep them.

Magic?

E can all afford to do some thinking about the immediate future of communications. The air is full of messages. A boy or man 3 down in front of a black box. From it, somewhere, he has rigged wire that swings in the air. He hears music; the news comes him; hour after hour he picks up information and entertainment m the black box. A whole roomful of people can hear it with a. The machine is tireless; so too, apparently, are the mysterious aves" which it filters into speech.

Newspapers are talking about a wizard who lives in an apartat house in Paris. His name is Franchette. For a long time has heard the band play, has talked through the air with assoes and friends. A recent dispatch says he has tuned up different liances in his flat to react to the waves sent out at different times m the Eiffel Tower. At 6 a. m. his shutters swing open and the lains draw back; then water for his bath is heated, breakfast is ted, doors are opened and closed.

Magic? Not at all; merely one more step in the long fight of man ake himself comfortable, to get information, to be civilized. We going to hear very much more about "wireless." It is sure to me a new, tireless, indispensable servant of man.

THO

Around a Table

HOUGHTLESS people who have the habit of sneering at everything are poking fun at conferences. To them it is funny that Versailles led to Washington, Washington to Cannes, and Cannes to Genoa. What good is it all doing? they ask.

Let them laugh. A twisted world cannot be set straight in a day. If each conference straightens out one little curve, that much is gained. Getting together around a table is the sensible way. There is another way-we hope a discarded way. Do the cynics like that better? If they do, let them remember that the old way always leads in the end to-another conference.

When Competition Goes Color Blind

Do you always manage to keep popular with yourself?

The other night we met a man who was working overtime to keep up his own idea of his standing in this world by picking all the flaws he could find in other people. Next morning came a salesman who spent five minutes telling about his own goods and twenty knocking his competitors'.

The salesman handles an article which is so nearly standardized that there is little choice between half a dozen makes. The other man is in a profession where competition is as keen as a razor. Competition is driving both these chaps color blind.

Talk is a legitimate by-product of competition-as long as it sticks to the truth. The trouble is, hearsay creeps in; on second repetition hearsay is told for fact. That may be only a white lie, but the fellow who becomes addicted to white lies is soon so color blind he can't recognize those of more vivid hues. When you can't stand competition without tinkering with facts, you are going morally color blind. Your popularity with yourself rests on a very shaky foundation.

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