ably worrying sick over my absence. It may sound queer, but for the life of me I can not find the yellow brick wall with the nude iron maidens. Oh, I have been to every police precinct, but they smile as they assure me that they are searching—then they lead me to the door.
"At present I live in a dark, stuffy flat on Broome Street. Mother and Kate are there, too.
"Oh, do not be alarmed. Please listen to me: I am sure I shall make myself clear. You see, either the house on Broome Street is a dream and I am dreaming now, or the estate near Morristown is a dream and my present status is reality. I am quite confused. This afternoon I shall go again to hunt for the yellow corrugated brick wall with the cast-iron grille. . . .
"You see, I have always been what is generally known as a day-dreamer. After one of my daily trips to the News office I was walking slowly homeward. I walked slowly because the atmosphere at home was not an inducement to increase my speed, and because by walking slowly and looking downward I could lose myself facilely in the current dream. I could go home with a clear conscience because the News had contained nothing suitable. I squelched a light qualm about the position as bookkeeper at Reid's because I was quite certain that the young men on wheels would be there long before I could walk there. I had no carfare.
"As I said, I was walking slowly, looking downward. The mental vista that presented itself caused a pleasurable flutter about the heart. Dressed in the trappings of a general, I was seated on a white horse. From my perch on the hill-top, I could see the drilling thousands. My subordinates snapped sharp commands that were mechanically obeyed. A multitude of civilians watched in silent awe. The city officials stood on each side of me and felt important because of the juxtaposition.
"About face! Forr-rrd march! Charge!
"It was an awe-inspiring spectacle, the steel glistening and scintillating in the noonday sun. The 'Baby General's' soldiers were the best trained and most loyal in the world. I was whelmed with pride and importance. I was quite young, hence the appellation 'Baby General.'
"I was beginning to feel annoyed with myself. The scene on the hillside began to stale. Let me see, it began with the World War in the daily papers back in 1917. There was a probability of my going. Engendered in the World War, the dream was woven, ramified and exploited until I arrived at the crux, the scene on the hillside. I felt thwarted, frustrated. Nights I would toss about in bed searching for a possibility of continuity. It was futile. The scene on the hillside confronted me. I felt smug on my white charger. The multitude offered their meed. . . .
"You must bear in mind that the 'Baby General' dream continued for about six months—the first three months being creative. Toward the end of the period I was searching frantically for a new dream. In the meantime I held tenaciously to the scene on the hillside, or, as is more probable, it held me.
"It is a cruel axiom that with poverty the baser instincts rise to the surface. If I am not dreaming at present, then I must admit that I can not feel anything more for my mother than the prescribed solicitude of a son. After I have searched the highway near Morristown for the yellow face-brick wall with cast-iron grille bearing the nude maidens, I shall return to my flat on Broome Street to face a tirade that has assumed the character of the perennial murmur of a brook. Now when I pass a brook, its chronic ranting maddens
