ses the little ones. I bet he’s a cold-deck artist something.” “He’s something all right,” Hugh agreed, "ripes, I feel dirty and stinko. I feel as if I’d en in a den.” “You have been. Say, what’s that?” They ,d almost traversed the length of the long hall len Winsor stopped suddenly, taking Hugh by the m. A door was open, and they could hear somedy reading. “What’s what?” Hugh asked, a little startled by e suddenness of Winsor’s question. “Listen. That poem. I’ve heard it somewhere fore. What is it?” Hugh listened a moment and then said: “Oh, at’s the poem Prof Blake read us the other day— u know, ‘Marpessa.’ It’s about the shepherd, Polio, and Marpessa. It’s great stuff. Listen.” They remained standing in the deserted hall, e voice coming clearly to them through the open orway. “It’s Freddy Fowler,” Winsor whisred. “He can sure read.” The reading stopped, and they heard Fowler say some one, presumably his room-mate: “This is e part that I like best. Get it.” Then he read as’s plea to Marpessa:
“‘After such argument what can I plead? Or what pale promise make? Yet since it is
