life, upon seeing things as they are and not as one would like to see
them to be. I don't believe that dreaming ever did any good to any man!"

"It's only produced some of the finest literature the world has ever
known," said Mr. Pidgen.

"Ah! Genius! If you or I were geniuses, Pidgen, that would be another
affair. But we're not; we're plain, common-place humdrum human beings
with souls to be saved and work to do--work to do!"

There was a little pause after that, and Hugh, looking at Mr. Pidgen,
saw the hurt look in his eyes deepen.

"Come now, Lasher," he said at last. "Let's be honest one with another;
that's your line, and you say it ought to be mine. Come now, as man to
man, you think me a damnable failure now--beg pardon--complete
failure--don't you? Don't be afraid of hurting me. I want to know!"

Mr. Lasher was really a kindly man, and when his eyes beheld
things--there were of course many things that they never beheld--he
would do his best to help anybody. He wanted to help Mr. Pidgen now;
but he was also a truthful man.

"My dear Pidgen! Ha, ha! What a question! I'm sure many, many people
enjoy your books immensely. I'm sure they do, oh, yes!"

"Come, now, Lasher, the truth. You won't hurt my feelings. If you were
discussing me with a third person you'd say, wouldn't you? 'Ah, poor
Pidgen might have done something if he hadn't let his fancy run away
with him. I was with him at Cambridge. He promised well, but I'm afraid