forward into the highroad.

Arved put out his hand, searching for his comrade. "Quell, Quell!" he
whispered. Quell rose darkly beside him, a narrow lath of humanity.
Locking arms, both walked briskly until, turning a sharp, short corner,
they beheld, all smiling in the night, a summer garden, well lighted and
full of gay people, chattering, singing, eating, drinking--happy! The
two fugitives were stunned for a moment by such a joyful prospect. Tears
came slowly to their eyes, yet they never relaxed their gait. Arriving
at an outlying table and seats, they bethought themselves of their
appearance, of money, of other disquieting prospects; but, sitting down,
they boldly called a waiter.

Luckily it was a country girl who timidly took their order for beer and
sandwiches. And they drank eagerly, gobbling the food as soon as it
came, ordering more so noisily that they attracted attention. The beer
made them brave. As they poured down glass after glass, reckless of the
reckoning, insolent to the servant, they began wrangling over the
subject that had possessed their waking hours.

"Look here, Quell!" Arved exclaimed crustily, "you said I had crazy blue
eyes. What about your own red ones? Crazy! Why, they glow now like a
rat's. Poets may be music-mad, drunk with tone--"

"And other things," sneered the painter.

"--but at least their work is great when it endures; it does not fade
away on rotten canvas."

"Now, I know you ought to be in the Brain-College, Arved, where your