of him, or to bring him its bags of gold. The little man
did his best; he put his "message," as he called it, into
poems, into essays, into a novel. Publishers thanked him
effusively for the pleasure of reading them,
and--sent them back. The only word of his which reached
the public was a review of the work of a successful
author. It was so personal, so malignant, that George,
when he read it, writhed with shame and humiliation. He
tore the paper into fragments.

"Am I so envious and small as that! Before God, no words
of mine shall ever go into print again!" he said, and he
kept his word.

He came down every month or two to his mother.

"Why not try teaching, George?" she said anxiously.
"These great scholars and scientific men have places and
reputations which even you need not despise."

He laughed bitterly. "I tried for a place as tutor in a
third-class school, and could not pass the examinations.
I know nothing accurately. Nothing."

It occurred to him to go into politics and help reform
the world by routing a certain Irish boss. He made a
speech at a ward meeting, and broke down in the middle of
it before the storm of gibes and hootings.

"What was the matter?" he asked a friend, whose face was