live."

Galusha Bangs returned to his beloved work at the National Institute
and his income was reinvested for him by the senior partner of Cabot,
Bancroft and Cabot. Occasionally Galusha requested that a portion of
it be sent him, usually for donation to this department or that or to
assist in fitting out an expedition of his own, but, generally speaking,
he was quite content with his modest salary. He unwrapped his mummies
and deciphered his moldering papyri, living far more in ancient Egypt
than in modern Washington. The Great War and its demands upon the youth
of the world left the Institute short-handed and he labored harder than
ever, doing the work of two assistants as well as his own. It was the
only thing he could do for his country, the only thing that country
would permit him to do, but he tried to do that well. Then the
Hindenburg line was broken, the armistice was signed and the civilized
world rejoiced.

But Galusha Bangs did not rejoice, for his health had broken, like the
enemy's resistance, and the doctors told him that he was to go away at
once.

"You must leave all this," commanded the doctor; "forget it. You must
get away, get out of doors and stay out."

For a moment Galusha was downcast. Then he brightened.

"There is an expedition from the New York museum about to start for
Syria," he said. "I am quite sure I would be permitted to accompany it.
I'll write at once and--"