him as be opened the door. The boy was bound, but lying on his back,
so had been able to hammer on the door with his feet. The sound of
pounding had carried even better than his shouts.

Warren hastily untied the cords that secured him and helped him up the
stairs. He was stiff and sore from the cramped position, but once in
the upper rooms, he took a deep breath, and proceeded to tell Warren
the events of the morning.

Once more Professor Morris was the cause of the disaster. The
Professor was, fortunately, of uncommon type. He was a modest man --
so modest that it even ceased to be a virtue, and became an annoying
and irritating trait. He never stood up for himself, nor for his
family in any way.

The saying, "Generous to a fault" likewise applied to him. He was a
spendthrift in kindness, giving not only money needed for himself and
the children, but bestowing his time when he needed it himself. His
learning he gave recklessly, too, writing long, learned articles for
little or no pay, and without a thought that the material given away
was just so much capital.

But of one thing he was jealous, careful and touchy. His book, his
almost completed work on Warsaw. It was to be a book of books, so
clear, so accurate, so full of new f acts that it would be a treasure
among the literary treasures of his time. Professor Morris believed in
the book with the conviction that comes to writers when they have done
something really good. He knew it was fine. It was more than a
history of the beautiful and fated city. It was written in such
golden, flowing English that the hardest and driest facts in its pages