of making a living or of keeping what they make. Your classics are
musty and rusty and fusty. _Heraus mit----"_

He checked himself suddenly, with as near a blush as his sallow
skin could show.

"Excuse me," he stammered; "bad habit, contracted when I was a
student at Kiel--only place where they really understood metallurgy."

Professor John De Vries, round, rosy, white-haired, steeped in the
mellow lore of ancient history, puffed his cigar and smiled that
benignant smile with which he was accustomed joyfully to enter a
duel of wits. Many such conflicts had enlivened that low-ceilinged
book-room of his at Calvinton.

"You are excused, my dear Hardman," he said, "especially because
you have just given us a valuable illustration of the truth that
language and the study of language have a profound influence upon
thought. The tongue which you inadvertently used belongs to the
country that bred the theory of education which you advocate. The
theory is as crude and imperfect as the German language itself.
And that is saying a great deal."

Young Richard De Vries, the professor's favorite nephew and adopted
son, whose chief interest was athletics, but who had a very pretty
side taste for verbal bouts, was sitting with the older men before
a cheerful fire of logs in the chilly spring of 1917. He tucked
one leg comfortably underneath him and leaned forward in his chair,
lighting a fresh cigarette. He foresaw a brisk encounter, and was
delighted, as one who watches from the side-lines the opening of