FICTION John backed slowly into the dark room. He listened to the tinkle of glasses and laughter below while his eyes became accustomed to the blackness. Then he pulled out his pocket flashlight and took another step into the room. As he did so, he very definitely came in contact with an open bureau drawer. He wasted no time in any well-directed curses at one of Dr. Peabody's prime characteristics but after a baleful glare at the cabinet, turned to survey the room. John first flashed the light about the whole room to see the position of the furniture, taking every detail that the meager light would permit. He completely ignored the fine old Sheraton cabinet until his wrath was a little more appeased and flashed the light toward the next object, the bed. It was a very plain piece covered with a green silk spread. After looking carefully underneath the bed and in the springs, he discarded it as a possible hiding place and inspected the end table beside it. There were large nicks and scratches around the bottom legs, obviously made by a dog, but the green-eyed buddha was not there. In the corner was a large armchair covered with an atrocious deep blue chintz. It stood proudly in the corner by the window, showing years and years of use lovable use. On the other side of the window at the far end of the room was a very large bookcase, apparently placed there for competence rather than beauty. John moved closer to examine the books, ignoring the open window. He did not realize then that he would have been much more successful if he had examined the window first of all. On the bottom shelf of the bookcase were some ponderous volumes of law and esoteric scientific subjects with considerable evidence of dust. John knelt quickly as he noticed divisions in some of the larger volumes. Perhaps but no. He was puzzled as the pages fell open to a pressed lilac, a violet nosegay, and a long thick leaf. So the Doctor collected other things besides treacherous buddhas which connected him with the dark deeds of the omnipotent Turk, Sajah. Realizing there was little time left, he stood up to glance quickly over the other books on the top shelves, books that showed many thumbmarks. There were a few books of Scott's poetry, others by Wells, Tolstoi, and John chuckled Mark Twain. Finding no possible hiding place for the telltale box, he turned to the next wall. There were two doors between which was another chair and end table. He opened the first door which showed him a bathroom in a mild cyclonic state. Towels and wash cloths, shaving things and talcum powder were flung about the room with no esthetic appreciation in mind. He quickly decided that if anything were hidden there it would have been uprooted long ago. He turned to the next door. Here was Dr. Peabody's closet. Dr. Peabody evidently used it as a place to throw away his clothes rather than to keep them. John quickly decided that he would not search through the pile of shoes, suits, and coats unless he was compelled to look there. The Doctor apparently had had a falling out with the servants of Hillrop Manor. This brought John back to the point where he had entered. There were a table and mirror on one side of the door and the Sheraton cabinet on the other. He cast another direful glare at the cabinet and turned to the table. There was a beautiful sandalwood box with some mysterious Sanskritic inscriptions on the top. To John's surprise it opened easily. However, he found no trace of the object which would clear Dr. Peabody of the guilt of which he was so blissfully unaware. Finding only some old letters, he made a quick search behind the mirror. He made a mental note that Dr. Peabody's mirror was placed in the darkest corner of the room. John was smiling as he turned finally to the cabinet. Mirrors probably frightened the eminent doctor. Now John was not a connoisseur of furniture, but he knew Sheraton and Chippendale and Hepplewhite, and Dr. Peabody's cabinet was one of the finest examples of Sheraton he had ever seen. His excitement mounted as he began to look more feverishly through the drawers. He uttered a gasp of amazement. Under some handkerchiefs in the second drawer blinked something green an eye from the buddha! John cupped it in his hand as he turned it under the light. What was the eye from the buddha doing in Dr. Peabody's drawer? Could Sajah have planted it there? If he had, that meant he was somewhere near. John stood so intent on contemplation that he did not hear the slight scraping sound at the window. In fact, he heard nothing until there was a very audible bump as someone's foot hit the floor. John turned rapidly. Someone was coming in the window, and he did not realize John was there because he was climbing in backward. John watched a second and then slowly backed toward the door. Something was very wrong somewhere. As the figure at the window stood up in the room, the moon outlined a slim young girl with long golden hair. A girl! John sighed as took another step backward straight toward the tall, shrouded figure that silently stood there. Yes, something was very wrong somewhere. Page 18 Of Men and Fog (Continued from Page 7) do the job. You talk about guts and you don't even know what the word means. You act as though you'd read a lot, and so you've probably read John Steinbeck's novels. Now there's a man who really knows what the word 'guts' means. He says it's the stuff people have that makes them do the things they don't like to do or haven't been able to do and makes them do it well. Listen, you can get anything in the world if you want it had enough. And any damn fool who hasn't courage enough to go out and lick obstacles which stand in the way of his living in the most satisfying way . . ." "Yes, but I've said that so much myself . . . Yes, it sounds good, but . . ." "But what! You haven't given yourself and your life a fair chance. You've thought a lot and dreamed a lot, but you haven't got out and done any of the things to make your dreams come true." "But what if you haven't got what it takes . . .?" "Don't say that. When you admit that phrase to yourself, you might just as well jump from this bridge . . . But you're young and you've got the stuff. You can become independent and go to the top. You've got a job; a job of proving to yourself that you can get there, that the world can offer a man with determination anything he wants . . ." "Oh, hell, I know I could do it, but I've made such a mess of things . . . Messed my work, my life by just trying to be different and trying to do nothing to interfere with my getting money, power, fame . . . Everything I've had has decayed and crumbled, everything I've believed in . . ." "Now, there you go again. The trouble is you've had the wrong attitude . . . like you say, your determination to become powerful and different has made you narrow, caused you to bump your head at every turn. But, now you should be able to go about it right . . . face the problem and conquer it for yourself, for her sake." "Yes, I can, but I . . ." "And you were going to jump! Go plunging down into the water into heaven knows what misery, just because you were too cowardly to face and conquer one little problem. Why, good heavens, man . . . Say, you couldn't be very old. How old are you?" "Eighteen." "Eighteen! The time when you have everything, and you were going to . . ." "Say, who are you, anyway?" "Oh, it doesn't matter my name . . . ; it can be Mr. Smith if you like. I'm a newspaper man . . . been one since I was about your age. In the news racket you see everything, mostly black, ugly reality . . . But that's life ... a flame, a puzzle, a problem, full of quirks and traps, and you've got to like it; life is to be lived as the best kind of existence as far as mankind is concerned. And you were going to jump!" "You know I don't think I'd have really done it, but I guess I was sort of crazy and desperate." "But, now?" "Now, I'm going back and get hold of her and tell her that I'm going . . . I'm going right to the top, and in a few years or so, I'm going to marry her. Now I'm going back . . . I've got the guts . . . That word's going to be with me always . . . Yes, I've got the stuff . . ." The Man lighted a cigarette while the boy continued. "I'm going now, Mister . . . er Smith, I'm going back to my Ford and drive back to the city. And I'm going to have guts." "That's it!!! Youth. Stamina. They go together. Good luck, fello." He reaches out his hand and the Youth takes it rather awkwardly. Their hands clasped tightly; they stare at each other intently. The Youth's face is lit up with the fire and the enthusiasm of the young . . . determination, idealism. The Man's face is older, set, half-wrinkled. There is the wisdom, the worldliness, the semi-resignation of early middle age. "I don't think I'll ever forget this." "I don't think I will either. So long, fello." "So long." The Youth turns and strides out, straight, enthusiastic, arms swinging, head held high . . . Who has not known the fire and spirit tearing at the vitals? who has not felt the glow and the light within the breast, pouring forth from the eyes and the mouth? who has not known the exhilaration of scaling the peaks, or reaching the goal? who has not known the security and the thanksgiving of the decision, when the earth careens on its axis and the heavens rain power? . . . and is lost in the fog. . . Over the bridge the grey mists mix indistinctly with the dull color of the concrete parapet. Grey mists obliterate all save the faint glow of the lamposts. The city is asleep. The churning waters of the river can be heard by the greysuited man . . . bubbling and sucking . . . sucking . . . sucking all objects into unseen whirlpools . . . the river, father of waters, cleanser of the earth . . . rumbles and hisses . . . somewhere near but unseen . . . The river is there just over the railing, there where the foggy vapor is moving . . . The man stands for a moment, slowly turns around, his eyes taking in the whole scene. A half-mad smile spreads over his face. His lips part and he chuckles. He looks toward the parapet and begins to laugh in a low voice. His laugh grows louder, reaches a great height ... It is intense, bitter, ironical with a sobbing disillusioned sound. His laugh stops abruptly, and the gleam in his face is heightened. He throws away his cigarette, pulls his felt hat brim down over his forehead, turns his coat collar up. Almost savagely he rushes to the bridge railing and vaults over. There is a moment's pause. Then a swirl of fog rises at the spot where he has jumped . . . We Who Are Kind (Continued from Page 14) windshield. Outside wet pine trees sparkled in the moonlight. For a moment he looked at her. He felt a little weak. She was beautiful. Tenderly he tilted her chin and looked into her eyes. "Don't," she said, and turned her face away. "Why?" he managed to say. He sounded almost like a girl. She didn't answer. Her face as she looked out of the window was pained and sad, sorry but determined. For a while they just sat staring out through misty windows. It rumbled deep in his throat, came to the surface, "Is it because you've forgotten the night we spent here not long ago?" For a moment she felt herself weaken, and she said it slowly, "I'll never forget that night." "Then why?" he began. "I feel the same as I've always felt about you," she said, "but it just doesn't seem to make sense, as long as I'm definitely not in love with you ... I like to go out with you, but I just don't like to neck unless it means something." Page 19