Four Scribulus breast. Her long-lashed eyes blinked heavily. "What happened?" she asked in her childish treble. Then, growing wider awake, she added, "I'll bet you went to sleep!'' "Sleep? Oh yes, sure. Sleep . . . Maybe you'd better drive awhile, you're so wide awake.'' "I'm comfortable right here," Mary assured him, snuggling her pink cheek against his shoulder. "Step on it, Sweet. Mother's expecting us for breakfast." Her voice trailed off into a sleepy little yawn. Joe relaxed. Manly pride stiffened his broad shoulders. Well, he guessed he could take care of Mary and the kid. Gosh, but little Joe was some kid. Fists so red and so darned big too! No doubt he'd be a second Dempsey . . . Mary would probably laugh at him if he brought the kid boxing gloves for Christmas; maybe he'd better wait another year. The glare of approaching headlights winked through the darkness. Joe felt reassured. There was comfort in the thought that other cars were on the highway. He speeded up some. He whistled a few bars of "Sweet Adeline." He reached for a cigarette, but hesitated the smoke would not be good for the kid. He nibbled at a banana .... What was that tall figure just ahead! He drew back shrinkingly, then relaxed again. It was only a cactus, but it had an uncanny resemblance to a man . . . "The Valley'of Silent Men!" Wasn't that located near one of the celebrated canyons in or near Arizona? He'd heard of those tall cactuses. They stood five to six feet tall, and to a tourist they looked like men standing with outstretched arms . . . There were not many of them growing here, for which he was thankful. They looked too realistic, too much like men walking along. The headlights of the approaching car, distant but a minute or so ago, were now but a few hundred yards away. Instinc- tively Joe pulled over to the far side of the road. It was an oil truck; as it passed Joe could read the advertisement on its side: "... Safety First." "Yeah," said Joe. Not far ahead Joe could make out the bleak silhouettes of two or three small buildings. ''Must be section-houses. There's probably a railway crossing ahead somewhere," thought Joe. Maybe one of the section hands, out patrolling the tracks, would be on the highway . . . The fact that there might be a man out there somewhere ahead brought goose flesh out all along Joe's spine. "Wake up, Mary! For Pete's sake, give a man a break, can't you? Wake up and talk to me!" "Okay. Okay, Joe," mumbled Mary, shifting to a more comfortable position. Her even breathing told him she Was still asleep. The kid looked so cozy there in her arms: sort of helpless and kinda dependent on his Dad the little tyke. Joe straightened up and gazed straight ahead. By the gods, there was something out there! He could see it distinctly. This was no cactus! Cactuses don't have legs! Cactuses don't walk along the road! . . . What the deuce? The confounded thing was walking in the center of the road! "Look out there, you idiot!" yelled Joe. He thought he was shouting the words, but in reality he was only muttering hoarse epithets that died on his lips. His stiff fingers wouldn't sound the horn, nor would his feet push on the brake! The figure loomed closer, grew larger; it was a man! . . . Joe felt the car come to an abrupt halt as though it had bumped against something. He thought he saw blood drenching the windshield . . . The car had stopped. Why couldn't he move? Why didn't Mary do something? continued on page Seventeen Scribulus Five ON COLLEGIATE CONVERSATION by Marjorie J. Woods It is dull incredibly dull, our conversation. Not only is it dull, it is commonplace. Frequently, it is inane I might say asinine. Still, judgment must not be too hastily pronounced. The fact is, unbelievable though it may be, that youth is somewhat ashamed of its learning so ashamed of betraying it through the medium of speech that it ridicules any who are weak enough to succumb. In order to conceal this deplorable tendency toward a display of book knowledge, the greater per cent of our young people develop a "line." The ability to swallow one of these lines and cast out a smooth one of one's own is a measure of popularity, "cuteness," and wit. But it must be admitted that occasionally bursts of true wit do sometimes assert themselves. As Keats observed of Shakespeare's sonnets, "fine things are said unintentionally." A conversation overheard the other day could make no such claim. It was between a boy and a girl of college age who were taking a Sunday walk. Dorothy Parker, perhaps, could have done it justice. As it was, the boy threw a typically subtle remark into the particular haze surrounding the two; then the girl subtly tossed it back. The general effect was about as follows: "See that dog over there," A wide-eyed "Uh-huh." "Well, he looks like the weiners that hot-dog stand back there dishes out. So big you swallow the bun whole and then ask for the weiner." "Oo, you nasty man!" "S'a fact! S'a fact!" Two hours of more of such elevating- comment left both of them exhilirated and exactly in the same field of progressive thought from which they started. In a more serious moment the youth might discuss the merits of the bodies of the new cars swell lines and motors whose internal convulsions are more or less familiar to him. Broach the subject of sports the boy seems very nearly intelligent. And when his girl friend meets her girl friend "The other night when he took me home, well" "She Did? Of all the nerve! A pal, too!" "And they say she" are the weightiest observations made. Possibly, such young men and women acquaint themselves with that portion of a book which rests between its two covers. Perhaps they do. But they are unwilling to admit it, and never discuss it. Casually mention a character in some novel, and beyond a first blank stare or opinionated remark the subject ceases to be one of interest; introduce conversationally the structure of some opera, and there exists a pained silence or a frankly unsuppressed guffaw. The vastly interesting, entertaining, and satisfying emotion resulting from contact with an idea expressed in any form of art literature, music, the theatre, or pictures and sculpture, fine old things (the cry of the day seems to be for something new and always glittering leaves them entirely cold. Very little of the aesthetic or philosophical or such bits of them as might have come within their particular range of experience, reaches into the hearts or minds of these young and cocksure individuals. Theirs is not "...... to attain (continued on page eighteen)