night. The book was worn and thumbmarked now, for it had done duty in hundreds of evenings back in the old Café of the Eagle. But to Fritzy the things that it said had suddenly taken on new life. And, swiftly turning the pages, he talked of what he had seen come truethe boundless wealth of America.

"The book was right," he declared with an almost desperate eagerness. "It is here! I tell you the wealth is here!" Big Jan had been listening hard, with a curious, anxious look on his face. He too had forgotten that he was a "knocker." Now he drew a deep, slow breath.

"How much have you?" he asked. As though awakened with a shock, Fritzy looked up from the battered book and met three pairs of eyes. In that instant they saw in behind his "big talk," saw Fritzy facing America, saw Fritzy "getting scared." Then again the veil dropped.

"How much have I? We'll see." With an easy twinkle in his eyes, he was counting his money. "Eleven dollars and seventeen cents," he announced at last.

"If you are careful," said August, gravely, "that wealth will last you quite a time." Fritzy smiled. From his pocket he drew an envelope and tossed it on the table.

“And I have a ticket home,” he said. The others leaped to their feet.

"A ticket home !” cried August. "You mean that you've decided to give up and go back?"

"Oh, no." Fritzy was now enjoying himself. "Sit down," he said. He smiled again and curled his little black mustache. "I won't tell who she is," he went on. "But, when I left home, she made me promise to come back and bring her to New York. And she made me buy a ticket back. She wanted to see it with her eyes, so that she could be sure I would come." He paused a moment, his eyes on his glass. "But I won't go back," he said quietly, "until I have money enough for a wife."

That night in their room the three chums talked over this new turn in Fritzy's case. Until now their talk had been awkward, restrained, for each had found, to his surprise, that he was not enjoying the "fun," that his thoughts kept going

back to the old Café of the Eagle, and that he actually dreaded to see America shatter Fritzy's dreams. And this dread each "knocker" had hidden as a thing to be ashamed of. But now they had a good excuse for showing their anxiety.

"That ticket home," growled Anton. "If the fool doesn't soon get a job, he will give up and go back to Bohemia. And our fun will all be spoiled."

The "fun" grew swiftly more intense. Each night they watched him closely. He was working harder now, and his face was growing lean. Every few days he submitted some new article to the Bohemian editors who promptly rejected each in turn. But still he kept on writing.

"Never in any city on earth," he said one night," have there been such chances for learning things. Here in one town are a thousand schools. Every night there are hundreds of lectures free, and hundreds of library rooms all free, all packed with books by the million! All these places are crowded full. And in the great Broadway cafés the American people gather at night to discuss the wonderful things they have learned. The title of 6 article is America's Feast of

my Knowledge.''

The "Feast of Knowledge" did not sell.

"Speaking of feasts," said August, "have you noticed how small his supper is? Last week he began to skip the soup, two nights later the pudding, now the beer. Already he looks starved. His money must be going fast. In another week he will not even be able to pay his rent. They will put him out."

There was a dead pause. The picture of the old café rose vividly in their minds.

"Look here." Big Jan's voice was rough. "My bed is big enough for two. Why not take him in with us?"

Jan's two chums looked quickly up as though they had had the same idea. "Why not?" cried August. not lengthen out the fun ?"

So Fritzy moved into their room. once more the "fun" went on.

"Why

And

The three Bohemian papers all had their offices in the same block. Late one night, as August was coming out of one,

he met Anton going in. guiltily.

Both started snapped August. He hasn't a job." other suspiciously,

"It's all right," "The fun isn't over. They looked at each but neither asked the other how many times he had been there before. As they walked away they saw big Jan come out of the third newspaper office. Jan's face was black as a thunder-cloud. He strode off down the street.

Another week dragged by. "That ticket to Bohemia," growled Anton. "He thinks about it half the time. He keeps it in his pocket; a dozen times I have seen him feel to make sure it was there. He is homesick for his girl. The dreams are all ground out of him. A few days now and he will go."

One night the next week Fritzy came into Kusaky's with a queer, strained look on his face. He ate little supper. Twice, as though by habit, he felt in his pocket. And each time that he did so the strained expression appeared again.

their wives and sweethearts at home, It is a splendid country. I have a good start, I have money enough. Come to America with me.'"

He struck a match and held it a moment, watching the flame until it went out.

"That is the kind of men they are," he said. "They stayed in America till they had won. They would not have gone home beaten. Thousands of them even died."

Late that night August slipped noiselessly out of bed and looked through Fritzy's clothes.

"He has sold his ticket home!"

When he gave this news to the other two the next morning, some moments passed before any one spoke.

"He is crazier than I thought," said Anton, softly.

In the next two weeks Fritzy's talk about America stopped. He ate little, slept little. He sat in the room and wrote. And his face looked drawn and

August gave a sudden start.

"From New York," continued Fritzy, "a man can go anywhere in the world. All that he needs is a ticket."

He paused. And the three "knockers" sat motionless, tense.

"You can go on," he said, "out to the West-to the farms, the plains, and the mountains. Out there they still have room for tens of millions of young men. You can go on."

tained its upward curl. And the three "knockers "watched him closer, steadily closer. For the "fun" had come to a climax. And the dreams were dying

"Yes," cried Fritzy, "you can go back. This morning, at her river dock, I saw the greatest ship in the world starting out to sea. The band crashed out its music, the people laughed and shouted and waved. They were off to the Old World to have a good time, to spend their money, to see life."

"In the steerage," said Anton, “I have seen men who did not laugh. They were ragged, they were busted, they had given up, were going home."

Again there was a pause.

"For one like that," said Fritzy, "there are hundreds in the steerage who go home well off. Why do they go? To say to

Anton jumped out of bed, lit the gas, and began to throw on his clothes.

"You needn't go," said Jan. "For five nights he has done the same. Twice I have gone behind him. But he only walks-and he keeps away from the river."

Anton stood scowling over at Jan. "It's the same thing," he muttered. "It will kill him in the end."

"And then the fun will be over," said

Jan.

For some moments nobody spoke. Once more their thoughts had traveled back to the Café of the Eagle, to the great wooden bird glaring down from the wall"emblem of free America."

"Look here," said Anton, roughly, "I think I have a scheme to keep the fool and his dreams alive."

August and Jan sat up in bed. "Franz Hubberman," said Anton, “is starting a new Bohemian paper." "No use," growled August. "I've been there. He says he has hired one writer already, and he can afford to hire no more."

"But he told me to-night," said Anton, slowly, "that he would take some of Fritzy's stuff and pay him six dollars a week—if we would supply the six dollars!"

Jan and August stared.

Anton could

feel his face grow hot. Angrily he cleared his throat.

66

"Well," he cried. 'Why shouldn't we do it? Can't you see what a joke it will be? The fool will write his dreams of a rich and free America that gives a chance to every man. He will believe that this fine country has given him a chance. But we will know that this is a lie. For we ourselves will pay for this stuff that he writes, just so we can have it to laugh at each night, this stuff about America, this stuff we know is made of lies."

Jan and August were both out of bed, and Jan was gripping Anton's hand. "You are right," he said. do as you say."

"We will

"We will," cried August. "And then we will laugh." And they laughed then and there, long and unsteadily, as though each were feeling immense relief.

Then they discussed the joke in detail. All except one part, the raising of that six dollars a week. For each "knocker" knew in his secret heart that he was about to pinch and slave for the sake of the old Café of the Eagle, in order to keep alive those "lies." And the knowledge was disquieting.

An hour later, when Fritzy came in, the light was out, and his three chums

Fritzy turned quickly. Then he stood stock still in the dark.

"A job?" he whispered.

Anton

gave a tremendous yawn.

August yawned too. He was so excited he forgot that he was asleep, and his yawn became a stifled roar.

"Yes," said Anton, drowsily. "On Franz Hubberman's new paper."

"He told me that he had no work." Fritzy had come close to Anton's bed. His voice was still a whisper.

"Well, he lied," said Anton, crossly. "I saw him to-night. He said he'd been thinking it over, and that he would take a part of your stuff and pay you six dollars a week."

Fritzy's two hands gripped the foot of the bed. Again fat August forgot he

was asleep.

"A fine job !" he snapped. "Six dollars a week. Fine American job. Fine American pay."

"It's enough.”

Fritzy's voice was thick and strained. "I can live on it fine. I can pay my share. I can learn to write. I can get my start."

All at once he went to the window, leaned out. They could see his shoulders shake and twitch. They could hear his low, convulsive laugh as he looked down into the city.

And back in the room, in the darkness, as though to make clear to each other what a huge joke the whole thing was, Anton, Jan, and August chuckled, chuckled long and hard, at this fool in whose soul lived all their old dreams of an America rich and free, the dreams they knew were "made of lies," the dreams they were going to keep alive.

For these were all young men.

T

10 teach the "three R's" in Kashmir is easy work. The boys are willing to squat over their books and grind away for as many hours a day as nature makes possible. To get an education means sedentary employment cum rupees. And that to the Kashmiri is living.

But to educate is a very different matter. To make men of a thousand or more boys who care nothing for manliness; among whose ancestors, for hundreds of years, chicanery, deceit, and cruelty had been the recognized and honored paths to success, while generosity and honesty had been the mark of the fool; to try to quicken and develop the good in such boys-boys coming from impure homes, squatting in unclean rows, with bent backs and open mouths-was flatly pronounced folly by many a visitor to Kashmir.

And yet at the beginning of our era Kashmir was one of the greatest Indian states. There was a time when its rajahs ruled North India from Kabul almost to Cawnpore. And this race, which has in later centuries been trampled upon by Mogul and Tartar, Afghan and Sikh, and suffered untold cruelties, whose very name has become a byword for cowardice, ruled the warlike tribes to east and west. As one goes through Kashmir and first sees the people, and then stands at Avantipur or Martand, and looks at the massive ruins of the great temples built more than two thousand years ago-temples that stood in great populous cities, of which now not one stone stands upon another he cannot but feel that not more surely and completely has the glory of the ancient state disappeared than have the character

and force of the people who built up that state disappeared also.

The chief aim of the missionary educationists in Srinagar is to make true men. The Principal of the Mission Schools is the Rev. C. E. Tyndale-Biscoe, M.A. (Camb.), who came to India twenty years ago.

ness.

He tells how depressed he was when he took charge of the Mission Schools in Srinagar. The boys were dirty, of ill odor, full of pride (for almost all are Brahmans), and full of contempt for all persons of lower caste. But depression was followed by the throwing of the whole strength into the conflict. Talk and persuasion would be pitifully inadequate, as they always had been. First, clean bodies and clothes must be secured. Abhorrence of dirt can come only through being accustomed to cleanliBoys appearing with dirty clothes were ordered to go down to the river flowing under the walls of the school and wash their clothes. Boys whose bodies as well as clothes needed washing were at times thrown into the river, clothes and all, a rope being tied around the waist, for few of them could swim. a bath was given in public, with dog-soap and scrubbing-brush, the school janitor acting as washwoman. Such drastic measures soon bore fruit, and did not have to be long continued. It is enough now to announce that the boy and his form-master will be fined for any relapse, to secure the desired cleanliness.

Or

Then, caste prejudices had to be met and conquered in order to the making of true men. At least Mr. Tyndale-Biscoe so thought, though the English Government and English educationists throughout India have yielded to caste as to an enemy