Manchurian Books

Amory, the light of his pipe cheerfully glowing, lay at full length
in a steamer chair. _The Aloha_ was bounding briskly forward, a
solitary speck on the bosom of darkening purple, and the men sitting
in the companionship of silence, which all the world praises and
seldom attains, had been engaging in that most entertaining of
pastimes, the comparison of present comfort with past toil. Little
Cawthorne's satisfaction flowered in speech.
"Two weeks ago to-night," he said, running his hands through his
grey curls, "I took the night desk when Ellis was knocked out. And
two weeks ago to-morrow morning we were the only paper to be beaten
on the Fownes will story. Hi--you."
"Happy, Cawthorne?" Amory removed his pipe to inquire with idle
indulgence.
"Am I happy?" affirmed Little Cawthorne ecstatically in four tones,
and went on with his song:
"The daylight may do for the gay,
The thoughtless, the heartless, the free,
But there's something about the moon's ray
That is sweeter to you and to me.


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