"Oh, I understand. But Sam will come back, won't he?"
"I think so. One of us, at least, ought to finish the course here. Dick and I are cut out for business, but I think Sam ought to go into one of the professions."
"I wish I knew what I would like to do, Tom," continued Songbird, wistfully.
"Oh, some day you will be a celebrated poet."
"I think I have got to do something more substantial than write poetry."
"Well, it all depends on the brand of poetry, Songbird." And Tom began to grin. "There are some fellows who make big money at it."
"I'd like to know who they are?" questioned the would-be poet, eagerly.
"The fellows who write up some new brand of safety razor or breakfast food."
"Tom!" And Songbird looked positively hurt. "How can you be so cruel and degrade poetry so?"
"Well, they do it, I don't. Now, if you——" Tom brought his words to a sudden stop, and commenced to stare out of the window. Far over the distant wood he had seen a strange light. Now it was increasing rapidly.