"We are cursed, you and I, and all of us," he resumed, with too much activity. We are obscessed with a passion for material achievement! We are hand-worshippers—leg-worshippers—speed-worshippers. We mistake activity for progress."
"But it is progress," burst from the young man, "activity does bring achievement—development."
The door of the office opened suddenly, and two young fellows rushed in.
"Are you coming to the lacrosse meeting, Doc,—we are going to organize, and we want you for President again, of course."
Then, seeing the city doctor, whom they recognized,—
"Excuse the interruption, but we can't get on without Dr. Clay, he's the whole works of the lacrosse team."
"I will not be able to go over tonight, boys," said the Doctor, "but you'll get on all right. You are getting to work pretty early—this is the first fine day."
When the lacrosse boys had gone, Dr. Clay finished his argument:
"These fellows prove what I was saying. When I came here six years ago, there was not even a baseball team in the place—the young fellows gathered on street corners in summer, loafing and idling, revelling in crazy, foolish degrading stories—absolute degenerations—now see them—on the tail of a blizzard, they dig out their lacrosse sticks and start the game on the second fine day. From the time the hockey is over now, until hockey time again—these fellows talk and dream lacrosse, and a decenter, cleaner lot of lads you won't find anywhere. Activity has saved them—activity is growth, it is life—it is everything!"
The old man shook his head slowly: