Tom seemed to hesitate. He glanced sternly toward Victor, then exclaimed:
“This is what I was going to tell you about. I’m getting up a set of by-laws for our new Athletic Association.”
The room was immediately in an uproar. Dave, fearful that all his ideas might vanish, jumped up hastily and walked to the door.
“I’ll be back soon, Bob!” he called, with a laugh.
Out in the corridor, Tom’s voice, already raised in a hot argument with Victor, still reached him. In another moment he was down-stairs and on the street.
A brisk walk in the cool air promised to aid Dave’s faculties, as he had hoped. Already the vague phrases in his mind were beginning to shape themselves into definite words.
Here and there a swinging sign-board mingled a series of dismal creaking notes with the crisp moaning of a gusty breeze. Autumn leaves, ruthlessly torn from their resting places on the branches, occasionally whirled helter-skelter through the air, to dance merrily along the streets. Trails of dust, banging shutters, or flickering lights were all tributes to the tyranny of the never-ceasing currents.
Ten minutes later, in a sheltered position near an electric light, Dave was writing stanzas at record speed. It was really delightful—the way in which that near-inspiration had been finally conquered.
Suddenly a voice broke in upon him.
“Say, Brandon, owing to the unprecedented demand for paper in Kenosha the mills will be compelled to work overtime.”