"It," said Craig, and repeated the pronoun to make this a better constructed sentence, "It can't go on."

We had been talking of that inexorable Law, that destiny which had removed at one fell swoop all of our tutors. The friendly handclasp, the eyes that searched our own, were gone. Should we ever be able to talk together again? And we spoke of getting a word across the Infinite, as much as anyone can speak of such a nutty idea.

Craig moved his chair closer to mine, swallowing his cigar.

"It isn't hopeless. I know that if launched a message across the void, my tutor would recognize. And no such Law as prevents my speaking to him would keep him from answering me. For he has never allowed me to do a thing by halves. I know that he would answer, I know it."

He laid his hand on my knee.

"Don't do that," I said sharply.

"What baffles me is, how to get the message across. Where can one start? One cannot simply speak words into the Infinite, nor will the Law allow me to yell at him in the Georgian."

One would have thought Craig was in the electric chair, so quickly was he galvanized into action.

"What?" he roared. "I can't? If you are sitting on this imitationleather lounge one reading period, plus a Christmas vacation spent with textbooks, from today, I shall walk up to you with a message from my tutor. No one can say that, because others have failed, I cannot bridge the Chasm that separates us from our loved ones."

He screwed up his eyes, riveting them on me.

"Goodbye," he said simply. And bolted.

* * * * * *

Just for my own amusement, I was there.

There faced me one of the most pathetic sights I have ever beheld. It cackled a laugh at my bewilderment. Words came through the drooling lips. Craig!

"Hee! hee! Didn't expect me back on time, did you? Here I am, though! You have a rendezvous with me, eh?"

"Well?" I said.

"Well, I have the proof!"

And he handed them to me. When I looked up he was gone.

I transcribe the conversation exactly as Craig's illegible hand wrote it, the document that has come to be universally ignored in spiritualistic circles as "the Craig at Eve Papers." For Craig had found what we are all searching for--the happy medium.

Craig. Will you talk tonight?

Tutor Yes.

Craig. How are you?

Tutor. I am very happy.

Craig. May I talk with you tomorrow night?

Tutor. No.

Craig. Can you help me on my reading?

Tutor. We are all very happy here.

Craig. Where will you be tomorrow night?

Tutor. Over at Margery's

(A short silence seems to have fallen at this point, neither party having anything to say.)

Craig. Is it happy at Margery's?

Tutor. Swell. . . . I am growing tired now.

Craig Before you go, tell me this. Will you give me a conference some time before my divisional examinations.

Tutor. We are all very, very happy here.

* * * * * *

I never saw Craig again. But tucked away in a secret drawer of my desk is something that I would not part with for many a cigarette coupon. It is a yellow, faded clipping from the Dybbuk. Vermont. "Self-starter." Tenderly I unfold the old creases and read the" words again:

"A thunder shower passed over here about three o'clock Wednesday afternoon, lightning striking several orchards."

For Craig, my friend Craig, is safe. He has taken the veil.