inherited and chronic disinclination for work, made Phelan an easy
victim to that malady called by the casual tourist "wanderlust," but
known in Hoboland as "railroad fever."

Only once a year did he return to civilization, don a stiff collar, and
recognize an institution. During his meteoric career at the University
he had been made a member of the Alpha Delta fraternity, in recognition
of his varied accomplishments. Not only could he sing and dance and tell
a tale with the best, but he was also a mimic and a ventriloquist, gifts
which had proven invaluable in crucial conflicts with the faculty, and
had constituted him a hero in several escapades. Of such material is
college history made, and the Alpha Delta, recognizing the distinction
of possessing this unique member, refused to accept his resignation, but
unanimously demanded his presence at each annual reunion.

On June second, for five consecutive years, the ends of the earth had
yielded up Phelan Harrihan; by a miracle of grace he had arrived in
Nashville, decently appareled, ready to respond to his toast, to bask
for his brief hour in the full glare of the calcium, then to depart
again into oblivion.

It was now the first day of June and as Phelan concluded his tale,
which was in fact an undress rehearsal of what he intended to tell on
the morrow, he looked forward with modest satisfaction to the triumph
that was sure to be his. For the hundredth time he made certain that the
small brown purse, so unused to its present obesity, was safe and sound
in his inside pocket.

During the pause that followed his recital, his audience grew restive.