Glen of the High North | Page 2

only the afterwards that affected him, the depression,
when the objective had been attained. So for months after the war
ended his life had seemed of no avail, and he found it impossible to
settle comfortably back into the grooves of civilian life in a bustling,
thriving city. Everything seemed tame and insignificant after what he
had experienced overseas. Time instead of lessening had only increased
this feeling, until Reynolds believed that he could no longer endure the
prosaic life of the city. Such was the state of his mind when he beheld
the face across the street, which in some mysterious manner gave him a
sudden impulse and a new outlook upon the world. After a short quick
walk, he turned into a side street and stopped at length before a
building from which extended a large electric sign, bearing the words
Telegram and Evening News. He entered, and at once made his way
through several rooms until he reached the editorial office at the back
of the building. The door was open, and seated at the desk was an
elderly man, busily writing. He looked up as Reynolds appeared, and a
smile illumined his face.

"You are back early, Tom. Found something special?"
"Yes," Reynolds replied as he sat down upon the only vacant chair the
office contained. "But nothing for publication."
The editor pushed back his papers, swung himself around in his chair
and faced the visitor.
"What is it, Tom?" he asked. "You look more animated than I have
seen you for many a day. What has come over you? What is the special
something you have found?"
"Myself."
"Yourself!"
"That's just it. I'm through with this job."
The editor eyed the young man curiously yet sympathetically. He was
to him as a son, and he had done everything in his power to help him
since his return from the war. But he was well aware that Reynolds was
not happy, and that newspaper work was proving most uncongenial.
"Where are you going, Tom, and what are you going to do?" he
presently asked.
"I have not the slightest idea, sir. But I must get away from this
hum-drum existence. It is killing me by inches. I need adventure, life in
the open, where a man can breathe freely and do as he likes."
"Haven't you done about as you like, Tom, since you came home? I
promised your father on his death-bed that I would look after you, and I
have tried to do so in every possible way. I sincerely hoped that your
present work would suit you better than in an office. You are free to
roam where you will, and whatever adventure has taken place in this
city during the past six months you were in the midst of it, and wrote
excellent reports, too."
"I know that, sir, and I feel deeply indebted to you for what you have

done. But what does it all amount to? What interest do I take in trouble
along the docks, a fight between a couple of toughs in some dark alley,
or a fashionable wedding in one of the big churches? Bah! I am sick of
them all, and the sooner I get away the better."
Reynolds produced a cigarette, lighted it and threw the match upon the
floor. From the corner of his eye he watched the editor as he toyed
thoughtfully with his pen. This man was nearer to him than anyone else
in the world, and he was afraid that he had annoyed him by his plain
outspoken words.
"And you say you have nothing in view?" the editor at length enquired.
"Nothing. Can you suggest anything? Something that will tax all my
energy of mind and body. That is what I want. I hope you do not
misunderstand me, sir. I do not wish to seem ungrateful for what you
have done."
"I do understand you, Tom, and were I in your position, and of your
age, I might feel the same. But what about your painting? Have you
lost all interest in that? When you were in France you often wrote what
impressions you were getting, and how much you intended to do when
you came home."
"I have done very little at that, and the sketches I made are still
uncompleted. Some day I may do something, but not now."
"You certainly have lost all interest, Tom, in the things that once gave
you so much pleasure."
"It is only too true, although I have honestly tried to return to the old
ways. But I must have a fling at something else to get this restless
feeling out of my system. What do you suggest! Perhaps it is only a
thrashing I need. That does children good sometimes."
The editor