ANN ARBOR TALES By Karl Edwin Harriman Philadelphia, George W. Jacobs and Company, MCMII COPYRIGHT, 1902, BY GEORGE W. JACOBS & CO. _Published November, 1902._ _TO MY PARENTS_ Contents PAGE THE MAKING OF A MAN 11 THE KIDNAPPING 61 THE CHAMPIONS 97 THE CASE OF CATHERWOOD 123 THE DOOR--A NOCTURNE 177 A MODERN MERCURY 207 THE DAY OF THE GAME 259 THE OLD PROFESSOR 303 THE MAKING OF A MAN Florence affected low candle-lights, glowing through softly tinted shades, of pale-green, blue, old-rose, pink; for such low lights set each coiled tress of her golden hair a-dancing--and Florence knew this. The hangings in the little round room where she received her guests were deeper than the shades, and the tapestry of the semi-circular window-seat was red. It was in the arc of this that Florence was wont to sit--the star amidst her satellites. It was one's privilege to smoke in the little room, and somehow the odor of the burned tobacco did not get into the draperies; nor filter through the _portières_ into the hall beyond; and the air of the _boudoir_ was always cool and fresh and sweet. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday--every night--and Sunday most of all--there were loungers on that window-seat, their faces half in shadow. It was hard at such times to take one's eyes off Florence, sitting in the arc, the soft light of old-rose moving across her cheek, creeping around her white throat, leaping in her twisted hair, quivering in her blue, soft eyes. When she smiled, one thought in verse--if one were that sort--or, perhaps, muttered, "Gad!" shiveringly under the breath. Well may you--or I--shake our heads now and smile, albeit a bit sadly; but then it was different. We have learned much, too much perhaps, and the once keen edge of joy is dulled. But then we were young. Youth was our inheritance and we spent it, flung it away, you say, as we knelt before the Shrine of Beauty set up in a little round room where low lights glimmered among deep shaded draperies. We realized that it was a serious matter--a deadly serious matter; just as did a score or more of our fellows on the campus in whose hearts, as well, flared the flame of the fine young love that we were feeling in our own. For you--and I--loved Florence. Dear little room! Dearest, dearest Florence! Many are the men who never learned; in whose hearts your image is enshrined to-night. And few are they who ever learned and really knew you, dear.