The chairman of the evening was my life-long friend Irving T. Grosbeak, R.O.T.C. who was introduced by Luther Slattin the new president of the E.U. Other addresses were made by Professor Phineas A. Crutch,[29] F.P.A., S.O.S., Col. Woodwark of the Canadian Mounted and Lord Beaverboard of the South African Game Commission. The principal forensic display was by Ex-senator Wicklefield of Wyoming whom Dr. Grosbeak characterised brilliantly as "The Aurora Borealis of Oratory, the most dependable geyser in the world since Old Faithful blew up and became a brook." But the climax of the evening came when an old man in a red shirt and fire helmet tottered to my side and with tears streaming down his face, quavered, "The world may claim Walter Traprock but _we_ own him." It was old "Shelly" Smith of Naugatuck Hose Co. No. 1. His father used to spade our garden. Of course I was called upon for a speech but for the first time in my life I begged to be excused. My heart was too full. Captain Triplett stood up in my place and embarrassed me by pointing his horny finger in my direction and saying repeatedly, "He done it." Grammatical errors in public always annoy me. The rest is history. I shall never return to the North. I feel that I have seen all that it can offer. My work in that direction is done. Of those who returned with me all but one has carved his niche in the rocks of time. The exception is Dane, who has never fully recovered from the blow dealt him, by my arm indeed, but due to the cowardly shove of Plock. His work in comparative ethnology, however, was accomplished before he was stricken. His object in making the trip was to discover the similarities, if any, between the surviving Eskimo tribes and the early civilization of the Nile dynasties. The only entry I find in his note books is the rather pathetic one "no report." He is now occupying a comfortable room in the Shadyside Retreat, Walnut St., Philadelphia, where he busies himself cutting out paper dolls of Egyptian character, and where I occasionally visit him. Frissell remains the same blithe spirit as ever. The horrors of our return voyage left no more lasting impression on this debonair youth than a passing fit of seasickness. Swank and Whinney naturally show spiritual scars, especially the latter, though he is greatly cheered by the royalties received from the sale of his sprightly journal, written in total darkness.[30] My two close companions and I, with the occasional addition of Triplett when we can lure him from his own diggings often dine together at a cosy little tea house in Forty-fifth Street. There we plan new ventures and discuss the old. What stirring memories flock about us, what tender visions neath Tropic sun and Arctic stars! Kippiputuona, Babai, Ikik, Lapatok, their names are a sentimental rosary, a succession of lovely chords, lost chords, but, let us hope, not the last!