Dicky nodded, a certain gladness in him that he did not understand. At the same time he was intent in a scrutiny of the caller’s face--a youth, but very worn. Something about the eyes made the American think of a camel. “You have been to Ahmedabad, Mr. Cobden?” “Yes.” “Might I ask the name of the river there?” “The Sabarmati.” “Are you expecting a message from an American in Ahmedabad?” “No.” “From any one there?” “Yes.” Now Dicky knew that it was the patience in the young Hindu’s eyes that made him think of a camel. “Is the name Juna?” “Nagarjuna.” The soldier bowed. “It is well. I was told to be assured, before giving you the message. It is this: _That the curtain has risen, the play begun, and that a seat is reserved for you._” “Is there need of haste?” “_No haste, but no delay!_” “My plan now is to go to New York----” “That need not be changed, since it was added for me to say--that it will be well for you to travel westward rather than to the East.” “To Ahmedabad at once?” “You will do well to go first to Bombay.” “Thank you. Is there anything I can do for you?” “Only say to Nagarjuna--that I, too, hope to come for the end of that play.” “Your name?” “He knows his messenger. Here I am not a name, hardly a number----” “A cigarette--a drink?” “I will not tarry since it is far to the cantonments.” The _sepoy_ bowed and departed. XXXV FANNY HEARS THE DRUM PIDGE MUSSER had moved around in an indescribable “deadness” for several days following Rufe’s departure, before it landed on her, theme and all, that she could do a book. Almost four years had elapsed since she wrote the _Lance_. One Sunday morning after the new work was begun, Pidge took out the old story from the drawer under the wavy glass, and glanced over the pages, a puckered smile on her lips. Then she took the manuscript down to the kitchen range, and there was a hot fire for a while. The new writing was not so simple and flowing. In the first place, there were only Sundays and an hour or two in the evening; but more than that was the fact that she had learned so well what stories long and short are not! She was now in the toil of technic, which is a long passage. First the freedom of ignorance--“A man’s a fool before he learns technic,” John Higgins had said. “He’s a cripple while he’s learning it. When he’s learned it, and forgotten he’s learned it--he begins to be a workman. That’s the freedom of knowledge.” The old editor didn’t know he had “said it all” for Pidge Musser that day as he looked up from Rufe Melton’s story. She wouldn’t forget. Edit and rewrite--some evenings with nothing but a torturing inhibition to go to bed with. There was no other way. She was tough and broad shouldered. She could toil. She had an instinctive awareness also, that the deadliest danger in the whole scheme of things for her, at least, was to brood inactively. Piled up energy to Pidge meant inevitable disruption.