After the discussion of the last play a half hour’s talk on interference was given to the rest of the Eleven and substitutes, who had arrived meanwhile.  Remsen and Joel left Bancroft together and crossed the yard toward the latter’s room.  The sky was bright with myriads of stars and the buildings seemed magnified by the wan radiance to giant castles.  Under the shadow of University Remsen paused to light his pipe, and, without considering, the two found themselves a moment later seated on the steps.

From the avenue the clang-clang of car gongs sounded sharp and clear, and red and white and purple lights flitted like strange will-o’-wisps through the half light, and disappeared into the darkness beyond the common.  The lights in the stores beamed dimly.  A green shade in Pray’s threw a sickly shaft athwart the pavement.  But even as they looked a tall figure, weariness emanating from every movement, stepped between window and light, book in hand, and drew close the blinds.

“Poor devil!” sighed Remsen.  “Three hours more of work, I dare say, before he stumbles, half blind, into bed.  And all for what, Joel?  That or—­that?” He pointed with his pipe-stem to where Jupiter shone with steady radiance high in the blue-black depths; then indicated a faint yellow glow that flared for an instant in the darkness across the yard where a passer had paused to light his pipe.

“We can’t all be Jupiters, Remsen,” answered Joel calmly.  “Some of us have to be little sticks of wood with brimstone tips.  But they’re very useful little things, matches.  And, after all, does it matter as long as we do what we have to do as well as we can?  Old Jupiter up there is a very fine chap undoubtedly, and if he shirked a minute or two something unpleasant would probably occur; but he isn’t performing his task any better than the little match performed his.  ‘Scratch—­pouf’ and the match’s work’s done.  But it has lighted a fire.  Can you do better, Mr. Jupiter?”

Remsen made no reply for a moment, but Joel knew that he was smiling there beside him.  A little throng of students passed by, humming softly a song in time with their echoing footsteps, and glanced curiously at the forms on the steps.  Then Remsen struck a match on the stone.

“‘Scratch—­pouf!’” he said musingly, relighting his pipe.  In the act of tossing the charred splinter away he stopped; then he laid it beside him on the step.  “Good little match,” he muttered.  Joel laughed softly.

“March,” asked Remsen presently, “have you changed your mind yet about studying law?”

“No; but sometimes I get discouraged when I think of what a time it will take to arrive anywhere.  And sometimes, too, I begin to think that a fellow who can’t talk more readily than I ought to go into the hardware business or raise chickens for a living instead of trying to make a lawyer out of himself.”

“It isn’t altogether talk, March,” answered Remsen, “that makes a good lawyer.  Brains count some.  If you get where you can conduct a case to a successful result you will never miss the ‘gift o’ the gab.’  Talking’s the little end of the horn in my profession, despite tradition.