I knew Barney when he was a boy, and a more sober, adventure-seeking young rascal you never saw. But by then all the frontiers had dried up, it was between wars, and the only adventure Barney could find was in the bottom of a bottle. Barney was one of those poor folks born fifty years too late.

Or you take Miss Alice Markey, the history teacher at Fremont High. She's an old spinster—frail, white-haired, and a little bit crabby now. You'd never believe it but she used to be the romantic type. Somehow, the right man just never came along, but she's never given up hoping either.

Sure, you wouldn't believe it to look at them. But that's how people are, down underneath. All dreams and wishful thinking.

"It's tough, Joe," I says, "but what can you do about it?"

It always seemed to me that you weren't going to help people by letting them fall asleep on a couch at fifty dollars a nap and trying to convince them they should give up their dreams.

"You've got to give people something positive!" Joe says, hitting an end table with his fist so an ashtray jumps off.

I sat up and began to take notice. Once Joe had an idea, he usually did something about it.

"You got something in mind," I accused.

He stopped pacing and pointed his pipe at me like it was the working end of a twenty-two rifle. "I got an idea, Harry," he says, the genius showing in his eyes like the dollar signs in a cash register. "I'm going to make a machine during my vacation and...."

And then Marge is in the doorway, dishtowel in her hand and little anger spots in her cheeks. "Joseph Shannon!" she says, stamping her foot. "You know perfectly well what we're going to do and where we're going to go on your vacation!"

Joe's mouth got set and I could see a storm blowing up so I struggled to my feet and got my hat. "That was awful nice chili, Missus Shannon," I says, and it isn't much more than two seconds later when I'm out the front door and walking up the sidewalk.

ell, Joe—stubborn Irishman that he was—stayed right in town during his vacation. He had a laboratory in the basement and every day when I went by I could hear him and Wally Claus, his assistant, working down there, hammering and nailing and running electric motors that spat sparks and whined worse'n two alley cats fightin' in a fish market.

On the day that it's finished, Joe invites me over for dinner again. After the meal's over—and Joe's so anxious that he don't even tell Marge how nice the tuna fish casserole was—we go down into the basement. Marge doesn't come along.

"What's the matter with Marge?" I ask. "Ain't she interested?"

Joe jams his hands in his pockets, scowls, and says: "We've been having a little trouble, Harry. She doesn't see things my way."

It isn't any of my business so I clam up and walk over to where the whole front half of the basement is curtained off with a couple of old sheets and a drawstring.

"This is it," Joe says proudly, pulling on the drawstring. "The greatest invention since the wheel!"

Well, to tell you the truth, son, I was kinda disappointed. I had expected something big and shiny but what there was looked a little like a cross between a phone booth and one of those things in train stations where you take your own photograph. I looked inside and all I could see was a big screen in front, like on a television set, a coin slot, and a funny looking hat with a cable leading out of it.

"It's real nice," I says, not actually knowing whether it was or not. "What is it?"

"I call it a Paradise booth," Joe says.

I took another look at the machine, and then looked at Joe. It occurs to me that maybe he's been working too hard or that arguments with Marge have sorta unsettled him.

"Look, Harry," Joe says, "remember when we were talking about all the