the name and occupation of everyone here. That will give us a start toward finding out what we can do. Ready? Now you, Miss Rutherford, first."

"My name is Gloria Rutherford and I can't do anything but play tennis, drink gin and drive a car."

The rest of the replies followed: "F. W. Stevens, Wall Street," "Theodore Roberts, lawyer," "Archibald Tholfsen, chess-player," "H. M. Dangerfield, editor," "Francis X. O'Hara, trucking business," (this was the loud-voiced man who had cut the Gordian knot of the argument about organization). "Are you a mechanic, too?" asked Ben.

"Well, not a first class one, but I know a little about machinery."

"Good, you're appointed our doctor."

"Paul Farrelly, publisher," "Albert F. Massey, artist"—the voices droned on in the uncertain illumination of the flashlights.

"Very well, then," said Ben at the conclusion of the list. "The first thing I'll do is appoint Walter Beeville director of research. Fact number one for him is that we aren't going to need much of any sleep. I don't feel the need of it at all, and I don't seem to see any signs among you. O'Hara will help him on the mechanical side.... I suggest that as Mr. Beeville will need to observe all of us we make the Rockefeller Institute our headquarters. He will have the apparatus there to carry on his work. Let's go."

CHAPTER III

Rebellion

They whirled away to the east side of the city and up Second Avenue like a triumphal cortege, blissfully disregarding the dead traffic lights, though now and then they had to dodge the ruins of some truck or taxi that had come out second best from an argument with an elevated pillar where the driver's hand had been frozen at the wheel. At Forty-ninth Street Ben's car, in the lead, swung in to the curb and pulled up.

"What is it?" ... "Is this the place?" ... "Anything wrong?"

An illuminating voice floated up. "Electric store, get all the flashlights and batteries you can. We're going to need them."

A few moments later they were at the great institution, strangely dark and silent now after all its years of ministering to the sick, with a line of rust showing redly on the tall iron fence that surrounded the grounds. They trooped into the reception room, flickering their lights 

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