The Dead Dream

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After spending six months back in the law office the whole thing had dimmed in my mind so that it began to seem like one of those screwy dreams that return in fragments. Uncle Sam had tapped me on the shoulder three years before and lifted me out of the firm where I am so junior a partner that there isn’t any room left on the glass in the door for my name.

Because of a fairly rugged build and a congenital inability to say “No,” I had drifted into an organization called O.S.S. When they got through dropping me out of airplanes and landing me behind Jap lines by sub, they gave me some colored ribbons and sent me home. At first I had believed what I read in the magazines about readjustment. But the easy way I dropped back into the slot proved it was strictly for the birds. I had settled back into the maze of corporation legal problems with only the ambition to get my name up on that glass door. I had no desire to run into the screwball fringe who had apparently composed the bulk of the Oh So Social.

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