"Can you understand a word that man says, Missouri?" griped Joshua Smith as he and his friend the young prodigy Paul Huxtable walked out of the second meeting of their spring aesthetics class. "If it ain't something as I haven't read yet out of Plato or Aristotle, it's something from Plotinus or Philostraties which we ain't going to read anyhow. Or it's some damn bit of French as I can't make heads or tails of. Makes me feel like a three-legged donkey at a horse race."

Smith had miscalculated Professor Reynolds' trajectory – the very man Smith had just been complaining of so feelingly emerged from behind a line of departing students. Joshua was horrified to see that the professor had been close enough to hear his deliberately colloquial speech of frustration. The slender silvery-haired professor remarked in his unctuous Oxford accent, with an unpleasant smile, "Why, is the famed leading student in the Junior class facing challenges in philosophy? It's Philostratus, Smith, not Philostraties. Maybe I should add him to your reading list if the lack is causing you problems? Perhaps he was not included in the courses you took in one-room western school houses?"

Huxtable could swear he saw a tiny abortive gesture of the westerner's right hand as if he was reaching to draw a gun from a holster – although of course Smith wasn't wearing a holster on campus at Columbia University. "No thank you, Professor," replied Smith with an obsequious mildness that did not deceive the object of his hatred, "I'm sure your . . . explanatory abilities can easily fill the gap."

"Well, if you're sure, Smith. Perhaps if you could learn how to total the ideas of great minds as easily as you do numbers . . ." The philosophy professor turned and walked away, swinging his stylish cane. As the slender British professor retreated, Smith spat toward his back with deliberate coarseness.

Huxtable laughed with wicked enjoyment at his friend, and academic rival's, discomfort. The pair headed rapidly down the hall toward their next classes, "You sure have managed to get his back up in a hurry, Smith! That Reynolds is one Englishman who does not love cowboys the way Professor Cornwall does in history. You won't get an easy A from Reynolds."

Smith nodded. "'Fraid not. Or an A at all, I'm betting. No matter what I do on exams and papers. You'll get the class rank title this semester and no context, Huxtable. Unless somebody else beats you out. Bye – here's my physics class."

The next day, Heyes went to see Charlie Homer in his advisor's office. "Seriously, Charlie, Professor Reynolds hates me. Teasing me about one-room schoolhouses and cowboy boots- and aphasia - right there in front of the other students! And I swear he makes all those classical allusions and drops all those little French remarks just to flummox me personally!"

Homer shook his head ruefully, "No, there you're wrong Smith. Reynolds always teaches like that, from what I hear. He just can't talk without showing off what he knows, whether it means anything to his students or not. It's a bad academic habit, but not that rare. You'll run into it again before you're done at Columbia, I'm sure. The only way to combat it is to have as broad and excellent a reading background as you can get. Coming from your past, it's just never going to be easy. So many of the students come from families where this stuff was casual dinner table conversation.

I can't help you a lot with the learned stuff myself – it's not my line of country at all. But I'll bet Diana Hargrove can help you with the allusions and some French, too. It's too bad it's too late in the semester for you to add another class – French would be a real help to you in a lot of ways. I should have recommended it before now. And Huxtable might be able to help you out some, as well. He's pretty decent at French, you know."

Heyes felt a bit relieved. At least he knew what he could do to help. More work! "Thanks, Charlie! I'll do all I can. But you know I won't get the class rank lead this semester – barring a miracle. I'll do my best, but . . ."

Charlie Homer nodded, "I know. There's only so much you can learn in one semester. And don't let your other classes slide because of this one! It might be better to just drop the aesthetics. There are other humanities classes you can take later to fill the requirement."

Heyes flared up angrily, "No! I'm not going to let that bastard beat me, or slow down my plan for early graduation! I'm not going to put the Kid's life in danger for another half a year because of that ass hole!"

Homer grinned, "He is pretty obnoxious, isn't he? But you should know that not all you've run into with Reynolds is about you. I'm afraid you're run afoul of something that isn't your fault at all. I got a faculty award – with money attached – a few years ago when Reynolds thought he was in line for it. He had been planning to use that money for a trip back to England. When he didn't get it, he was pretty badly disappointed. He's been out for my blood ever since. And the blood of my top students."

"That totally unfair!" cried Heyes.

"And since when has life been fair?" was Homer's totally rhetorical question.

Heyes took up Homer on his suggestions. He went to see Professor Hargrove, with whom he had always gotten along very well. She had even given him permission to call her by her first time – a most unusual liberty between a student and professor.

Smith and the professor sat in her neatly fixed little office. "Diana, I'd be real grateful if you could help me cope with all Reynolds' little learned . . . allusions. If I can use this situation to actually learn something, then so much the better."

Professor Hargrove smiled fondly at her strange western student, "That's the spirit, Joshua! Don't let the bastard get you! Write down whatever he says that you don't get and we'll meet once a week to go over them. I doubt either one of us has time to meet more often than that – what about Tuesday afternoons at 4:30?"

"Sounds good to me, Diana. Except for one thing. I can't always write that fast – you know, the aphasia. In his class it always seems to kick up worse than any other time." Joshua felt a bit ashamed to admit this, but it was true.

Professor Hargrove tilted her striking face in thought, "Hmn. Huxtable has no trouble, you say? Why don't you work out a signal with him – have him write down the little catch phrases and quotations for you? And he can get the French when you can't. You really should take French when you can fit it in. You wouldn't believe how often it can come in handy in academia."

Smith grinned, "You are brilliant, Diana! You should have been . . . well, no I think you're doing what you do best."

"What was it you were going to suggest I'd do well at?" Professor Hargrove asked with a sparkle in her eye. She had long had a feeling that there was more to Joshua Smith's past than he let on and she had a feeling that he had nearly let some part of it slip.

"Nothing." Joshua shook his head and left for his next class. He couldn't tell his mentor what he had nearly said – that she would have made a wonderful outlaw!

Coming out of aesthetics the next day, Smith, making sure the professor was well clear, said to Huxtable, "He's at it again, Missouri. French left and right. You taught me how to say good luck and that's all I know! Do you understand any of it?"

"Mais oui, mon cher ami. Every word," answer Huxtable with a sparkle in his green eyes.

"There you go again! French! I don't get a word of it! How is it so easy for you?" Smith hated to feel stupid.

"Because I heard bits and pieces of it growing up – from my parents and their friends. They're educated folks – you know they're both professors. Honestly, you didn't hear any French at all in your home growing up?" Huxtable asked innocently.

Smith stiffened and his eyes went dull. "No." He had been intending to ask Huxtable to help him, but now he just couldn't do it. He couldn't have his friend making fun of his background, or worse, pitying him. He just turned to go.

Huxtable tagged him on the shoulder. "I'm sorry, Joshua. You've never told me anything about your growing up. I guess it must have been pretty bad, or you would have. I didn't mean to . . ."

"Just leave me alone, boy!" Smith turned sharply into his next class.

The next afternoon during a gap between classes, Smith was studying avidly in the math lounge. Huxtable came in and, seeing his friend, nearly turned to leave. But Smith stood up and faced him, with resolution in his eyes, "I'm sorry, Missouri, about yesterday. I didn't mean to - . . . I grew up in an orphanage, Paul. Not a nice one. My parents were killed in the border wars when I was nine. My whole family was, except one cousin. There are some pretty bad memories. So I don't have much . . . . intellectual . . . background. I'd be really grateful if you'd help me. Please."

Huxtable was shocked and couldn't speak for a moment. "I'd be happy if I can help you, Joshua. I never knew. I didn't mean to . . . to hurt you. It's hard to hear you ask for help. Everything's always seemed to be so easy for you."

Smith shook his head. "It isn't. Nothing is – well, except some of the math that's almost . . . instinct. Everything else is hard. I guess I've just learned, more than anything, how worth while it is to work hard for my education."

Huxtable, for whom so many things were, indeed, easy, realized that here was something that he himself would have to work hard to learn- what it was like for someone who didn't come along just knowing so many things the way he did. He said to his friend, "Let's get together tonight. We can have dinner and then I'll work with you on whatever you like. Alright?"

"Alright, Missouri. Thank you." Heyes would always remember that that phrase was the first he had gotten back when he started at the Leutze clinic. It would always mean a lot to him and he hoped that his young friend understood that.

Smith and Huxtable worked together often after that, working on just general intellectual background. Their other friends, Ev Carter and Neal George, worked with them as well more and more as the semester went on. They both could help to teach – Neal in particular had picked up a great deal working in publishing – but they also both learned a lot from each other and from Huxtable. It was a fun new way of being friends, and Heyes learned countless things from their sessions. It might not enable him to get an A plus out of Professor Reynolds, but it helped him in academic life generally and was lots of fun.

One day late in the semester, just before exams, they were in the math lounge having one last session. Huxtable was about to leave – he had an exam early the next morning and wanted to bone up a bit. But he stayed for just a few more minutes to listen.

"Tell me about this quote from Shakespeare, NG," said Ev, "about the length of Prester John's foot. You said you knew what that means."

NG smiled – it was fun to be able to share some of what he had picked up from all the lead type he had set over the years, "Back in the middle ages he – Prester John – was supposed to be some mighty Christian King is a distant Asian land – no one knew quite where. So if you could actually find Prester John and measure his foot, I guess you would have done quite a big thing. Even Marco Polo was supposed to be looking to find Prester John when he went to China."

"Marco Polo? I've heard the name – an Italian in the middle ages, I know – when did he go to China?" asked Smith.

"In the thirteenth century!" piped up Huxtable, "the first European to get there! He wrote a book about it that everyone and his brother read! 'Marco Millions' they called him because he was always describing millions of this and millions of that out in China."

As they were talking, Aldy Clarksdale and his obnoxious minions came into the lounge. None of Heyes' friends could stand that arrogant, wealthy clique. "I'd better go," said Huxtable, "Got to study!"

"Me, too!" said NG and Ev agreed. Soon they were all gone except Huxtable, who was delayed by gathering up his pile of books. The top one kept slipping out of his hands.

Aldy Clarksdale grabbed up the book and pulled it away from Huxtable. He tossed it to one of his obsequious followers – "Put that where he can't get it!" yelled Clarksdale, while two other friends knocked the other books away and held Huxtable's arms.

The guy with the book ran down the stairs and didn't have the book when he got back. Then the other two let go of Huxtable's arms and the whole crowd when off, laughing. Huxtable was so small and so young that he had no chance against a crowd of young men years older than he was and that included three men over six foot three.

Huxtable growled and set off down the stairs to get his missing book. As he got to the first landing, Joshua Smith stepped out of the shadows and grabbed his arm. "Stop. Do without the book. Go back up. Now."

Huxtable was puzzled and annoyed. "What are you talking about, Kansas? I'm going to get my book."

Smith spoke levelly, looking into the eyes of his young friend, "No, you aren't. They're waiting for you in the basement. Just do without the book. We've got to leave – now." He started up the stairs, but Huxtable was headed down them.

"I need that book more than any of them – for the exam tomorrow! I need that exam to go perfectly!" cried Huxtable as he stamped down the stairs.

Smith turned to follow him. Suddenly, a door opened on the landing. There was a brief scuffle, but suddenly everything went black.

"Smith! Smith! Wake up!" Joshua heard his friend Huxtable calling.

"Uh," Joshua moaned. He opened his eyes to find himself tied up on a cold floor in the dark with just a small beam of light coming into the room from a window high above. The beam of light – the last beam of sunset - showed the book that Huxtable had been after – lying on the floor just beyond where he was.

"Oh, no!" cried Huxtable, "they've got us both tied up tight with rope and I heard them lock that door. We're in the basement. Oh wonderful! We could be here for days! Or at least hours – probably no one will be down here at least until morning when the janitors come. If they bother to come down here. I really wouldn't know."

Heyes sighed. "Just shut up Missouri," he said, "stop panicking, and let me work. You might just shut your eyes and go to sleep."

Huxtable sounded really irritated, "Oh! Fat chance of that, Kansas! What do you mean, work? It would take a miracle to get us out of this before morning! It would take an angel to fly in the window like they did to free Saint Peter from prison!"

"I said for you to shut up, Huxtable. Unless you really want to be here all night. Shut up and let me work and I'll have us out of here in no time. But you've got to promise me that you won't tell anyone what happened – not any part of it. No one at all can know anything about it. Don't bring charges against Clarksdale and company, and don't tell them how I got you out. And don't ask me any questions whatsoever about it. Otherwise we sit here until the janitors come. I don't have a big exam tomorrow and while I would rather not sit here all night, I will if you don't promise to keep your yap shut. Deal, Missouri?"

Huxtable paused and stared at his friend in the dark. "What . . .?"

"No questions. Whatsoever. Starting now," Smith insisted.

Young Huxtable sounded more than a little scared. "Alright. Deal. Sorry we can't shake on it."

"Deal," said Smith, "now be very quiet." In the quiet that followed, Huxtable could hear his friend writhing around and panting. Within no more than ten minutes, Joshua Smith had freed his own hands. Then he untied his feet and stood up stiffly. He quickly had Huxtable untied.

"Ho . . .?"

"No questions!" repeated Smith. He handed the precious book to Huxtable, and then went into the darkness. When he returned, Smith had something small and jingling in his hands. He went to the pool of light and chose a couple of picks from his ring of over 100 pick locks.

He went to the door and had it opened in about two minutes. "No questions!" he repeated to Huxtable as he led him up the stairs.

The rest of Huxtable's books were still lying in the math lounge where they had fallen from his hands less than an hour before. Paul Huxtable stared at Joshua Smith as they came into the gas lit room. There was a little blood on Smith's wrists, but only a little. "Alright, no questions. But a statement. You've done this kind of thing before. A whole lot more than once. Those scars around your wrists – this isn't exactly the hardest escape you've ever managed. That's a fact."

Smith looked at his friend with pain and sorrow in his eyes. "I'm sorry, but I meant the no questions thing. It's very, very serious. Life or death. I promise to tell you all about it one day, Huxtable. But I don't have sole . . . authority over that information and I'm not the only one at risk. Unless you want to give Clarksdale and friends a whole lot of power over us both, and unless you place no value at all on my life, you won't tell anyone about what just happened. Not the fight and not the tying up and not the escape. And I mean anyone – not your family, and absolutely not the University . . . authorities or any of our friends or professors. No one."

"That was the deal. I can keep my end. I do value your life. You can be sure of that. Thank you, Joshua Smith. Or whoever you really are," Paul Huxtable put out his hand and shook the hand of Hannibal Heyes.