-* 
 
 ft Al?*' 
 
Wte-i 
 
She sat alone now, gazing out across the hills. 
 
 [Page 312] 
 
THE 
 
 WAY OUT 
 
 BY 
 
 EMERSON HOUGH 
 
 McKinlay, Stone & Mackenzie 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
COFTKIGHT. 1918. BT 
 
 EMERSON HOUGH 
 
 Printed in the United States of America 
 
To 
 
 JAMES ALEXANDER BURNS 
 
 Prophet of His People 
 
 28V6 
 
CONTENTS 
 BOOK I 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. The Law and the Gospel .... 3 
 
 II. A New Creed 18 
 
 III. The Blood Covenant 30 
 
 IV. The Frolic at Semmes' Cove ... 41 
 V. The Awakening of David Joslin . 50 
 
 VI. The Wandering Women .... 58 
 
 VII. The Fabric of a Vision 67 
 
 VIII. Marcia Haddon, and the Merry 
 
 Wife of Windsor 72 
 
 IX. Polly Pendleton 92 
 
 X. Mr. Haddon's Point of View ... 117 
 
 XI. Polly Pendleton's Visitor . . . 123 
 
 XII. The Straight and Narrow Way . 133 
 
 BOOK II 
 
 XIII. The Clans 141 
 
 XIV. The Crossroads 154 
 
 XV. The Original Sin ,..,,,, 170 
 
CHAPTER 
 
 XVI. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 XX. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 XXII. 
 XXIII. 
 XXIV. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK III 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The City on the Hill 181 
 
 These Twain 191 
 
 Marcia Haddon 209 
 
 The Narrows 215 
 
 The Coming of James Haddon . . 227 
 
 BOOK IV 
 
 The Furrin Woman 233 
 
 When Ghosts Arise , 244 
 
 Granny Williams' Narrations . . 255 
 
 The Drums 275 
 
 Strangers within the Gates . . . 281 
 
 The Uncertified 291 
 
 The Seeking 299 
 
 The Education of David Joslin . . 306 
 
BOOK I 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL 
 
 HUSH ! Stop it, Davy. He's a-comin' !" 
 The old woman who spoke — a wrinkled 
 dame she was, bowed down by years and 
 infirmity, her face creased by a thousand grimed-in, 
 wrinkled lines — moved with an odd sprightliness as 
 she stepped across the floor. She placed a hand upon 
 the shoulder of the young man whom she accosted, 
 standing between him and the door of the little cabin 
 of which they were the only occupants. 
 
 The young man turned toward her, smiling half 
 dreamily. He was a tall man, as his outstretched legs, 
 one crossed over the other, would attest; a man well 
 developed, muscular and powerful. His gray eyes 
 seemed now half a-dream, his wide mouth fixed itself 
 in pleasant lines, so that he seemed far away, some- 
 where in the lands to which music offers access. For 
 now he had been engaged in the production of what 
 perhaps might have been called music. It was an old 
 ballad tune he had been playing on his violin, and but 
 
 8 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 now his grandam had joined in high and cracking 
 treble on the old air of "Barbara Allen," known time 
 out of mind in these hills. It was the keener ear 
 of the old won h first had caught warning of 
 
 approrchi:;;; (kinder. 
 
 "Tal , I say!" she repeated, and shook him 
 
 impatiently. "I tell ye I heerd him come in at the 
 lower gate. He'll be here direckly. Git shet of that 
 fiddle, boy!" 
 
 She bent on him a pair of deep-set hazel eyes, sharp 
 as those of some wild creature. Her voice had in it 
 a half-masculine dominance. Every movement of her 
 stooped and broken body bespoke a creature full of 
 resolution, fearless, fierce. 
 
 "Gawd knows why he's back so soon," she went on, 
 "but he's here. Give him time to turn old Molly loose 
 and git a few years of corn, an* he'll be right in. 
 Onct he hears that fiddle he'll raise trouble, that's 
 what he'll do. I reckon I know a preacher, an' most 
 of all yore daddy. For him thar hain't nothin' sin- 
 f uller'n a riddle ; he's pizen on 'em — all preachers is — 
 him wust of all. What does he know about music? 
 Now, if he was French an' Irish, like me, it mought 
 be different. But then " 
 
 "I kain't hep it, Granny," said the young man, still 
 slowly, still unchanged, his fingers still trailing across 
 the strings. " 'Barbara Allen' — do ye call that wicked, 
 even on a Sunday? Besides, this is the fust time I've 
 
 4 
 
THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL 
 
 ever strung this fiddle up full. I couldn't git the 
 strings till jest now. Melissa says " 
 
 "Never mind what Meliss' says neither — she's a 
 trifiin' sort, even if she is yore own wife. For all 
 that, ye'd orter be home this minute, like enough." 
 
 "As if ye understood!" said the young man, sigh- 
 ing now and dropping the instrument to his knee. For 
 the first time a shade of sadness crossed his face, giv- 
 ing to his features a certain sternness and masculine 
 vigor. 
 
 "Why shouldn't I understand, Davy? Listen — ye 
 hain't for these hills. Ye're a throw-back somehow, 
 ye don't belong here. I say that, though yore daddy 
 is my own son. Don't I know him — he'd skin us 
 alive if he found us two here fiddlin' on Sunday 
 afternoon. He certainly would shake us out over hell 
 fire, boy! When he gits started to exhortin' and 
 damnin' around here, he certainly is servigerous. Ye 
 know that. Hist, now!" 
 
 The young man himself now heard the sound of 
 heavy footsteps slopping on the sodden earth, the slam 
 of the slat gate's wooden latch as someone entered. 
 There followed the stamp of heavy feet on the broken 
 gallery, where evidently someone was stopping for an 
 instant to kick off the mud. 
 
 Before the newcomer could enter the young man 
 arose, and with one stride gained the opening that 
 led up to the loose-floored loft of the single-storied 
 
 5 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 log house. He reached up a long arm and laid the 
 offending fiddle back out of sight upon the floor. 
 
 Just as he turned there entered the person against 
 whose advent he had been warned — a tall man, large 
 of frame, bushy and gray-white of hair and as to a 
 beard whose strong, close-set growth gave him a look 
 of singular fierceness. As he stood he might have 
 seemed fifty years old. In reality he was past seventy. 
 The young man who faced him now — his son — was 
 twenty-eight. A stalwart breed this, housed here in 
 this cabin in a cove of the ancient Cumberlands. The 
 old dame who stood now, her eyes turning from one 
 to the other, would never see her ninetieth birthday 
 again. 
 
 Andrew Joslin, commonly known through these 
 half-dozen mountain communities where he rode cir- 
 cuit as "Preacher Joslin," stood now in the door of 
 his own home and looked about him with his accus- 
 tomed sternness — a sternness always more intense 
 upon the Lord's Day. A somber, dour nature, that 
 of this mountain minister, whose main mission in life 
 was to proclaim the wrath of God. A man of yea, 
 yea, and nay, nay, one must have said who saw him 
 standing now, his gray eyes looking out fiercely, 
 searchingly, beneath his bushy brows. 
 
 "What ye been doin' ?" he asked suspiciously now. 
 indifferently of the old woman, his mother, and the 
 stalwart young man, his own son. "What ye doin* 
 
 6 
 
THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL 
 
 here, David? Why hain't ye home? Why hain't 
 ye at church to-day, like ye'd orter be ?" 
 
 "Thar's no sarvices nowhars near here, an* ye 
 know it, Andrew," said the old woman somewhat 
 querulously. 
 
 "Thar kin be sarvices anywhar whar a few is geth- 
 ered together in the name of the Lord. Ye two right 
 here could hold sarvices for the glory of God, if so 
 as ye wanted to." 
 
 Neither made answer to him, and he went on: 
 
 "David, have ye read all of that thar book I give 
 ye? Ye'd orter git some good outen Calvin's Insti- 
 tutes. Ye'll maybe be a preacher some time like yore 
 daddy." 
 
 "Well, daddy, I done tried to read her. I set up all 
 one night with Preacher Cuthbertson from over in 
 Owsley, an' we both read sever'l chapters in them 
 Institutes. Hit was nigh about midnight when we 
 both went to sleep, an' atter I'd went to sleep he done 
 shuk me by the shoulder an' woke me up, an' he says 
 to me, 'David, David, I've been thinkin' over them 
 Institutes so hard ... I believe they've injured my 
 mind' r 
 
 The young man broke into a wide-mouthed smile as 
 he made this recountal. But it was a thundercloud 
 of wrath upon the face of his father which greeted 
 such levity. 
 
 "Ye wasn't reverent!" he blazed. "Ye was 2m- 
 7 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 pyous, both of ye. Injure his mind — why, that feller 
 Cuthbertson never had no mind fer to injure. That's 
 what ails him. The book of John Calvin is one of the 
 greatest books in the world. What'll folks like ye 
 and Preacher Cuthbertson be up an* sayin' next ? An* 
 I'd set ye apart for the ministry, too, allowin' I could 
 git ye some schoolin' atter a while, somewhars." 
 
 He turned from them both, and stood a little apart, 
 his brows drawn down into a scowling frown. 
 
 "How come ye come home so soon, Andrew ?" 
 asked his mother now. "We wasn't expectin' ye 
 back — ye told me ye was a-goin' over to Leslie to 
 preach a couple days on the head of Hell-fer-Sartin. 
 But ye only left yisterday." 
 
 "Hit's none yore business how I got back so soon," 
 replied the old man savagely. "I don't have to account 
 to no one what I do." 
 
 He turned about now moodily. In his great hand 
 he still clutched the heavy umbrella which he carried, 
 its whalebone ribs and cotton cover dripping rivulets. 
 A step or two brought him to the opening in the loft 
 floor, where he reached up to place the wet umbrella 
 out of the way. As he did so his hand struck some 
 other object hidden there. He grasped it and drew 
 it down — and stood, his face fairly contorted with 
 surprise and anger. 
 
 It was his son's violin which now he clutched in his 
 gnarled and bony hand. As he regarded it the emotion 
 
 8 
 
THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL 
 
 on his face was as much that of horror as aught else. 
 A violin, an instrument of hell, here in his house — his 
 house — a chosen minister of God! 
 
 "What's this?" he demanded at length. "Tell me— 
 how come this thing here — in my house !" 
 
 With one stride now — tearing away all the strings 
 of the instrument with one grasp of his hand as he 
 did so — he flung the offending violin full upon the 
 flames in the fireplace, sweeping from him with an 
 outward thrust of his great arm the tall figure of his 
 son, who impulsively stepped forward to save his 
 cherished instrument. As for the wrinkled old woman, 
 she stood arrested in an attitude as near approaching 
 fear as any she ever had evinced. She knew the fierce 
 temper of both these men. 
 
 But the young man, the equal in height of his par- 
 ent, his superior in strength, stayed his own impulse 
 and lowered the clenched hand he had raised. Filial 
 obedience, after all, was strong in his heart. 
 
 "That's whar it belongs !" exclaimed the older man, 
 his eyes flashing. "In hell fire is whar all them things 
 belongs, an' the critters that fosters 'em. My own 
 flesh an' blood ! O Lord God, lay not up this against 
 thy sarvent ! 
 
 "Ye have sinned against the Lord," he began, ex- 
 cited now in something of the religious fervor which 
 had had no expenditure of late. He thrust a long, 
 bony finger towards his son. "Ye an' yore granny 
 
 9 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 both have sinned. To Adam was give the grace of 
 perse verm' in good if he choosed. Adam had the 
 power if he had the will, but not the will that he 
 mought have the power. It was give to all of us sub- 
 serquents to have both the will an' the power fer to 
 obstain from sin. But have ye two obstained? Look 
 at that thing a-quoilin' up in hell. That's what comes 
 to them that fosters evil when they have both the will 
 an' the power, an' don't use neither." 
 
 They stood looking at him silently, and he went on, 
 still more excited. 
 
 "Ye have-ah — tempted of the Lord," he intoned. 
 "Ye have forgot the holy commandments of the Lord- 
 ah! Ye have sinned in the sight of God on the holy 
 Sabbath day-ah! Ye have kivered up yore sin from 
 me, the sarvent of the Lord-ah ! Ye have plotter agin 
 me. Ye have no grace, fer grace is not offered by 
 the Lord to be either received or rejected — it is grace 
 that perjuces both the will an' the choice in the heart 
 of man. But whar air the subserquent good works of 
 grace? Ye don't show them. Ye nuvver had no 
 grace, neither one of ye! The both of ye will quoil 
 in hell like that thing than" 
 
 "Tell me" — he turned now to the old dame — 
 "was he a-fiddlin' here in my house on the Lord's 
 day?" 
 
 "Yes, he war, an' it hain't the first time !" exclaimed 
 the old woman. "I don't keer who knows it. He 
 
 10 
 
THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL 
 
 war a-playin' 'Barbara Allen' here, an* I war a-singin' 
 to it. Now ye know it, an* what air ye goin' to do 
 about it?" 
 
 For a moment the three stood in tableau, strong, 
 yet sad enough. Then the fierce soul of the old man 
 flamed yet more. 
 
 "Disgrace me — in my own house ! Out of my house, 
 ye, an' never darken its doors agin! Yore wife and 
 children need ye plenty 'thout ye comin' up here, 
 fiddlin' in a preacher's house on Sunday." 
 
 "Do ye mean that, daddy?" asked the young man 
 quietly. "Do ye reelly mean that? Maybe ye'd 
 better think it over." 
 
 "I don't have to think it over," retorted the other. 
 "Begone ! Don't nuvver come here again." 
 
 "I reckon I'll go too," said the grandam, reaching 
 out a skinny arm for the sunbonnet on its peg at the 
 door. 
 
 "Ye'll do nothin' of the sort," replied her son 
 savagely. "Ye belong here. Let him go. I sont his 
 mother outen the same door onct." 
 
 "I know ye did, Andrew," she replied, her fierce 
 eyes untamed as she faced him. "An' as good a wom- 
 ern as ever was in the world when she started, ontel ye 
 cowed her an' abused her, an' sont her down the river 
 — ye know whar, an' ye know into what. Ye kin 
 preach till ye're daid, and shake me over hell fire all 
 ye like, but ye kain't change me, an' ye kain't scare 
 
 11 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 me, an* ye know it almighty well. I'll stay here, an' 
 I'll go when I git ready, an' ye know that." 
 
 "Go on, Davy." She turned to the young man who 
 stood, gray and silent, his hand upon the half-opened 
 door. "Take him at his word, an' don't ye nuvver 
 come back here agin. If ye hain't happy in yore own 
 home, git outen these mountings — git somewhars else. 
 No matter what ye do, ye kain't do worsen what ye're 
 doin' here. \e know that yore maw nuvver flickered 
 afore him — nor yore granny neither — an' don't ye." 
 
 The gray old man stood silent, at bay, in the center 
 of the squalid little room — a room cluttered up with 
 heavy, home-made chairs, a pair of corded bedsteads, a 
 low board table; an interior lighted now in the ap- 
 proaching gloom of evening by nothing better than 
 the log fire on the deep-worn hearth. It was an old, 
 old room in an old, old house. The threshold of the 
 door, renewed no man might say how often, was worn 
 yet again to the bottom. Its hinges of wood were 
 again worn half in two. The floor, made of puncheons 
 once five inches thick, hewn by a hand-adze two gen- 
 erations ago from some giant poplar tree, now 
 worn almost as smooth as glass by the polishing of 
 bare feet — puncheons more than a yard wide each as 
 they lay here on the ancient floor beams. A pair of 
 windows, once owning glass, partially lighted the room, 
 and there were two doors, one standing ajar at the 
 farther end of the room making upon a covered pas- 
 
 12 
 
THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL 
 
 sageway which led to a second cabin. In this usually 
 went forward, it might be supposed, the cooking opera- 
 tions of the place, such as they were. 
 
 At length the old woman stepped to the side of the 
 fireplace and kicked together the ends of the logs. 
 A faint flame arose, now lighting up the interior of 
 this half -savage abode. It showed all the better the 
 tall form of the young man at the door. He spoke 
 no more. With one last glance straight at the face of 
 his father, he turned and passed out into the dusk. 
 
 The old man, suddenly trembling, now cast himself 
 into a chair before the fire and sat staring into the 
 flickering flames. 
 
 "Whar's my supper?" he demanded hoarsely after a 
 time. 
 
 'Thar hain't none ready, an' ye know it," said his 
 mother. "If I'd a-knowed ye war a-comin' back I 
 mought have got something ready. What made ye?" 
 
 "Hit war the Lord's will," he rejoined. "I've met 
 causes sufficient. The Lord brung me back to find out 
 what was a-goin' on here, I reckon. The Sabbath, 
 too!" 
 
 "Hit's no worse one day than another," said his 
 mother. "Ye've druv yore own son outen yore own 
 house. He's got no house of his own to go to, to speak 
 of — God knows thar's little enough to keep him thar, 
 that's shore. Thar's little enough to keep any of us 
 here, come to that." 
 
 13 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 Her attitude certainly was not that of shrinking or 
 fear. Granny Joslin was known far and wide through 
 these mountains as the fightingest of the fighting Jos- 
 lins ; and that was saying much. 
 
 "Womern, womern!" The old preacher raised a 
 hand in protest. There was a sort of weakening in 
 his face and his attitude, a sort of quavering in his 
 voice. 
 
 She turned and looked at him — looked at the floor 
 where his chair sat before the fireplace. Beside the 
 drip of the old umbrella there was another stain spread- 
 ing on the floor now — darker than that which first 
 had marked it; a stain which seemed to have dark- 
 ened his garments and to have caked on his heavy, 
 homemade shoes. 
 
 "What's that, Andy?" she asked imperiously, but 
 knowing well enough what it was. "Who done that ?" 
 
 He made no answer for a time, but at length re- 
 marked with small concern, "Why, old Absalom done 
 that, that's who. He knifed me in the back when I 
 was lookin' the other way atter his two boys." 
 
 "Ye taken the old hill trail, then?" 
 
 "Yes, it wasn't so slippy as the creek road up to 
 Hell-fer-Sartin. Oh, I know I was warned outen thar, 
 but I couldn't show the white feather, could I ?" 
 
 "No, ye couldn't, not even if ye war a preacher." 
 By this time she was busying herself caring for his 
 wound. 
 
 14 
 
THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL 
 
 "Well, that's how it come," went on Andrew Joslin. 
 "I taken the hill trail turnin' off yander from the 
 creek, like ye know. I met them up in the hills. The 
 Lord led me to 'em, maybe. The Lord fotched me back 
 here, too, to find what I have found. How have I 
 sinned !" 
 
 "If ye didn't kill old Absalom Gannt ye shore have 
 sinned," remarked his fierce dam casually. "Was it 
 some fight they made?" 
 
 "Well, yes. Thar wasn't but me along, exceptin' 
 Chan Bullock from over on the head of the Buffalo — 
 we met up jest as I got up into the hills. When we 
 turned down the head of Rattlesnake we run acrosst 
 them people settin' under a tree, dry, an* playin' a 
 game of keerds, right on the Lord's day. I rid up 
 with my pistol in my hand, an* I says to them I didn't 
 think they war a-doin' right to play keerds than I 
 seen old Absalom thar, an' two of his boys and two of 
 his cousins. Before I could say much to them, one of 
 the boys he up and fired fust. He hit old Molly in 
 the neck. She pitched some then, an' afore I could 
 git her whar I could do anything, the feller that fired 
 at me, he slipped over down the big bank back of 
 him, an' got away in the bush. They had their horses 
 thar, an' a couple of 'em jumped on horseback an* 
 begun firin' at me, an' all the time old Molly was 
 a-jumpin' so nobody could hit nobody off en her. Then 
 come Chan Bullock ridin' up closeter to me. He had 
 
 15 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 along his old fifty-caliber Winchester — never could 
 bear them big guns; they shoot too high. Well, he 
 fired couple of times, an* missed, an' by that time all 
 of Absalom an' his folks was on the run, either horse- 
 back er afoot. 
 
 "I seen the boy that done shot at me a-runnin' down 
 the creek bed more'n a hundred and fifty yard away. 
 I grabbed the gun away from Chan, an' I says, 'If I 
 couldn't shoot no better'n ye kin I'd be ashamed o' 
 myself.' So I taken a keerful aim — ye see, I helt 
 a leetle ahead of him — an* when I pulls the trigger he 
 rolls over about four times atter he hit the ground. 
 I swear that big rifle must be a hard-hittin' gun — 
 hit war a good two-hundred yard when I shot! 
 
 "Chan didn't have no pistol along, an* mine had 
 fell on the ground. While all this war a-happenin', 
 Absalom he had snuck back behint the tree whar they 
 was a-settin' an* a-playin' keerds. Now, when my 
 back was turned, he run out an' he cut me two er three 
 times right here in the back, afore I could hep myself. 
 Then he run off, too/' 
 
 "An' ye didn't git 'im?" 
 
 "How could I? He run down the creek bed road 
 towarge whar that other feller was. I covered him fair 
 with Chan's gun — but she snapped on me. He hadn't 
 had but a couple of hull*, an' I'd shot the last shot at 
 Pete when I got him. So Absalom, he got away." 
 
 "Well, you see how come me to come home," he 
 
 16 
 
THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL 
 
 added presently, having faithfully told his kin the full 
 story of the latest combat. "I didn't know as I could 
 git acrosst the mountings into Hell-fer-Sartin an' 
 preach f er a couple days. Somehow it seemed to me 
 I had orter come back home. I did — an\ well 
 you see what I've done found here. I didn't git 
 Absalom. I've lost my son, David. Hit 'pears to me 
 like I'm forsaken of the Lord this day!" 
 
 His mother made no comment, but stepped up to 
 the mantel-piece and reached down a bottle of white 
 liquid, from which she poured half a pint into a gourd 
 which she found alongside the bottle. 
 
 "Drink this," said she. "We'll git Absalom some 
 other time." 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 A NEW CREED 
 
 THE young man who had been dismissed from 
 his father's house walked unmindful of the 
 rain still falling in the evening gloom, nor 
 looked back to the door now closed behind him. His 
 face, strong and deeply lined, now had settled into a 
 sternness which belied the half -humorous expression 
 it but now had borne. He was wide of chest, broad 
 of shoulder, straight of limb as he walked now, hands 
 in pockets, straightforward, not slouching down, his 
 back flat There was little of apathy or weakness about 
 him, one would have said. Well-clad, such a man as 
 he would attract many a backward gaze from men — or 
 women — on any city street. 
 
 He stepped straight down the little bank beyond 
 the fence marking the delimitations of the scant yard 
 and the little cornfield of Preacher Joslin's cabin, and 
 at once was in the road, or all the road that ever had 
 been known there. It was no better than the rocky 
 bed of the shallow creek which flowed directly in 
 front of the cabin. Here, in the logging days, iron- 
 shod wheels had worn deep grooves into the sand 
 
 18 
 
A NEW CREED 
 
 rock. The longer erosion of the years also had cut 
 sharp the faces of some of the clay banks. It might 
 have been seen in a stronger light than this of twi- 
 light, that these banks had great seams of black run- 
 ning parallel through them — croppings of the heavy 
 coal seams known throughout the region. 
 
 From time to time the young man sprang from 
 rock to rock as he made his way down the bed of the 
 little branch now running full from the heavy rain, but 
 he walked on carelessly, for the road was well known 
 to him by day or night. It had been the path of him- 
 self, his family, his ancestors, for well nigh a hundred 
 years. 
 
 As he advanced, David Joslin cast an eye now and 
 again upon the mountain sides. They were beautiful, 
 even in the dull of evening, clad in gorgeous autumnal 
 glories of chlorophyl afire under the combined alche- 
 mies of the rain, the frost, and the sun. There were 
 reds more brilliant than may be seen even among the 
 maples of the far north when the frost comes, yellows 
 for which a new color name must be invented, browns 
 of unspeakable velvety softness, a thousand ocherous 
 and saffron hues such as no palette carries. They lay 
 now softened and dulled, but very beautiful. 
 
 Young Joslin knew every hill, every ravine, every 
 mountain cove which lay about him here, — all the coun- 
 try for fifty miles. Presently he reached the end of 
 this little side trail down from the mountains, and 
 
 19 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 emerged into a wider valley where passed the consid- 
 erable volume of a fork of the Kentucky River, itself 
 now running yellow from the rains. Had he cared he 
 might have noted, now passing on the flood, scattered 
 logs and parts of rafts, flotsam and jetsam of the old 
 wasteful occupants of the land, who cut and dragged 
 priceless timber to the grudging stream, and lost the 
 more the more they labored. 
 
 He turned to the right, followed down the muddy 
 river bank, and within a quarter of a mile turned yet 
 again to the right at a decrepit gate serving in part to 
 stop the way as adjutant of a broken rail fence which 
 marked a scanty field. 
 
 Before him now lay a cleared space of some twenty 
 acres or more, occupied at one corner by spare, gnarled 
 apple trees, no man might say how old, appurtenances 
 of acres which David Joslin had "heired" from the 
 husband of the same grandam whom but now he had 
 left. Behind the apple trees rose a low roof, the 
 broken cover of a scant gallery, a chimney, ragged- 
 topped, at each end of the cabin. Here and there stood 
 a China tree, yonder grew a vine, softening somewhat 
 and beautifying even in the beauty of decay those 
 rude surroundings. Back of the house were other 
 small log buildings, cribs scantily filled with corn. In 
 the barnyard stood two tall poles, behind which, run- 
 ning up into the darkness of the mountain side, 
 stretched the long rusted wires which in the harvest- 
 
 20 
 
A NEW CREED 
 
 ing of the autumn sometimes carried down from the 
 side of the mountains, too steep for the use of horse 
 or mule, the sacks of corn perilously gathered above 
 and sent down in the easiest way to the farmyard. 
 
 Apparently the harvest that fall had been but scant. 
 The place had an air of poverty, or meagerness — 
 rather perhaps should one use the latter than the for- 
 mer word. It was not the home of a drunkard, or a 
 ne'er-do-well, or a poverty-smitten man, which David 
 Joslin now approached — his own home, one like to 
 many others all about him in these hills. It was an 
 old, old, out-worn land, a decrepit land, which lay 
 all about him. He was like his neighbors, his home 
 like theirs. 
 
 David Joslin walked past the China tree and up to 
 his own door. He stood for a moment scraping the 
 mud from his feet at the end of the broken board on 
 the little gallery before he pushed open the door. A 
 woman rose to meet him. 
 
 She was a woman yet young, but seemed no longer 
 young. Perhaps she was twenty-two, perhaps twenty- 
 five years of age. She was tall and strong, after the 
 fashion of the mountain woman, angular, spare. The 
 thin dark hair, swept smoothly back from her bony 
 forehead, seemed to come from a scalp tight-grown 
 upon the skull. She appeared to carry about her the 
 look of a certain raw, rugged strength, though there 
 was little of the soft and feminine about her figure, 
 
 21 
 
x THE WAY OUT 
 
 about her attitude, about her voice as she now spoke 
 to him. 
 
 "Why didn't ye come home long ago?" she de- 
 manded with no preliminary. 
 
 Joslin made no answer, but sat down sullenly in a 
 chair which he pushed up to the fireplace. The flames 
 were dying down into a mass of coals which likewise 
 seemed sullen. He reached out to the scant pile of 
 firewood at the corner of the hearth, and cast on a 
 stick or so. 
 
 "Ye're always away," she went on grumbling. 
 "Folks'll think ye don't care nothin' fer yore own 
 fam'ly. Every whip-stitch ye're off up into the hills, 
 visitin' somewhars or other, I don't know whar. 
 What's it comin' to?" 
 
 Still he made no answer, and she went on upbraid- 
 ing. 
 
 "We been married four years, an' ye act as free 
 as if we'd nuvver been married at all. Don't yore 
 fam'ly need nothin' now an' agin? Is this all a 
 womern's got to live fer, I want to know ? Look what 
 kind of place we got." 
 
 "Hit's all ye come from," he said at length. "Hit's 
 all yore people ever knowed, er mine. Why should 
 ary of us expect more?" 
 
 An even, dull, accepted despair was in his tone. As 
 for her, she cared not so much for philosophy as for 
 the heckling she had held in reserve for him. 
 
 22 
 
A NEW CREED 
 
 "Hit's a lot to offer ary womern, hain't it?" said 
 she. 
 
 "Had ye much to offer in exchange?" said he, 
 quietly and bitterly. "We traded fair, the best we 
 knowed, the same sort of trade that's common. We 
 got married — thar was our children. What more is 
 thar fer ye er em er ary of us in these hills, I'd 
 like to know ! Such as I've had, ye've had." 
 
 There was something so stern, so bitter, in his sud- 
 den unkind remark that she took another tack. 
 
 "Hain't ye tired?" she began, wheedling. She 
 stooped over and pulled back the coverlet, a gaudy, 
 patchwork quilt upon the single bed of the apartment. 
 "Don't ye want to lay down an' rest a while ?" 
 
 "No. I'm a-thinkin'." 
 
 "What was ye thinkin' about — me?" 
 
 "No, I was thinkin' about the new doctor, an* what 
 he said to me last week." 
 
 She was silent now. The name of the new doctor 
 seemed to be something she had heard before. 
 
 "Ye talk too much with that new doctor. He puts 
 too many fool ideas in yore haid. We're married, an* 
 we got to live like that. How do ye figger any dif- 
 ferent, I'd like to know? Ye brung me here yore 
 own self — ye knowed what ye wanted when ye 
 come up thar courtin' me at my daddy's at the haid 
 of Bull Skin. I come right down here to yore house 
 when I was married. I stood right on this floor here, 
 
 23 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 an' yore daddy, he married us. Ye know that." 
 
 "Yes, I do." The young man's face was extremely 
 grave and gray as he spoke. 
 
 " — An* yore daddy was a regular ordained 
 preacher.' ' 
 
 "What's the matter with ye, anyways?" she went 
 on querulously. "Ye been a-quarlin' with yore own 
 people well as me f 
 
 "My own daddy jest now ordered me outen his 
 house. I'm nuvver goin' thar no more." 
 
 "Huh ! I reckon yore own f ree-thinkin' ways druv 
 it on ye." 
 
 "He burned my fiddle !" said David Joslin, with sud- 
 den resentment. 
 
 "Ye mought have expected it — goin' up thar to 
 play a fiddle in a preacher's house 1" 
 
 "I jest had her strung up for the fust time," re- 
 joined her husband. "I was a-playin' 'Barbara Allen/ 
 My daddy accused me of bein' sinful. We've got it 
 hard enough livin' in these hills without being damned 
 when we die." 
 
 "Hush, Dave ! Be keerful of what ye say." 
 
 "I'm a-bein' keerful. I'm castin' up accounts this 
 very day. I been castin' up accounts fer some time. 
 I'm thinkin' of what that new doctor said to me. That 
 was preachin' sich as I nuvver heern tell of afore in 
 these hills. I wish't he'd come here an' stay right 
 along." 
 
 24 
 
A NEW CREED 
 
 She made no answer now, but pulled out the rude 
 board table at the side of the fire, and placed upon it 
 a yellowed plate or so, holding a piece of cold corn- 
 pone, a handful of parched corn. 
 
 "Eat," said she. "Hit's all we got. I borrowed 
 some meal from the Taggarts. They've got no more 
 to lend." 
 
 "Don't ask nothin' of no one, womern. I'll not be 
 beholden to ary man. I tell ye, I'm castin' up ac- 
 counts." 
 
 "What do ye mean— what ye talkin' about, Dave?" 
 She was half-frightened now. 
 
 "I hardly know. I kain't see very much light jest 
 yit." 
 
 "Hain't ye goin' to eat?" she said. "Hain't ye 
 goin' to sleep? Hain't ye goin' to lay down on the 
 bed?" 
 
 "No!" said he. "No! Our children laid thar onct 
 — them two. They died. It was best they died. 
 They're our last ones." 
 
 "What do ye mean, Dave?" she again demanded, 
 wide-eyed. "What do ye mean — ye hain't a-goin' 
 to sleep here with me agin — nuwer?" 
 
 "No, I told ye. I said I was a-castin' up accounts. 
 Meliss', I've got to go away." 
 
 "Ye hain't a-goin' to quit me ?" 
 
 "I don't like that word. I nuwer quit nobody nor 
 nothin' that I owed a duty to. But I've got to go 
 
 25 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 away. Hit hain't right fer ye an' me to live together 
 no more. Children — why, my God!" 
 
 "Dave! Air ye crazy? Hain't I been a good and 
 faithful womern to ye? Tell me!" 
 
 He did not answer her. 
 
 "Tell me, Dave — have ye " 
 
 "No! I've been as faithful as ye. We made our 
 mistake when we was married — we mustn't make it 
 no more an' no wuss." 
 
 "The new doctor !" She blazed out now with scorn, 
 contempt, indignation, all in her voice. 
 
 "Yes!" he replied suddenly. "The new doctor — 
 ary doctor — ary man with sense could have told us 
 what he told me. I know now a heap of things I 
 nuvver knowed — what my pap an' mammy nuwer 
 knowed." 
 
 "Ye' re a-goin' to quit me like a coward !" 
 
 "I quit nobody like a coward. I hain't a coward, 
 Meliss', an' you know it. I'm a-goin' to quit ye be- 
 cause I'm a brave man. I've got to be as brave as 
 ary man ever was in the Cumberlands to do what I've 
 got to do. Do ye think it's easy fer me? Don't 
 ye think I hear my own children cryin' still — mine 
 as much as yours? An' this was all I have to give 
 them. Thank God they died! They'd nuwer orter 
 of been borned." 
 
 His wife sank into a chair, her hands dropped limp 
 in her lap. His own hands were trembling as, after 
 
 26 
 
A NEW CREED 
 
 a long time, he turned toward her ; his voice trembled 
 also. 
 
 "Look around us in these hills," said he, his lips 
 quivering. "Think of what's in them coves back fer 
 fifty mile yan way, and yan, and yan, up the Bull Skin, 
 up the Redbird, up Hell-fer-Sartin an' Newfound an' 
 the Rattlesnake an' the Buffalo — houses like ours — 
 whisky — killin'— cousins." 
 
 "Cousins?" Her voice was hoarse. "Why not?" 
 
 "Whisky — killin' — cousins!" he repeated. "I don't 
 know which is the wust, but I reckon the cousin part 
 is. We was cousins! Thar*s cousins back in our fam- 
 ily, both sides, as far as we know. Those children — 
 thank God ! Thar'll be no more." 
 
 Now indeed a long, long silence fell between them. 
 The woman was pale as death as she turned to him at 
 last, to hear his self -accusing monotone. 
 
 "God knows what I'm a-goin' to do. But one thing 
 shore, if I've sinned I've got to pay. I reckon it's 
 a-goin' to be a right big price I've got to pay. Thar*s 
 a wall around us — hit's around these mountings — hit 
 shets us all out from all the world. Do ye reckon, 
 Meliss', if I was able to make a way through— do ye 
 reckon they'd say I'd paid?" 
 
 "Ye talk like a fool, man!" said she with sudden 
 anger, "like a fool ! Ye let a limpy, glass-eyed doctor 
 stir ye all up and fill yer haid with fool idees. Ye 
 say ye' re a-goin' to quit me, that had our babies — 
 
 27 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 because of what? Yore duty's to me — to me — me! 
 Ye married me. I want live children — hit's a dis- 
 grace when a womern don't have none. Hit's yore 
 business to take care of me, an' now ye say ye're 
 a-goin' to quit me. Ye're a coward, that's what ye 
 air, the wustest coward ever was in these mountings. 
 I don't want furrin ways myself — I don't want to go 
 Outside — I don't want ary of them new doctors 
 comin' in here, fetched on from Outside. This is 
 our country, an' it's good enough. Ye talk about 
 leavin' me. Thar's some other womern somewhars — 
 that's what's the matter with ye, Dave Joslin, an' I 
 know it !" 
 
 He rose now, gray, pallid, half -tottering as he stood 
 under her tirade. 
 
 "That's not true," said he at last. "I don't reckon 
 ye understand me, er what I mean, er what I think. 
 The only question is, what's right. We hain't livin* 
 the way folks orter do to-day. The new doctor tolt 
 me what's Outside. Why, womern, that's the world — 
 that's life! More'n that — a heap more'n that — that's 
 duty! If I stay here an' make a little corn an' raise 
 a couple of hogs a year, livin' with ye an' raisin' a 
 couple more of childern, I hain't livin' the way I'd 
 orter. If we wasn't cousins — if I didn't know now 
 it's a sin to live on this way — I wouldn't quit ye — I'd 
 die first. I hain't argoiri to quit ye now. As long 
 as I got a dollar in the world it's yores. I'll hep ye 
 
 28 
 
A NEW CREED 
 
 more by goin' out An* I'm a-goin' out — I'm a-goin' 
 Outside. 
 
 "I'm sorry fer ye, Meliss'," said he presently, as 
 she sat stone-cold. "I'm sorry fer all of the wimern 
 like ye in these mountings, sorry fer us all. God 
 knows I don't want to make it harder fer ye — only 
 easier. Hit's just a question o' what's the right thing 
 to do." 
 
 There was a vast softness, a great pity in his voice 
 as he spoke now. He stood irresolute, and his eyes, 
 in spite of himself, turned sideways to where once had 
 lain two small bundles at the foot of the unkempt bed. 
 
 "Ye coward!" she cast at him, bitter and intense. 
 "Ye low-borned coward! Ye're a-goin' to quit me, 
 mother of yore dead childern. Well, go on along. I 
 won't ax ye to stay. Git along." 
 
 "My granny she's a-goin' to take keer o' ye," said 
 David Joslin. "She'll be kind to ye, an' ye'll have no 
 babies to bother over nuwer. Don't — don't talk to 
 me no more. I reckon I kain't stand no more." 
 
 He stepped to the mantel, took from it the old faded 
 book that lay there — no more and nothing else of all 
 in the house that had been his. Then he turned toward 
 his own door. 
 
 She heard his slow footsteps stumbling through the 
 sodden grass. There closed behind him for the second 
 time that evening a door opening upon what he had 
 once called home. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 THE BLOOD COVENANT 
 
 DAVID JOSLIN turned from his own wastrel 
 fire, his own decrepit gate, as but now he 
 had from his father's, and he did not look 
 back at what he had left. Steadily his feet slushed 
 forward, as he held his course through the dripping 
 rain, faced now up the valley of the stream near which 
 he lived. Here and there, on this side or that of the 
 swollen river, showed infrequent lights at the windows 
 of homes — each a hospitable home where he would be 
 welcome at any time of the day or night. But he 
 did not turn to any one of these, homeless as he was 
 himself. 
 
 For a considerable distance he kept to the valley 
 until finally he turned into a narrow, deeply sheltered 
 ravine which as he knew had no occupant. It was a 
 wild, uncultivated spot, the mouth of the gulch known 
 as Semmes' Cove. At its foot trickled a stream of 
 water leading far back into the hills through a dis- 
 trict where as yet home-building man had not come. 
 The tall trees still stc*>d here unreaped — the giant 
 white oaks and the tremendous trees known as "old- 
 
 30 
 
THE BLOOD COVENANT 
 
 time poplar," among which not even the slightest gar- 
 nering had as yet been done by timber-hunting man. 
 
 There were secrets of a certain sort up this gulch, 
 as David Joslin knew. Few men openly went infco the 
 mouth of this wild ravine, and there was no definite 
 path up the creek such as marked most of the others 
 thereabout, None the less Joslin in the darkness of 
 the night turned into it as one wholly familiar with 
 the vicinity. 
 
 He was a woodsman, a wild man fit to conquer and 
 prevail in any wild land. He went now about the 
 business he purposed as steadily as though he were 
 well accustomed to it. With not even the slight assist- 
 ance of an occasional star, he found the trunk of a 
 giant poplar tree which had fallen — perhaps he knew 
 it from his many wanderings here. The bark upon 
 the trunk was dry, and with the aid of a broken 
 branch he loosed a long fold, sufficient for a roof 
 when propped up on the trunk of the tree itself. He 
 felt within the rotted trunk and drew out an armful of 
 rotted but dry wood, which made him good floor 
 enough for his bed, keeping him above the dampness. 
 A part of it also offered punk for the tinder which he 
 found within the breast of his own blouse. Here also 
 were the primitive tools of the frontiersman in this 
 land — flint and steel. And with flint and steel David 
 Joslin now managed to build himself a fire even in the 
 dripping rain. 
 
 81 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 He cast himself down, not to sleep, but to ponder 
 1 and to brood. The wall of blackness shut him in all 
 about, but before him passed continually the panorama 
 of his dreams. 
 
 The night wore through, and at length the gray 
 dawn came. The wind was rising now, high in the 
 tops of the trees, and the air was colder since the rain 
 had ceased. Any but a hardened man who had slept 
 thus would have waked stiffened and shivering. Not 
 so Joslin, who rebuilt his fire and looked about him 
 for something with which to stay a hunger natural 
 after twenty-four hours of abstinence. A few fallen 
 nuts from the trees, a frozen persimmon or so, made 
 all the breakfast he could find. In his cupped hand 
 he drank from the little stream. In a few moments 
 he was at the debouchement of the creek trail lead- 
 ing up to his father's home. He halted here as he 
 heard the sound of hoof -beats coming down the 
 stream bed. 
 
 A rider came into view making such speed as he 
 could down the perilous footing. He drew up his 
 horse, startled at seeing a man here, but an instant later 
 smiled. 
 
 "That ye, Dave?" said he. "Ye had me skeered 
 at fust." 
 
 "What's yore hurry? Whar ye goin' ?" 
 
 "Hurry enough — I was a-comin' atter ye." 
 
 "What's wrong?" 
 
 32 
 
THE BLOOD COVENANT 
 
 "Plenty's wrong — yore daddy's daid — right up 
 thar." 
 
 "What's that? — What do ye mean?" demanded 
 Joslin. "Daid — I left him last night — he was well." 
 
 "Huh ! He's daid now all right," rejoined the rider, 
 finding a piece of tobacco, from which he bit a chew. 
 "I was a-goin' down atter ye. I seed him a-hangin' 
 thar right by his neck on a tree this side the house. 
 He must of hung hisself, that's all." 
 
 "That's a lie," said Joslin. "My daddy kill his- 
 self " 
 
 "Come on an' see then. If he hain't daid by now, 
 my name hain't Chan Bullock! He's done finished 
 what old Absalom started. I rid over to the house to 
 see how he was a-gittin' along, an' I come spang on 
 him when I come down offen the hill. He was still 
 a-kickin' then." 
 
 David Joslin approached him, his hands hooked as 
 though to drag him from his horse. But an instant 
 later he curbed his wrath, caught at the stirrup strap 
 of the rider's horse, swung the horse's head up the 
 stream, and urged it into speed, himself running along- 
 side with great strides which asked no odds. 
 
 He found full verification of all the messenger had 
 told him. From the forked branch of a tree, extend- 
 ing out beyond the steep side of the bank, swung a 
 grim bundle of loose clothing covering what but now 
 had been a strong man. A quick sob came into the 
 
 33 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 throat of David Joslin as he sprang to the bank. Even 
 as he did so he heard the sound of footsteps coming. 
 The bent and broken figure of Granny Joslin came 
 into view. 
 
 "What's wrong here ? Who was that I heerd a-hol- 
 
 lerin' ? My God A'mighty, who's a-hangin' 
 
 thar? My son — my son!" 
 
 She also was endeavoring to scramble up the bank. 
 
 "Was it ye a-hollerin'? Why didn't ye cut him 
 down, ye fool?" she demanded of Bullock, who still 
 sat on his horse. 
 
 "Hit hain't lawful, Granny," said he. "Ye mustn't 
 cut him down." 
 
 "I'd cut him down if I was damned fer it," cried 
 the old dame. "Ye coward, how long since ye seen 
 this? When ye hollered? Was he livin' then? Ye 
 mought have saved his life. Git outen my way, boy," 
 she said to her grandson, and an instant later she her- 
 self, old as she was, had leaned far out along the 
 branch and with a stroke of the knife she always car- 
 *ied had cut loose the rope. There was a thudding, 
 sliding fall. The body of old Preacher Joslin rolled 
 to the foot of the bank among the sodden leaves. 
 
 Bullock dismounted and stood looking down at the 
 limp figure. But David pushed him aside. 
 
 "Leave him be," said he, and so he slipped his arms 
 around the body of his father, and, lifting him, strode 
 up along the little stream bed to the home now left 
 
 34 
 
THE BLOOD COVENANT 
 
 the more desolate and abandoned. The dead man's 
 mother, dry-eyed, hobbled along behind. She showed 
 where the body might be laid. 
 
 "He hain't daid yit, I most half believe," said she, 
 laying her hand on his heart. "Lay him down here, 
 boyr*. on his own bed. Thar kain't no one prove then 
 he didn't die in his own bed. The Gannts didn't git 
 him." 
 
 If there was indeed a fluttering gasp or two at the 
 lips after they had placed the body of Preacher Joslin 
 upon his own bed in his own house, it was but the last 
 that marked the passing. When not even this might be 
 suspected, Granny Joslin broke into a sort of exalted 
 chant of her own invention. 
 
 "I got a son !" she crooned in her shrill, high voice. 
 "He's strong an' tall. He hain't a-feared. He has 
 the han^ to kill. He'll slay 'em all. He'll strow the 
 blood. He'll make the fight fer me an' him an' all 
 of us!" 
 
 She chanted the words over and over again, the 
 kindling of her dark eyes a fearsome thing to see. 
 Now and again she turned from the dead man to the 
 motionless figure of his ?on, who stood at his bedside. 
 
 "He'll strow the blood," she sang. "He'll kill 'em 
 all! 
 
 "May God curse old Absalom Gannt an' all his kin," 
 she said at last, shaking a skinny hand toward heaven. 
 "1 pledge ye to it, Davy. Tell the last one of them 
 
 35 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 all's gone, we'll not fergit. Oh, Davy, it was fer this 
 that ye was borned!" 
 
 They stood thus, a grim enough group, when the 
 sound of hoofs in the creek bed intruded. Bullock 
 stepped to the door and accosted the newcomer. 
 
 "Howdy, Cal," said he. "Light down an' come in." 
 
 The rider dismounted, pasting his bridle rein across 
 the top of a picket. 
 
 "Andy home?" asked he. 
 
 "Well, he is an' he hain't," said Bullock. "Come 
 
 on in." 
 
 "Well, I thought I'd come in an' see him " 
 
 "Come in. Ye can see all thar is of him," and he 
 led the way. 
 
 "Good God A'mighty! God damn me!" exclaimed 
 the visitor, as he caught sight of what lay on the bed 
 in the room to which they led him. "Granny, how 
 come this ? He's daid !" 
 
 "Yes, he's daid," said Granny Joslin calmly. "He 
 lung hisself down below by the spring right now. Ye 
 kin see whar the rope cut in his neck. He was a- 
 breathin' when they put him thar. If that fool boy 
 Chan had had any sense at all he'd of cut him down 
 an' done saved him." 
 
 "Well, now, Granny," began the accused one. 
 •Well, now " 
 
 "Wait!" David Joslin raised his own hand. 
 "Granny, don't say that. Hit's the wish of the Lord. 
 
 36 
 
THE BLOOD COVENANT 
 
 Blessed be the name of the Lord. I think my father 
 is better off. Sence he wished it, let's call it well an' 
 good. I reckon it all got too much fer him." 
 
 "Well, I was just a-comin' down," said the new- 
 comer, Calvin Trasker, "to ask ye all out fer a little 
 jfrolic to-night over to Semmes' Cove. They're a-goin' 
 "to draw out this evening, an' a lot of the neighbors'll 
 be thar, like enough." 
 
 "Old Absalom ?" asked the tall young man, unemo- 
 tionally. 
 
 "Yes," he nodded, "him an' his boys." 
 
 "Not all of 'em," said the old dame suddenly. "My 
 boy fixed a couple of them people yesterday afore they 
 got him. Lookahere, whar old Absalom cut him" — 
 her long, bony finger pointed out the spot. "Spite of 
 'em he wouldn't of died. He killed hisself, an* he 
 died in his own bed. Thar kain't no Gannt on airth 
 say they killed my boy." 
 
 David Joslin quietly walked over to the foot of the 
 bedstead and unbuckled the belt of the heavy, worn 
 revolver which he found hanging there — the revolver 
 without which his father rarely had traveled in his 
 circuit riding. This he fastened about his own waist, 
 accepting the burden of his father's feud. He made 
 no comment. 
 
 "Well, now, how come that diffikilty, Granny? 
 Whar were it?" asked Trasker. "War he hurt bad?" 
 
 "He got worse along towards mornin'," said the 
 37 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 dead man's mother. "I seen myself that he war cut 
 deep in his innards, an' couldn't live long noways. 
 He lay all night a-beggin' me to see that case he died 
 the rest of us would kerry on the quad fer him. Now 
 ye say Absalom an* some of his folks is a-goin' to be 
 over thar to-night?" 
 
 The visitor nodded. 
 
 "That's a mighty good thing," said Granny Joslin, 
 nodding her own approval. "Go on over, Davy. See 
 what ye kin do. Will ye promise me ye'll go?" 
 
 "I promise ye, yes, Granny," replied David Joslin 
 slowly. "But I'll tell ye now, it hain't to my likin'. 
 I'm only goin' fer one reason." 
 
 Seeing that they all three stood looking at him in 
 silence, he went on. 
 
 "I don't believe in these fights and feuds no more. 
 I don't believe in it even now that it's come closeter 
 than ever to me. I don't believe I'd orter go over thar 
 an' kill nobody else jest because they killed my daddy. 
 Hit hain't right." 
 
 They looked at him in cold silence. He raised his 
 hand. "But because I know ye'd all call me a coward 
 if I didn't go, I'm a-goin* over thar with you-alL I'm 
 argoin* over thar before my own daddy is real daid 
 and buried. I'll face Absalom Gannt an' ary of his 
 kin. I reckon you-all will ride with me. Ye needn't 
 have no doubt that I'll flicker — I won't — none of us 
 nuwer did. But I'm a-tellin' ye now I don't believe 
 
 38 
 
THE BLOOD COVENANT 
 
 in it, an' I don't want to go. I pray on my knees I'll 
 not have to kill no man, no matter what happens." 
 
 He felt the strong clutch of a skinny hand at his 
 arm. His grandmother whirled him about and looked 
 into his eyes with her own blazing orbs. 
 
 "My God, I more'n half believe ye' re a-skeered, Dave 
 Joslin. God! — have I fetched into the world ary one 
 of my name that's afeerd to kill a rattlesnake like 
 ary one of them Gannts ? I wish to God I was a man 
 my own self — I'd show ye. I thought ye was a man, 
 Dave. Hain't ye — tell me — hain't ye, David 
 Joslin?" 
 
 "No," said Joslin, "I don't think ... a coward! 
 But I believe the law orter have charge of all these 
 things. If I kill ary man over thar to-night, I'm 
 a-goin' to give myself up to the law." 
 
 "Listen at the fool talk!" broke out his fierce 
 grandma. "Listen at him. Law? — law? — what's the 
 law got to do with a thing like this? I reckon we-all 
 know well enough what the law is." 
 
 "I hope to live to see the real law come into these 
 mountings yit," said David Joslin solemnly. "Only 
 question is, what's the law? I hope I'll live to see a 
 different way of figgerin' in these hills." 
 
 "Then ye'll wait till hell freezes," said Granny 
 Joslin, savagely. "Hit'll take more'n ye to reform 
 the people in these mountings from real men inter 
 yaller cowards." 
 
 39 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 "Come in an* eat, men," she added, and led the way 
 to the side of the table, where presently she brought 
 a few half-empty dishes — the same table which soon 
 would hold the body of the dead man. "What we got 
 ye're welcome to. I reckon somehow I kin run this 
 farm alone an* make a livin' here, an* while I run it 
 I'll feed the friends of my fam'ly an' I'll shoot the 
 enemies of my fam'ly that comes, free as if I'd been 
 a man. God knows I'd orter been, with the trouble I've 
 had to carry. Set up an' eat." 
 
 "Chan," said she, after a time, her mouth full of 
 dry cornpone, "ride up the creek an' git some of our 
 kin to jine ye over thar in Semmes' Cove this evenin'. 
 They mought be too many fer ye." 
 
 Chan Bullock nodded. 
 
 "I'll go on with Dave up through the cut-off to the 
 head of the Buffalo, an' jine Chan an' the others up 
 in thar," said Calvin Trasker. "Ye needn't be 
 a-skeered, Granny. Thar's like enough to be some hell 
 a-poppin' in thar afore we hold the funerl here. 
 Them Gannts may have a funer'l too." 
 
 "Come around tomorrow, them of ye that's left 
 alive," said the old woman calmly. "We'll bury him 
 out in the orchud, whar most of his folks is. Come on 
 now — lend me a hand an' we'll lift him up on the 
 table. I don't reckon he'll bleed no more now." 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE FROLIC AT SEMMES' COVE 
 
 IT was late afternoon when David Joslin and Cal- 
 vin Trasker, his kinsman, started into the hills. 
 They rode in silence as they followed the winding 
 little path which led up into the wilderness of the upper 
 ridges. Each was armed with a heavy revolver which 
 swung under his coat, and each carried in his side 
 pockets abundance of additional ammunition for his 
 weapon. Neither spoke. Neither showed any agita- 
 tion. 
 
 They pulled up at the imprint of horses' hoofs on 
 the trail coming up from one of the little side 
 ravines. 
 
 Trasker spoke. "Absalom, he don't live so far off 
 from here." 
 
 "I wish't he'd stay at home," said David Joslin 
 moodily. 
 
 "Look-a-here, Dave," began the other testily. 
 "What's the matter with ye? Is thar arything in this 
 here talk I heerd about ye feelin' maybe ye was called 
 to be a preacher, same as yore daddy?" 
 
 Joslin replied calmly. "I don't know. I'm askin' 
 41 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 fer a leadin'. I kain't see that this here business is 
 quite right no more," 
 
 "Ye don't belong in here then," said Trasker, and 
 half drew rein. 
 
 "I do belong in here, an' nowhars else P said David 
 Joslin. "If I ever was called — if I ever come to preach 
 in these here hills, you-all'll feel I wasn't no coward. 
 I'm a-goin' to prove it to you-all that I hain't." 
 
 "Go ahead," said Trasker succinctly, and again Joslin 
 led the way up the mountain slope. 
 
 They paused presently at the rendezvous where their 
 kinsmen presently would join them, granted Bullock 
 had been successful in passing the feudal torch. 
 Trasker talked yet further. 
 
 "He was a great old sport, yore daddy," said he, 
 "I reckon he was shot in half a dozen places in his 
 time. Seemed like they couldn't kill him, nohow. An' 
 him an' old Absalom had it fist an* skull together 
 more'n once in their day." 
 
 Joslin nodded. "That was afore he took up preach- 
 in'. Heathen — why, we all been worse'n ary heathen 
 in the world. An' here's ye an' me worse'n ary 
 heathen right now, ridin' out to squar what only the 
 hand of God kin squar." 
 
 "Well," rejoined Trasker, meditatively chewing his 
 quid, "maybe with four or five of us together we kin 
 help the hand of God jest a leetle bit. That's the 
 leadin' I git, anyways, for this evenin'." 
 
 42 
 
AT SEMMES' COVE 
 
 "Well, here's our fellers comm'," he went on, turn- 
 ing in his saddle. "Even a few is better'n none." 
 
 They were joined now by three other riders, Chan 
 Bullock and two younger men, one scarce more than 
 a boy, the beard not yet sprouted on his face. They 
 did not make even a salutation as they drew up along- 
 side the two horsemen who had tarried at the rendez- 
 vous. 
 
 They turned up the hillside, once more resuming the 
 winding path along the crooked divide which separated 
 the two forks of the main stream which bored deep 
 into the Cumberlands thereabouts. They all knew 
 well enough the entry point for the head of Semmes* 
 Cove, and here in due time they halted to hold counsel. 
 
 "Sever'l been here," said David Joslin, pointing out 
 the horse tracks which led down into the thickets of 
 the unbroken gulch before them. Without any com- 
 ment they all dismounted and advanced, leading their 
 horses, Joslin ahead. They walked in this way for 
 perhaps a quarter of an hour. Then Joslin, without 
 a word, turned and tied his own horse to a tree, the 
 others following his example. 
 
 There had been an illicit stillhouse in this wild 
 ravine how long none might tell — in fact, many still- 
 houses had been there sporadically and spasmodically 
 conducted as the fancy of this man or that might de- 
 termine, for the region was wild and remote, and never 
 visited by any of the outside world. These visitors all 
 
 43 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 knew well enough where the present stillhouse was 
 hidden — in a thicket of laurel just at the edge of a 
 rock escarpment which jutted out upon the farther 
 side. They followed on now steadily, alertly, until at 
 length Joslin raised a hand. 
 
 Silently they pushed their way into the edge of the 
 thicket. Sounds of laughter, of song, greeted them, 
 A faint, sickish odor rose above the tops of the low 
 laurel. The visitors, five in all in number — Joslin, 
 Calvin Trasker, Chan Bullock, and two other 
 "cousins," Nick Cummings and Cole Sennem — all 
 pulled up at a point whence they could view the scene, 
 whose main features they knew well enough without 
 inspection. 
 
 There were a dozen men here and there, taking 
 turns at the little copper cups which stood upon the 
 hewn face of a log. A couple of barrels, a copper 
 pipe between, made pretty much all the visible exter- 
 nal aspect of the still. The great bulb was hidden in 
 one barrel, the curled copper tube cooled in another. 
 Here and there lay empty sacks once carrying corn. 
 A cup-peg or so driven into a tree trunk showed the 
 openness and confidence with which matters hereabout 
 had been conducted, and the spot showed every sign of 
 frequent use. 
 
 One of the men, taking up one of the copper ves- 
 sels from the low log table, stooped at the pipe at the 
 foot of one of the barrels, watching the trickle of 
 
 44 
 
AT SEMMES' COVE 
 
 white liquid which came forth. He drank it clear 
 and strong as alcohol, undiluted. Like fire it went 
 through all his veins. 
 
 "Whoopee!" he exclaimed, throwing up a hand. 
 "I'm the ole blue hen's chicken! I kin outwrastle er 
 out jump er outshoot ary man here er anywhar's else." 
 
 "Ye wouldn't say that if old Absalom war here," 
 laughed a nearby occupant of a rude bench. 
 
 "No, nor if Old Man Joslin war, neither." 
 
 "I would too! I hain't a-skeered o' nobody," re- 
 plied the warlike youth. "I'll show ary of 'em." 
 
 "What'll ye show us?" demanded David Joslin. 
 Silent as an Indian he had left the fringe of cover, and 
 stood now in the open, his eyes steady, his arms folded, 
 looking at the men before him. And now at his side 
 and back of him ranged his little body of clansmen. 
 
 Sudden silence fell upon all those thus surprised. 
 They looked at him in amazement. 
 
 "Whar's old Absalom?" he demanded of a man 
 whom he knew, who stood, the half-finished cup of 
 liquor still in his hand. 
 
 "Air ye lookin' to start ary diffikilty?" replied his 
 neighbor, also with a question. 
 
 "That's fer us to say," said David Joslin. "My 
 daddy's daid. He got hurt yesterday by old Absalom 
 an' his people. I come over here to-day to see old 
 Absalom an' ary kin he happens to have along with 
 him. Whar is he?" 
 
 45 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 Silence for a long time held the group. It behooved 
 all to be cautious. 
 
 "He's been in here somewhar," went on Joslin, 
 "an* he hain't fur now. Tell me, is he down at the 
 dance house?" 
 
 "Well, ye mought go an' see," rejoined the first 
 speaker, grinning. "Ye know, Dave Joslin, I hain't 
 got no quarl with ye, nor has ary o' my people. Ye 
 set right here now, boys," he continued, sweeping out 
 a long arm toward the merrymakers, who still lingered 
 about the liquor barrel. 
 
 "Thar's more of them than thar is of ye," he whis- 
 pered hurriedly to Joslin as he stepped up. "The 
 house is full, an' they're dancin'. Three or four gals 
 from down on the Buffalo is in thar now. They're 
 havin' a right big frolic." 
 
 Without a word Joslin turned and hurried down 
 the path. He knew the location of the building to 
 which reference had been made — a long log structure 
 rudely floored with puncheons, sometimes employed 
 locally as a sort of adjunct of the still. The sounds 
 of dancing, the music of one or two reedy violins, the 
 voice of a caller now and then, greeted the party of 
 avengers who now approached this curious building 
 hidden in the heart of the mountain wilderness. 
 Whether or not all of the occupants of the dance house 
 were of Absalom Gannt's party, neither David Joslin 
 nor any one else might tell. There might be a general 
 
 46 
 
AT SEMMES' COVE 
 
 mingling here of friend and foe until some overt act 
 should light again the ancient fire, forever smoul- 
 dering. 
 
 Joslin beckoned to his companions. "Git behind 
 them rocks right over thar, boys," he whispered. 
 "I'm a-goin' up to the door." 
 
 The young men with him went about their business 
 with perfect calmness, although the eye of each was 
 alert and glittering. They took their stations under 
 the leadership of the man who they now regarded as 
 the chieftain of their clan, and watched him go to 
 what seemed certain death. 
 
 Joslin advanced steadily to the door, his thumbs in 
 the waist band of his trousers. With his left hand he 
 knocked loudly on the jamb of the door. He spoke to 
 some one, apparently an acquaintance, who noticed 
 him. 
 
 "Is Absalom Gannt here?" he demanded. "If he is, 
 tell him to come out. I'll wait till he comes out fair." 
 
 "Good God A'mighty, Davy," said the other who 
 stood within. "Air ye atter trouble? This is jest a 
 little frolic." 
 
 "Tell him to come out," repeated Joslin. "I want 
 Absalom Gannt !" The courage of this deed went into 
 the sagas of the Cumberlands — the act of a man who 
 scorned certain death. 
 
 It must have been some friend of Absalom Gannt, 
 some relative perhaps, who heard this summons and 
 
 47 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 saw the gray face of David Joslin staring into the 
 half-darkened interior. With a shout he himself 
 sprang to the door, gun in hand. Joslin leaped aside. 
 As he did so he heard the roar of a heavy revolver 
 back of him. Chan Bullock, the long blue barrel of 
 his six-shooter resting on his arm at the top of the 
 protecting boulder, fired at the man who appeared in 
 the door. The latter fell forward and slouched over 
 on his face, his head on his arms. 
 
 A half instant of silence, then came the roar of 
 a pistol at the window near where Joslin stood. The 
 men at the boulders, in turn, began firing generously 
 at every crack and cranny of the house, regardless of 
 who or what might be within. The marksman at the 
 window was deliberate. With care he rested the bar- 
 rel of his weapon against the window sash. At its 
 third report, Joslin heard back of him a heavy groan, 
 but he did not see Calvin Trasker roll over on his 
 back, his doubled arm across his face. 
 
 The sound of gunfire now was general on every side. 
 None might say who was harmed, who as yet was safe. 
 As for Joslin, he had work to do. Absalom Gannt 
 was still inside the house. 
 
 He stepped forward again deliberately to the door, 
 pushed aside the man who stood there peering out, 
 and broke his way into the crowd. Two or three 
 women, cowering, shrank into the farther corner of 
 the room. Men stood here and there, each with weapon 
 
 48 
 
AT SEMMES' COVE 
 
 in hand. The acrid taste of gunpowder, which hung 
 in the blue pall of smoke, was in the nostrils of all. 
 
 "Absalom Gannt!" rose the high, clear voice of 
 David Joslin, "I've come fer ye. Come out here an* 
 meet me fair if ye hain't a coward. Absalom Gannt! 
 Absalom Gannt " 
 
 That was the last word the friends of David Joslin 
 heard him speak, and, as they told the story, it was 
 apparent that the Joslin blood "never flickered onct." 
 
 What happened to David Joslin they did not know 
 — he himself did not. He was perhaps conscious of a 
 heavy blow at the base of his head, then came uncon- 
 sciousness, oblivion. He fell upon the floor of the 
 rude revel house. 
 
 Firing ceased now. The occupants of the cabin 
 rushed out. The defenders of the line of boulders, 
 three only in number now, broke and sprang up the 
 mountain side, pursued by a rain of bullets which 
 touched none of them. 
 
 The frolic at Semmes' Cove had found its ending — 
 not an unusual ending for such scenes. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 THE AWAKENING OF DAVID JOSLIN 
 
 IN the old apple orchard of Preacher Joslin — whose 
 gnarled trees had been planted by some unknown 
 hand unknown years ago — a long and narrow 
 rift showed in the rocky soil. The owner of these 
 meager acres was now come to his rest, here by the 
 side of many others of his kin whose graves, un- 
 marked, lay here or there, no longer identified under 
 the broken branches of the trees. 
 
 A neighbor blacksmith had wrought sufficient nails 
 to hold together a rough box. In this he and Granny 
 Joslin had placed the dead man. Word passed up 
 and down the little creek that the burying of Andrew 
 Joslin would be at noon that day; so one by one 
 horses came splashing down the creek — usually car' 
 rying a man with a woman back of him, the woman 
 sometimes carrying one child, sometimes two. 
 
 These brought fresh word. Calvin Trasker, killed 
 in the frolic at Semmes' Cove, had already been buried. 
 He was accounted well avenged. It was almost sure 
 he had killed his man before he had received his own 
 death wound. As for Chan Bullock and his two 
 
 50 
 
THE AWAKENING 
 
 young cousins, they were no less than heroes. Four 
 of the Gannt family had been left accounted for, 
 whether by aim of the fallen or that of the three es- 
 caping feudists none might say. The Joslins had none 
 the worst of it. Had not one of them — which, no one 
 could tell — fired the shot which broke old Absalom's 
 arm ? This funeral party, practically a rallying of the 
 Joslin clan, was no time more of special mourning 
 than of exultation. The talk was not so much of the 
 dead man, not so much of the dead man's son David, 
 who was still missing, as it was of the victory attained 
 over the rival clan. # 
 
 And so they buried Preacher Joslin, and thereafter, 
 all having been duly concluded, and a simple, unmarked 
 stone having been set up at the head of his grave, old 
 Granny Joslin, robbed of her son and her son's son, 
 asked them once more to eat of what she had, and so 
 presently bade them good-by. 
 
 "I'll git along somehow, folks," said she. "Don't 
 you-all worry none about me. If Davy's daid, why, 
 he's daid, an' that's all about it. Atter a few days, 
 you-all go over in thar an' watch for buzzards an' 
 crows — if they hain't buried him deep, we'll find out 
 whar he's at." 
 
 But after the funeral party had departed, plashing 
 their way back up the creek-bed road, Granny Joslin 
 sat down to make her own accounting. David — her 
 boy Davy — the one who understood her — whom she 
 
 51 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 understood so well — where was he? Had they indeed 
 killed him ? Was he lying out there in the mountains 
 somewhere, his last resting place unknown to any save 
 his enemies? 
 
 "Curse the last of them — them cowardly Gannts!" 
 Again she raised her skinny hand in malediction. 
 "May mildew fall on them an* theirs. May their 
 blood fail to breed, an' may they know sorrer an' 
 trouble all their lives! I wish to God I was a 
 man. Oh, God, bring me back my man — my boy 
 Davy!" 
 
 But the mountain side against which she looked, 
 against which she spoke, made no answer to her. She 
 sat alone. A film came over her fierce eye like that 
 which crosses the eye of a dying hawk. Whether or 
 not a tear eventually might have fallen may not be 
 said, but before that time old Granny Joslin rose, grunt- 
 ing, and hobbled back into her own desolate home. 
 She lighted the fire. She set all things in order. The 
 castle of the Joslins had not yet been taken. But David 
 came not back that day, nor upon the third, nor yet 
 upon the fourth day. By that time she had given him 
 up for dead. 
 
 Yet it was upon the morning of that fourth day 
 that David Joslin himself sat concealed, high upon the 
 mountain side, and looked down upon the broken home 
 of Granny Joslin. He saw the smoke curling up from 
 the chimney, and knew it as the banner of defiance. 
 
 52 
 
THE AWAKENING 
 
 He knew that the old dame would live out her life to 
 its end according to her creed. 
 
 His keen eye saw the new mound in the apple or- 
 chard — the broken clay now dried in the sun of several 
 days. He could guess the rest. For himself, he was 
 alive. He had been dead, but now he was born 
 again. 
 
 At the end of the fight in Semmes* Cove, there was 
 a general scattering and confusion. The Gannt party 
 finally had taken care of their own dead and wounded, 
 and, passing on up the ravine toward the usual paths 
 of escape, had tarried at the stillhouse only long 
 enough to refresh themselves as was their need. For 
 those of the attacking party left behind they had small 
 care. A man or two was down somewhere behind the 
 rocks. As for the man who had broken into the house 
 — David Joslin — he was dead. Had they not caught 
 him neck and crop, and thrown him headlong into the 
 gully? Yes, one thing was sure, David Joslin was 
 dead ; and he had been the leader of the attack. There- 
 fore, the Gannts accounted themselves as having won 
 a coup also for their side of the feud. 
 
 When Joslin awoke to the consciousness of bitter 
 pain, he reached out a hand in the darkness which en- 
 shrouded him. He felt damp earth. So, then, he rea- 
 soned, he was dead and buried, and this was his grave ! 
 For some time he made no attempt to breathe or to 
 move. Yes, this was his grave. He lay he knew not 
 
 53 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 how long in the full realization that life was done for 
 him. 
 
 Then, as the cool of the night refreshed him, he felt 
 about him, felt the weeping of dew-damp leaves above 
 him, and slowly reasoned that he was not dead at all, 
 and not in his grave, but that he had been flung some- 
 where here into the bottom of the ravine. 
 
 Slowly he struggled to his knees. He staggered up 
 the side of the slope as best he might, more by chance 
 than otherwise, taking that side which lay nearest the 
 dance house. He saw in the gloom the low boulders, 
 behind which his fighting men had lain. He stumbled 
 across the dead body of Calvin Trasker, left where he 
 had fallen. There remained to him sensibility enough 
 to put the dead man's hat across his face ; but he could 
 do no more than that. He knew that if he were found 
 here he would be killed indeed. So, knowing that 
 there was no longer need for him or chance for him 
 here, he staggered on down the ravine of Semmes' 
 Cove, until at length he could go no farther, and so fell 
 once more unconscious. 
 
 When again he awoke it was broad sunshine. How 
 long he had lain he could not tell. But now thirst as- 
 sailed him, thirst which he might quench in the trickle 
 of water which lay below. The provender of the 
 woods, a few nuts, a pawpaw or so, seemed grateful 
 to him now. He staggered on, knowing that it would 
 be no more than two or three miles down the ravine 
 
 54 
 
THE AWAKENING 
 
 until he came to the little camp he had made in the 
 rain, after he had left his own home on that unhappy 
 day. And so at length he found that bivouac and 
 dropped into the bed of rotten wood once more, and lay 
 prostrate all that day and the next. 
 
 It was really upon the morning of the fourth day 
 after the encounter — although Joslin himself could not 
 have said as to that — that, strong enough now to walk, 
 he staggered out of the thicket-covered lower entrance 
 of Semmes , Cove into the little creek bed, which made 
 the path to his father's home. He must look once 
 more at the house where he himself was born. 
 
 Was born, did he say? No, he had been born a 
 second time ! In these long hours of misery and pain, 
 David Joslin had taken accounting as best he might 
 with life and the philosophies thereof. In his fashion 
 of thought, he had gained the conviction that his "call" 
 had come to him. He was called for a different life. 
 There was no doubt about it. New duties lay before 
 him — all of a new life — because he had been born 
 again ! To him his salvation was not less than a mir- 
 acle, and he accepted it as such solemnly and rever- 
 ently, feeling himself now consecrated fully for some 
 cause. What the form of that consecration might be 
 he himself did not clearly know as yet. 
 
 But there came to him, with this feeling, the solemn 
 conviction that he must leave this country. This op- 
 portunity seemed to him providential. No, he would 
 
 55 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 not even go to say farewell to his wife, nor to greet 
 his grandma, Granny Joslin, to give counsel to her. 
 He, being dead, must depart secretly forever from these 
 hills until he might return to them to do the thing 
 given him to do. 
 
 Such, unnatural and hard as that might seem to 
 others, was the ancient, grim, uncompromising creed 
 of David Joslin of the Cumberlands. Let the dead bury 
 its dead. Let the living live their own lives. 
 
 Weakly, slowly, he climbed along the mountain side 
 above the creek bed, to avoid any passerby, and so at 
 length reached the point upon the opposing hill whence 
 he might look down upon the little home once owned 
 by the man who lay there now, under the drying yellow 
 ridge in the apple orchard planted by his sires. 
 
 How long David Joslin sat here, his chin in his 
 hands, he himself might not have told. He sat looking 
 down, pondering, resolving. . . . Yes, he was born 
 again! What must he do? 
 
 At length he rose, staggeringly rose, seeking about 
 for some broken branch to aid him further in his 
 journey. For now he purposed a long, long journey | 
 out from these hills. He was going away from his 
 own people ! 
 
 His hand fell against something hard in the side 
 pocket of his ragged coat. It was the old book he had 
 borrowed of his father — the well-thumbed volume of 
 Calvin's Institutes. His belt and revolver were gone 
 
 56 
 
THE AWAKENING 
 
 — he knew not where — but here was this ancient, iron 
 book. He recalled now, with the tenacious memory of 
 the mountaineer, a passage which he had read therein : 
 
 Truly, I have no refuge but in Him. Let no man 
 flatter himself, for of himself he is only a devil. For 
 what have you of your own but sin? Take for yourself 
 sin, which is your own. Your righteousness belongs to 
 God. Nature is wounded, distressed and ruined. It 
 needs a true confession, not a false defense. 
 
 "A true confession — not a false defense !" All the 
 honesty, all the ignorance, all the hope of these moun- 
 tains were in the mind of David Joslin, as he repeated 
 these vague words of the old mystic to himself. He 
 now felt himself a prophet. 
 
 And now, a prophet, he was going out into the 
 world. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE WANDERING WOMEN 
 
 WHEN Joslin finally rose and set his face 
 away from the sight of the hearth fire he 
 had known, with staff and scrip to start out 
 into the world, he followed along the winding height 
 of land below the summit leading towards Hell-fer- 
 Sartin — the objective of his father's last circuit riding. 
 Here he crossed the Bull Skin Valley, fording the shal- 
 low stream, and made directly into the harder going 
 of the divide between that stream and the Redbird. 
 Feeding himself as best he might, he lay out yet an- 
 other night in the hills ; but by this time the seasoned 
 vigor of his own frame began to reassert itself. He 
 grew stronger in spite of the pain of his wound, in 
 spite of his long abstention from wholesome food. He 
 evaded all sounds of life at the little farms scattered 
 here and there among the mountains. A rail fence 
 caused him to turn aside; the sight of a smoke drove 
 him deeper back into the hills. 
 
 It was perhaps ten o'clock of the second morning, 
 when he found himself on the river trail of a fork 
 of the Kentucky River, that he paused at the sound 
 
 58 
 
THE WANDERING WOMEN 
 
 of a human voice. It seemed not to be approaching, 
 but stationary — a woman's voice, now raised in some 
 sort of old ballad tune. It seemed to him he might go 
 forward. 
 
 She sat on a pallet of leaves at the side of the road, 
 a little above its level, in a sort of natural cave or open- 
 ing in the cliff face. A shelf of limestone extended 
 out perhaps twenty feet, and left under it a sort of 
 open-faced cavern. The roof was black with many 
 smokes — it always had been black with smoke since 
 the memory of white men in that region; for here, 
 tradition told, had dwelt the last two Indians of the 
 Cumberlands, when the whites rallied and slew them 
 both. This white woman had taken up the ancient 
 lair of men scarce more wild than she herself seemed 
 now. 
 
 She was an old-seeming woman, albeit perhaps once 
 comely. Her dark hair, not fully grayed, fell about 
 a face once small- featured, large-eyed. What charm 
 she once had had was past or passing; yet something 
 of her philosophy of life remained, enabling her to 
 sing at this hour in the morning. 
 
 "Howdy, stranger," she said, looking at him with 
 a direct and easy familiarity singular enough in the 
 circumstances, for the mountain women are shy and 
 silent with men. "\Vhar ye bound?" 
 
 "Howdy," said David Joslin. "I'm a-goin' down 
 the creek a ways." 
 
 59 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 "If ye air, I wish ye'd see if my darter is along in 
 the field below. Tell her to come on back home. She's 
 got her little girl along with her — ye'll know 'em if 
 ye see 'em." 
 
 "Home?" said David Joslin rather vaguely, looking 
 at the blackened roof of the cavern. The woman 
 laughed. 
 
 "All the home we got, my darter an' me. We've 
 lived here off an' on many a year. They call me 
 Annie. They call her Min. Hit's no difference about 
 the rest of the name." 
 
 "I know ye hain't born in these parts or ye'd know 
 about us two," she continued. "This has been my 
 home — all I've ever had in my life — I kain't say how 
 many years. I move up an' down. Sometimes I'm 
 up on Big Creek — sometimes on the Kaintucky. I 
 follow the rafts. I've even been Outside. Min, 
 she nuwer has. Some of my other girls has, 
 maybe." 
 
 "Yore other girls?" began Joslin. 
 
 "I've had seven children — four girls," said she 
 quietly, unemotionally. 
 
 "I don't know yore fam'ly," said David Joslin, hesi- 
 tating still. 
 
 "I hain't got no fam'ly, I told ye, an' I don't come 
 o' no fam'ly. Us two lives here together — we're the 
 wanderin' wimmern — that's what they call us in this 
 country. Don't ye know about us? 
 
 60 
 
THE WANDERING WOMEN 
 
 "Well, now" — and she turned her once bold eyes 
 upon him with renewed defiance, as he did not reply — 
 "I told ye I'd had seven children. Ye want to know 
 who's the father of Min? I kain't tell ye rightly. 
 She couldn't tell ye rightly who's the father of her 
 girl she's got along with her now. I've had seven 
 children. Who's their fathers? — I don't know. 
 What's more, I don't keen What's the difference? 
 Who air we, back in the hills? What chancet have 
 we got?" 
 
 Joslin stood leaning on his staff, pale, hollow-eyed, 
 gaunt. In his eyes was a vast pity, a terrible under- 
 standing. 
 
 "Kin I wait here for a minute or so?" said he. "I'm 
 right tired." 
 
 "Ye've been hurt," said she, pointing to his band- 
 aged head, for which he had made such care as he 
 might. "Well, I don't ask ye no questions. I've seen 
 plenty of men hurt, in the raftin' times." 
 
 "We're stoppin' here now," she went on explaining. 
 "Because, mought come a tide any time, an' then the 
 rafts'll come. They tie up yander at the big tree thar 
 — the men come acrosst. Well, here's home for Min 
 an' me. She's young. I'm gittin' pretty old. Few 
 cares fer such as me." 
 
 Then she went on. "That's our life, stranger. Ye 
 kin tfiiess the rest. We're the wanderin' wimmera. 
 There's no hope fer us. We never had no chancet." 
 
 61 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 "Kin ye read?" asked David Joslin quietly. "Kin 
 ye write? Kin yore darter?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "I kin read jest a little bit," said he himself slowly. 
 "I kin write jest a little bit. Ye say ye've had no 
 chancet That's true. What chancet have ary of us 
 here? Whar can we learn anything? Fm a-goin* 
 Outside. I'm a-goin' on a journey." 
 
 "Set down an* eat," said she, with the unfailing 
 hospitality of the mountains. "We hain't got much. 
 I kin parch ye some corn, maybe. Min's down below 
 trying to find some hickernuts an* some corn. Folks 
 don't mind our foragin* around. Why, even some- 
 times I've slept in a cabin now an' then. They don't 
 mind if we sleep in the corn cribs sometimes when the 
 weather's cold. The husks is right warm — warmer'n 
 leaves, I kin tell ye that." 
 
 Joslin looked about him. A ragged gunny sack or 
 so, a quilt or two, were heaped into one corner over 
 a pile of leaves — there was no other sign of couch. 
 In another corner of the cavern a blackened spot 
 showed where they built their fire. With flint and 
 steel the old woman now began her fire anew. There 
 was a broken bit of iron, once a skillet. In this she 
 managed to parch some grains of corn for the traveler. 
 
 "Eat, stranger," said she. "Hit's from Annie, the 
 wanderin' womern, that never had a chancet." 
 
 He ate, and drank from a broken gourd of water 
 
 62 
 
THE WANDERING WOMEN 
 
 which she gave to him. For a time he sat looking 
 across the pageant of the hills, still radiant in their 
 autumn finery. 
 
 At length he placed a hand in his pocket. "Take 
 this," said he. "I've got just thirty-five cents. I'll 
 keep the dime, fer I mought need it. I know the peo- 
 ple in the mountings don't take pay fer what they give 
 to eat, but won't ye please take this ?" 
 
 "What do ye mean, man?" said she looking at 
 him curiously, but refusing the money which he of- 
 fered. "Ye seem like a quare feller to me. Air ye 
 outen yore haid?" 
 
 "Maybe I got some good sense knocked into my 
 haid, I don't know. All I know is I'm a-goin' Out- 
 side." 
 
 "Outside ?" The voice of the old woman was low. 
 "I've got some girls — Outside, somewhar. Ye mustn't 
 say they wasn't my children, for they was. They nuv- 
 ver only had no chancet." 
 
 "I know that," said David Joslin. "That's why I'm 
 a-goin' out. I'm a-goin' to try some time, somehow, 
 to make a school, er a church, er something, in these 
 hills. We've got to learn how to read an' write. 
 I've got a callin' that that's what we'd orter do. I 
 never seen ye before — maybe I never will again — but 
 listen now. Some time, if I ever build a school, I'm 
 a-goin' to build another one right in here." His eyes 
 were streaming tears. 
 
 63 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 "I'll tell ye the place," said she eagerly. "Down 
 below, about hafe a mile, thar's a place whar two stones 
 come together — great big ones. Thar's a level floor 
 under that, wider'n the floor of this here place, an* it's 
 covered in from the rain. Thar's leaves thar — ye could 
 fetch in pine needles a-plenty if ye wanted to, fer 
 thar's pine about. Rain or shine ye could hold school 
 down thar. Hit would be sich a purty place." 
 
 "Good luck, stranger," said she. "Ye may be crazy 
 — I reckon ye air — but God knows thar orter be 
 more crazy people like that in these hills." 
 
 Her guest turned and followed on down the wind- 
 ing stream in the muddy pathway. A quarter or a 
 half-mile below, he paused and looked across the vine- 
 covered remnant of what once had been a rail fence. 
 He had heard a rustling in the corn, and saw now the 
 figure of a young woman who stood looking at him; 
 at her side, clinging to her tattered skirt, a young child, 
 perhaps four or five years old. This child had in her 
 little apron a store of nuts, gathered in the wood 
 beyond. Her mother carried half an armful of ears 
 of con. 
 
 "Howdy," called David Joslin across the fence, in 
 customary salutation of the hills. 
 
 "Howdy," she replied, but still stood motionless. 
 
 "Won't ye come up a little closeter?" he resumed. 
 "Yore mammy up yander " 
 
 The young woman slowly advanced, the child cling- 
 
 64 
 
THE WANDERING WOMEN 
 
 ing still to her skirt. She was a wild-looking creature, 
 but quite comely, with a sort of Indian cast to her fea- 
 tures, her skin dark, whether with sun or with other 
 blood none might tell. Her eyes were black as night, 
 and her figure lean and slender, not quite so angular 
 as that of the average mountain woman. Young 
 enough she was, and goodly enough she might have 
 been if ever she "had had her chance." 
 
 The child at her skirt, an elfin youngster, had much 
 of her mother's darkness of hair and eyes, her moth- 
 er's wide mouth of white, even teeth, a thing unusual 
 thereabouts. She now stood staring straight at the 
 stranger, motionless and silent. 
 
 "Ye're Min, I reckon," began David Joslin. "Yore 
 mammy — she told me to find ye an' tell ye to go on 
 home now, that it's nearly time fer breakfast." 
 
 "Who air ye, stranger?" asked the young woman. 
 "Which way ye bound ?" 
 
 "My name is David Joslin," he replied. "I live, or 
 useter live, over on the Bull Skin, near the mouth of 
 Coal Creek." 
 
 "What's yore business? Air ye lookin' fer logs?" 
 
 "No, I hain't. I'm a-goin' Outside." 
 
 She stood staring at him, uncertain, silent, awk- 
 ward. David Joslin returned her gaze with his own 
 frank, gray eyes. "Ye've lived jest the way ye could," 
 said he. "Ye needn't tell me nothin'. I know about 
 the raftsmen. I've been a raftsman myself. I've been 
 
 65 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 Outside many times. I run down the other fork, don't 
 ye see? I'm yore own sort of people. I hain't no 
 better'n ye, God knows. 
 
 "I've got to be goin* now," he added. "I hope to 
 see ye agin some time in here. I'm jest a-goin' Out- 
 side fer a little while, ontel I can learn to read an' 
 write." 
 
 "I reckon ye don't know all about us — my mammy 
 and me," she began, a slrw flush now upon her face. 
 This was a different sorl; of man — % preacher, per- 
 haps? 
 
 "Oh, yes, I do. I know all I need to know or want 
 to know. I know ye nuwer had no chancet" 
 
 "I'll say good-by now," he added, extending a hand, 
 which wandered to the tangled crown of the little girl. 
 
 And so he turned and left her standing there, the 
 child at her side, the wild forage of the mountains to 
 be their sustenance no one might say yet how long. 
 When the raftsmen came 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 rfHE FABRIC OF A VISION 
 
 THE mountaineer's keen eye noted a change in 
 the river along which his pathway led. There 
 had been rain back in the hills, and now what 
 the mountaineers call a "tide" was coming down, 
 discoloring the stream. Passing more than one aban- 
 doned raft, its logs submerged in the sand, at length 
 he stopped, having spied a pair of great logs of 
 the yellow poplar, such as the raftsmen use as floaters 
 for the hardwood logs they make up into their rafts. 
 Himself an experienced river man, he saw now the 
 means of hastening his progress. 
 
 With aid of a hardwood lever, he managed to get 
 both his logs afloat in the deep pool at whose edge they 
 lay. Waist deep he waded, binding his logs together 
 with a length of grapevine, which he tore from a near- 
 by tree. He found here and there some bits of boards, 
 flotsam and jetsam of the stream, and on these, spread 
 crosswise, he laid bits of brush, making a little mound 
 midships of his craft. When presently he had found 
 a twelve- foot pole for guiding oar, he had done his 
 work in building himself a boat. He stepped aboard 
 
 67 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 it with the confidence of the river man. He knew the 
 stream would carry him three, four or five miles an 
 hour, sometimes six miles, in its more rapid reaches. 
 He advanced, bend after bend, through a beautiful 
 panorama of flame-decked river banks now gilded by 
 the failing sun. He heard sometimes the bells of wan- 
 dering cattle, now and again the lowing of a cow, the 
 neighing of a horse ; and saw by the river banks many 
 a home of a mountaineer who had settled here none 
 might say when. But the eyes of David Joslin were 
 not for these things. 
 
 It was sunset when the hurrying flood of the river 
 brought him to the mouth of that other tributary in 
 whose valley he himself had dwelt all these years. 
 Here was the confluence of the two main forks of the 
 Kentucky. He knew every house of the little village 
 at the forks, every feature of the hills, which rose 
 about the village on either side. 
 
 He swung straight past, on the bosom of the rising 
 and augmented river, his craft swimming steadily 
 enough under his accustomed guidance. He scarce 
 saw the little houses, their smoke rising for the even- 
 ing meal. It was something more which came to his 
 gaze as he traveled here. 
 
 He saw, or thought he saw — it might have been but 
 the ragged heads of thunder clouds beyond the rim 
 of the hills — the roofs and stacks of buildings — not 
 one, but many buildings. They sat there on the hill 
 
 68 
 
THE FABRIC OF A VISION 
 
 that rose above the town — yes, he was sure of it. 
 There were many of them — there was a city of them! 
 Yonder on the hill there stood again visualized the 
 thing which he had dreamed! It was but a vision, 
 caught for an instant as the yellow flood of the river 
 swept him on, but it was enough for David Joslin. A 
 strange confidence came to him. He felt all the 
 zeal of the old covenanters, the assurance that 
 God was with him, and that his "calling" now was 
 clear. 
 
 But the Kentucky River, coming into full tide, 
 mocked at a man who thought of anything else but 
 things at hand. Joslin knew what was on ahead a 
 few miles — the great Narrows of the Kentucky, fatal 
 to many a raft and many a raftsman. Here, at the 
 foot of a long reach of still water, lay a great rock 
 dam, where the hillsides came close together. The 
 river, narrowed and compressed, was flung furiously 
 out over the rock ledge, to drop a certain distance, and 
 then to curl up and back in a high white wave extend- 
 ing entirely across the stream — what the raftsmen 
 always called the "king breaker" of the Narrows. 
 
 There was a sort of pathway along the sides of the 
 Narrows, by which one could come below the big 
 swell, but Joslin, whether moody and distrait, whether 
 in indifference, or whether resolved to take his chances 
 and test his fate, made no attempt to land his frail 
 craft. He headed straight for the great stretch of 
 
 69 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 slack water, which lay above the rolling crest of the 
 Narrows. 
 
 Always he had been chosen steersman for his raft 
 in the river work he knew, and he knew this spot well 
 enough — the fatalities which attended it — but he did 
 not hesitate, and with his long sweep straightened his 
 'jraft for what he knew would be the great plunge. 
 He took it fair, crouching forward, his knees bent, his 
 eyes ahead, just as he had steered more than one raft 
 through in earlier times, and caught the full blow of 
 the great wave, as he plunged from the darkness into 
 the white of the stream, now under the blanket of the 
 twilight in the deep defile. 
 
 He was flung entirely free of his two logs, as they 
 were rent asunder by the force of the swell. He went 
 down into the white — how deep he could not tell — 
 perhaps half-way down to the bottom of the great 
 pool which lay below the Narrows. He emerged, 
 dazed, but his arm found no supporting logs — the two 
 had been flung far apart, and by this time were rolling 
 down the middle course of the white water. With 
 what strength remained to liim, he struck out for the 
 right-hand shore, and had strength enough to fling 
 up a hand and ease himself of the current along the 
 rock ledge. 
 
 For a time he swung, breathing hard, then drew 
 himself up and out, and lay flat upon the rocks. It 
 was almost night, and it was cold. He was chilled 
 
 70 
 
THE FABRIC OF A VISION 
 
 and weak. He had traveled long and far without rest, 
 and without sufficient food. But the rugged rearing he 
 had had stood him once more in stead. He managed 
 once more, by means of his priceless flint and steel, to 
 build him a little fire, though \ow he lived through the 
 night he scarce could say. 
 
 He knew that it was thirty miles down to the first 
 settlement below, and that there were few houses be- 
 tween. He must walk. Half barefooted, penniless, 
 hungered, wearied and weak, he staggered on as though 
 a man in a trance. At least he was able to make his 
 painful way all those weary miles. It was again even- 
 ing, and late, when at length he saw the red lights 
 of the little mill town of Windsor, where more than 
 once before then he had pulled up with others of the 
 wild raftsmen, among whom he had spent his youth. 
 
 He was at the edge of the great Outside. This was 
 Ultima Thule for the hardwood rafts. And all of 
 Thule, all of the great, unknown, mysterious world lay 
 on beyond. It was a wild figure that this gaunt and 
 haggard young man presented as, hesitant, he stood 
 gazing out at the habitations in which, near at hand 
 to which, beyond which, must lie the answers to the 
 questions of his soul. He saw not the town where the 
 rafts landed. In his mind still lived the vision of yon 
 other city on the hill. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 MARCIA HADDON, AND THE MERRY WIFE OF WINDSOR 
 
 THE single hotel of Windsor was a raw and 
 rambling structure, for the most part fre- 
 quented *i>y raftsmen and mill hands. Joslin 
 knew the proprietor, commonly known as Old Man 
 Bent. That worthy stood quizzically regarding the 
 young man, as the latter accosted him, and explained 
 his almost penniless plight. 
 
 "Ye're plumb wore out, an* I can see it," said he. 
 "Go in an* go to bed, atter ye've had a squar' meal, 
 an* don't say nothin' about pay ontel times is better 
 fer ye. Hit's many a dollar ye've paid to me, raftin' 
 times." 
 
 Without further word, Joslin stepped into the din- 
 ing room, and ate his first real meal for more than a 
 week — ate ravenously, like any animal; and all that 
 night he slept in a stupor of exhaustion. 
 
 When morning came once more he found his host. 
 "I've got to git work," said he. "I kain't live here 
 withouten I go to work right away. Ye know that." 
 
 Old Man Bent looked at him with pursed lips. 'Til 
 tell ye what I'd do. Ye go down to Jones' brick yard 
 
 72 
 
MARCIA HADDON 
 
 an' see if he'll give ye something to do fer a little 
 while, ontel ye kin turn yoreself somehow." 
 
 The Windsor brick yard was run by a man by the 
 name of Jones, who himself was not above driving a 
 canny bargain, as he noted the stalwart figure of this 
 applicant. 
 
 "I could put ye to work carryin' the molds from 
 the mixer out to the dryin' yard," said he. "Sixty 
 cents a day ain't much, but I kin git plenty of men at 
 that. They mostly work barefoot, anyways." He 
 glanced down at Joslin's shoeless feet, worn with the 
 hard going. 
 
 So this was David Joslin's first encounter with the 
 great outside world — for so even this village might be 
 termed. Without murmur he went to work — twelve 
 hours a day, with a back-breaking load each trip, car- 
 rying the wet clay of the molded bricks. The reflex of 
 the wound in his head gave him a continuous head- 
 ache. He still was weak. But he worked that day and 
 the next. Then once more he went to his land- 
 lord. 
 
 "I kain't nohow make it even," said he. "I don't 
 fed right payin' ye only fifteen cents a day, when I 
 know ye charge everybody else a dollar. I been eat- 
 ing only two meals here now, trying to make it easier 
 for ye." 
 
 Old Man Bent understood the stern quality of the 
 mountain character well enough, and accepted, at its 
 
 73 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 face value, the rugged independence of the man before 
 him. 
 
 'Til tell ye what I'd do if I was in yore place, 
 Dave," said he. "I'd go over to the Widow Dunham's 
 place. She ain't got no man there now to hep her 
 aroun', an' her regular price for board is only three- 
 fifty a week. Maybe ye could manage to git a place 
 to sleep an' three squar' meals a day." 
 
 After his fashion, silent, Joslin nodded, and forth- 
 with went over to the boarding house of the Widow 
 Dunham, a few streets distant from the hotel. He 
 placed before that dame a fair statement of his own 
 case, explaining that sixty cents a day was all he was 
 earning, that he was very, very hungry, but that he 
 could perhaps do with two meals a day. The widow 
 smilingly estimated the tall young man before her, 
 reviving a somewhat ancient dimple as she did so. 
 
 "Men is mostly troublesome," said she. "I've mar- 
 ried two of 'em in my time. The first one was kilt out 
 in the hills, and the second one was so triflin' he went 
 out into the Blue Grass, an' I never did hear from him 
 no more. I orter have some sort of man around the 
 place to fetch in the water an' git me some wood now 
 an' then. Ye come in and take keer of them chores 
 like, an' pay me fifty cents a day, an' we'll call it 
 even. 
 
 "Ye'd orter have a pair of shoes, by right," added 
 she, "an' maybe a coat. Sometimes I have quality come 
 
 74 
 
MARCIA HADDON 
 
 here to my place — I'm expectin' some any time now 
 from outside. Mr. James B. Haddon of New York, 
 him an' his wife is comin' in, he writ me. Natural, 
 if I have folks like them around ye'd orter have a 
 pair of shoes an' a good coat, anyways of nights/' 
 
 She stepped back into her own well-ordered domi- 
 cile, and presently emerged with a pair of shoes, not 
 much worn. To these she added a coat, which, beyond 
 question, never had seen fabrication in this part of the 
 world. 
 
 "Here's something that Mr. Haddon lef here, last 
 time he was in. He goes back into the hills, or least- 
 ways he intended to if he ever got started to it, be- 
 cause he's the Company man. He threw them things 
 away, so I reckon ye'll be welcome to 'em." 
 
 Joslin took these articles and looked them over. To 
 put on another man's clothing was to him the hardest 
 trial of all his life. Proud as the proudest of aristo- 
 crats, it cut him to the core to use these things thus 
 offered. Concluding that it was his duty, he accepted 
 it with the other punishments which life was offering 
 him. 
 
 "Thank ye, ma'am," said he. "They'll come right 
 handy, I'm sure." He did not smile as he spoke. 
 
 As for the Widow Dunham, she herself did smile, 
 as he went out the gate. "Hit'll be right good to have 
 a man around the house onct more," said she to her- 
 self. 
 
 75 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 This was of a morning. As dusk fell, Joslin ap- 
 peared once more at the door of his new home. He 
 was not left long idle. 
 
 "I'll tell ye, Mister," said the widow, "I ain't axin 
 no questions about how ye come here — I'm mountain 
 myself, an* I kin keep my mouth shet. If ye'll fetch 
 me some worter from the well yander, an* go down to 
 the river an* git me some slabs fer the fire, an* saw 'em 
 up, I'll be obleeged to ye. Then ye'll have yore supper. 
 How ye beginnin' to feel now?" She turned her 
 glance to the wound in the back of Joslin's head. 
 
 He made no answer, but accepted the pail which 
 she handed him, and presently brought in the water. 
 He never in his life had taken orders from a man, far 
 less from a woman, and no duties could have been 
 harder for him than these menial ones of the house- 
 hold. 
 
 About the second portion of his errand, Joslin went 
 to the slab pile, which lay above the saw mill near the 
 boat landing, which itself was about a half a mile 
 above the last of the locks of the Kentucky River. As 
 he rose, having gadiered his armful of bits of sound 
 pieces for firewood, he heard the chug of a power 
 boat, so unusual a thing in that part of the world that 
 for a time he stood motionless, looking at the craft as 
 it approached. It was a river skiff, driven by an out- 
 board motor, the latter operated by a stranger, per- 
 haps a hand from some garage in a downstream town. 
 
 76 
 
MARCIA HADDON 
 
 The other occupants of the craft might at a glance 
 be seen to be "furrin," as the local phrase would go. 
 A stout, middle-aged man, florid of face, exceedingly 
 well clad, immaculate as to collar, cuffs and shirt 
 bosom, sat in the bow, looking anxiously ahead. Mid- 
 ships was a yet more extraordinary figure for that lo- 
 cality — a young woman, perhaps twenty-four or 
 twenty-five years of age, nicely turned out in tailor- 
 made traveling suit, and wearing gloves, apparel un- 
 heard of for a woman in the mountains. Of extremely 
 beautiful face was she, with large, somber gray eyes, 
 defined strongly by the dark brows above them, and a 
 mouth of exceeding sweetness, which softened the 
 grave repose of her features. Withal, a figure of strik- 
 ing comeliness and grace for any surroundings, she 
 was a miracle, an apparition, here in this rude hill 
 town. Joslin had never seen her like nor dreamed it 
 She was a creature of another world. 
 
 It bid fair to be a clumsy landing on the part of the 
 steersman, who seemed none too well accustomed to 
 his task. "Damn it! Look out!" irritably called the 
 man in the bow. "You'll have us over yet. Lend a 
 hand there, can't you?" 
 
 His last remark was addressed to Joslin, who with- 
 out noting the imperative nature of the words, at once 
 dropped his armful of slabs, and hurried to the edge 
 of the wharf, steadying the bow of the boat as it came 
 in. He made fast the painter at a projecting bit of 
 
 77 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 the wharf floor, and went so far as to steady the 
 stranger by the arm, as he clumsily stepped out from 
 the boat. The latter himself gave a hand to the other 
 passenger. 
 
 "Well, here we are, Marcia," said he ; "end of the 
 world, anyway as far as I've been myself before. So 
 we're even at that, anyhow." 
 
 "Well, stranger," said he, turning once more to Jos- 
 lin, "who are you?" 
 
 Joslin knew that he was meeting none other than 
 the "quality folks," Mr. and Mrs. Haddon of New 
 York — the man whose coat and shoes he was at that 
 time wearing. But with his genius at reticence, he 
 made no comment. 
 
 "I jest come down from the Widow Dunham's to 
 git a little firewood," said he. "Kin I hep ye up with 
 any of yore things, ma'am?" 
 
 The strangely beautiful young woman stood looking 
 at him gravely and unsmilingly, yet kindly. Instinc- 
 tively, he recognized the soul of a real gentle- 
 woman. 
 
 "Thank you," said she to him now. "There are 
 some things there" — she hesitated, as she turned to- 
 ward the boat. 
 
 "That's all right, ma'am. I'll fetch up a bunch of 
 'em when I come." 
 
 So he turned to these additional duties, so foreign 
 to his life and taste ; but suddenly it seemed to him that 
 
 78 
 
MARCIA HADDON 
 
 just in return for that gaze of hers, not critical, not 
 appraising him as some wild creature, not twitting him 
 or degrading him, he would be willing to do almost 
 anything in the world. 
 
 The newcomers were welcomed most effusively by 
 the Widow Dunham herself, who escorted them into 
 the best room of the house, and dusted off all the chairs 
 with her apron, talking meanwhile volubly, and as- 
 suring them of her great delight at seeing them. 
 
 "Ye'll like it here, Ma'am, onct ye git used to it. 
 I know yore husband right well — he was here last 
 year. Air ye going back into the hills with him ?" 
 
 "I think we are not quite sure about that yet," re- 
 plied Mrs. Haddon. "It's very pleasant here, and I'm 
 very tired. Do you suppose, Jim," said she, turning 
 to her husband, "we could rest here for a while ? It's 
 very beautiful here, and I feel I'm going to be com- 
 fortable." 
 
 "That's how we try to make everybody feel," said 
 the Widow Dunham. As she spoke to the woman, her 
 eyes were upon the man. She was what was some- 
 times termed by her neighbors a marrying woman, and 
 all men, married or single, she estimated with a keen 
 eye and one experienced. 
 
 Haddon laughed a gusty laugh. "We're fifty miles 
 short of the real Cumberlands here, Marcia. Our 
 property runs from thirty to fifty or even sixty miles 
 back in. To tell the truth, I haven't seen any of our 
 
 79 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 lands, although we've got more tha H million invested 
 in here." 
 
 "There's a power of land been bought — timber an* 
 coal rights — for the last twenty year," assented the 
 Widow Dunham. "Now they do tell me that they're 
 a-findin' oil on some of that land up in yander. No 
 tellin' what'll happen. There's even talk maybe there'll 
 be a railroad up Hell-fer-Sartin one of these days afore 
 long." 
 
 "Who told you about these things?" inquired the 
 newcomer with a certain asperity. "Don't let it get 
 out — don't talk about anything. By the way, I've got 
 to get some sort of guide — some man who knows that 
 country, and will take me in. Know of anybody?" 
 
 "Why, I don't know, Mr. Haddon," replied the 
 widow ruminatingly, "who ye could git to take ye 
 in. There's a young man I got around the house — 
 he just come out." 
 
 "You don't mean the chap that was down at the 
 boat-landing, do you? He's out in the yard now." 
 
 The Widow Dunham nodded contemplatively. 
 "Yes. His name's David Joslin. Folks here knows 
 the Joslins. He's a mounting man — borned an' bred 
 up in there, fifty mile or so. He's one of the best 
 raft steersmen on this river — been right wild in his 
 time, but he ain't a-skeered of nothin'. That's the 
 name he's got in these mountings. Maybe ye'd better 
 ax him. He's a-workin' down to the brick yard now, 
 
 80 
 
MARCIA HADDON 
 
 an* tell I give him yore old coat an' shoes he didn't 
 have a stitch of clothes to his name, so to speak. He 
 orter be willin' to go to hell for a dollar a day, an* I 
 reckon he would." 
 
 "Well, I guess it'll be a hell of a trip up in there," 
 said Haddon in reply. "What do you think, Marcia?" 
 
 But Marcia Haddon neither then nor at any later 
 time, while partaking of the rude fare of the place, 
 made any comment or expressed any discontent. 
 
 When they had finished their evening meal, Haddor. 
 led his wife out to the scanty gallery of the Widow 
 Dunham's home, which, fenced off only by a broken 
 paling against the street, looked out toward the western 
 prospect of the hills. It was starlight now; the last 
 glow of the sinking sun had disappeared. Here and 
 there the slow sounds of the village life, now about 
 to adjust itself to sleep, came to their ears. The fra- 
 grance of Haddon's fine cigar hung heavy in the air. 
 They sat in silence. Haddon himself spoke more often 
 to others than to his wife, so it would appear, and as 
 for her, she was reticent by instinct. Her hands folded 
 in her lap, she sat without comment, looking out to- 
 ward the shadowy outline of the mountains which 
 crowded down to the river. 
 
 At length Haddon rose and stepped back into the 
 house, where he found the Widow Dunham standing 
 in the hall in converse with the tall young mountaineer. 
 
 "Now, now, Anw," said he, advancing boldly, and 
 81 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 chucking the comely dame under the chin, "no visit- 
 ing with anybody elr.c ~»ut me, you understand — you 
 haven't forgotten your old friend, have you ?" 
 
 Joslin stepped back, somewhat astounded at this 
 familiarity on the part of the stranger, but the latter 
 only laughed in his face. 
 
 "Come along, young man," said he. "Come out on 
 the porch. I want to talk to vou for a while." 
 
 Joslin silently followed him out, and stood leaning 
 against the rail of the gallery, as Haddon seated him- 
 self and began to explain what he had in his mind. 
 
 "See here, young man," said he. "They tell me 
 you're from back in these mountains." 
 
 "I was born thar," said Joslin quietly. 
 
 "How'd you happen to come out here?" demanded 
 the newcomer. 
 
 "I don't reckon it's ary man's business but my own," 
 replied Joslin calmly. 
 
 "Well, you're going back in, aren't you, after a 
 while?" 
 
 "I hadn't planned ter," said the young man. "I 
 come out because I wanted ter. I'm a-goin' on Outside 
 because I think I'd orter. I've got to work. What I 
 want is a chancet." 
 
 "Well, I've got a chance for you." 
 
 "How do ye mean, stranger?" 
 
 "Near as I can tell, you're the very man I'm look- 
 ing for. I'm the manager and vice-president of the 
 
 82 
 
MARC1A HADDON 
 
 land company that's been buying stuff up in here for 
 the last twenty years. We've got big holdings up in 
 there — on the Laurel and Newfound, and the Rattle- 
 snake and Buffalo, and Big Creek and Hell-fer-Sar- 
 tin — we've got timber or coal or both located all 
 through there. Now, listen — I'm in here now because 
 there's talk of oil being found in there. Do you know 
 anything about that?" 
 
 "They said they found some along some of the 
 creeks not fur from whar I lived at." 
 
 "Have you ^ver heard anything about the rail- 
 road?" 
 
 "Yes, I was huntin' on Hell-fer-Sartin not more'n 
 two months ago, an' I seen the stakes. There hain't 
 no other way they kin git through but only jest that 
 one." 
 
 "What is there in the way of moonshining going on 
 in there? Any danger for an outsider to go in 
 there?" 
 
 "I don't know nothin' at all about that," said David 
 Joslin. "If I did I wouldn't tell ye." 
 
 Haddon sat frowning in silence for quite a while. 
 "You're a funny lot, you mountain people," said he. 
 "It's hard to do business with you." 
 
 "Some ways it mought be hard with me," replied 
 Joslin. 
 
 "Well, don't you need the money that I could pay 
 you?" 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 "There's nobody in the world needs money more'n 
 I do. But I tolt ye I was headed the other way." 
 
 "Won't you go back in if I pay you the right 
 wages ?" 
 
 "No, I'm headed the other way." 
 
 "Well, now, listen," said Haddon irritably. "I need 
 some native that knows those damned people. They 
 tell me there's no such thing as roads, and you have to 
 ride horseback or muleback wherever you want to go." 
 
 "That's so," replied the mountain man. "That's 
 the onliest way. There hain't no sich thing as towns. 
 Ye'd have to stop at the cabins. Ary man's welcome in 
 there if they think he's all right, an' hain't a-lookin' 
 fer nothin' er nobody." 
 
 "Oh, ho!" said Haddon, nodding understandingly. 
 "Some trouble in there, eh? Well, I suppose you've 
 seen your share of it." He grinned, as he looked at 
 Joslin's head, where he had already noted the wound 
 still unhealed. 
 
 "We don't say nothin' about sich matters in these 
 hills, stranger," said Joslin quietly. "I'm a-tellin' ye 
 if I went in thai with ye, ye'd be all right. But I 
 hain't a-goin'. Ye kain't noways hire me." 
 
 "You're pretty danged independent," rejoined Had- 
 don testily. "The woman here just told me that you're 
 wearing my coat and my shoes right now. You must 
 be hard up against it. Probably you were run out 
 of these hills, and that's why you want to get outside. 
 
 84 
 
MARCIA HADDON 
 
 And now I offer you fair pay — good pay, in fact — five 
 dollars a day, or ten — just to go in and show me the 
 timber and coal in that country, which you don't own 
 but we own — and you say you won't go. Is that the 
 way you treat a stranger?" 
 
 "Hit mought be the way to treat some strangers. As 
 fer yore shoes an' coat, ye needn't say I'm a-wearin* 
 'em no longer." And so, deliberately, Joslin removed 
 both the shoes and the coat, and stood coatless and 
 barefooted, leaning against the gallery rail. He felt 
 with a certain mortification the straight gaze of the 
 young woman who had sat listening quietly. She spoke 
 now. 
 
 "Mr. Joslin," said she in the low and even tones 
 usual for her speaking voice, "I think you need those 
 things. I quite understand how you feel about wear- 
 ing them, but you will oblige me very much by keep- 
 ing them until you are able to earn something better." 
 David Joslin, the shame, humiliation and hot anger 
 of his heart struggling for mastery, turned to her, for 
 the moment unable to speak. Then, silently as he had 
 removed the offending articles, he replaced them. 
 
 "I thank ye, Ma'am," said he. "I reckon ye know 
 better'n I do what I'd orter do." 
 
 "Well, sir," said she, turning toward him in the 
 twilight a face that to him had the charm of an angel's, 
 "my husband wants you to go back in there with him. 
 Why is it impossible?" 
 
 85 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 "Hit's impossible, Ma'am, because when I make up 
 my mind to a thing it's impossible to change it." 
 
 She sat looking at him curiously. Never in all 
 her life had she seen a personality more powerful than 
 that of this half-wild heathen who stood before her. 
 The feel of the iron of his soul came upon her with 
 strange effect. 
 
 "I'll not ask you why you're going outside," said 
 she, after a moment. 
 
 "Jest because ye don't ax me, I'll tell ye," said 
 Joslin suddenly. "I'm a-goin' outside to git a educa- 
 tion." 
 
 "An education? There aren't many schools back 
 in there?" 
 
 "Thar hain't no schools at all, Ma'am. My daddy 
 war a preacher afore he died. I kain't read in no 
 book to amount to nothin'. I kain't hardly write my 
 own name. I'm a-goin' outside to git a education, 
 because I'm a-goin' to build a college, Ma'am." 
 
 "A college!" 
 
 "Yes, Ma'am. I've got to do it. My people have 
 been a-killin' each other in thar fer a hundred years. 
 They kain't read, they kain't write, they kain't think. 
 They hain't amountin' to nothin' whatever in the 
 world. They're a great people, Ma'am. They're worth 
 savin*. Well, it kind of come to me, in a sort of callin', 
 that I'd orter save them. So, like I said, I'm a-goin' 
 Outside to git me a education, soon as I kin." 
 
 86 
 
MARCIA HADDON 
 
 The situation had suddenly become extraordinary. 
 They waited for the mountaineer to go on, as presently 
 he did. 
 
 "I've nuwer been further down the river than a 
 couple of locks below. I've rafted here sence I was 
 fourteen year old, but beyant the aidge of the hills I 
 don't know nothin' of the world. Kin ye tell me whar 
 I kin git my education ? I don't reckon it'll take long 
 — us mounting people larn right fast, Ma'am, when 
 we git a chancet." 
 
 Then, after a pause, he went on, anxiously: "I'd 
 do arything in the world to obleege ye, Ma'am — I'd 
 go back in thar right now with ye if I had time. But 
 ye see, I'm twenty-eight year old, an' I hain't got no 
 time to lose." 
 
 Marcia Haddon sat in silence for a time and looked 
 at her husband, who, moody and irritated, was flicking 
 at the end of his cigar. 
 
 "This is rather an extraordinary thing, Jim," said 
 she. "Do you suppose — is there any way we could 
 help this man?" 
 
 "He doesn't seem any too willing to help us," replied 
 Haddon grimly. 
 
 "I hain't said that, Mister," said Joslin evenly. "I'd 
 do arything in the world I could fer ye people if it 
 was right." 
 
 Haddon gave a snort of laughter. "You people in 
 here haven't got a thing in the world — we bring in all 
 
 87 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 the money you'll ever see. You've got your resources 
 to sell, and you aren't willing to sell them. Well, 
 what do we owe you?" 
 
 "I don't know as ye owe us anything," said David 
 Joslin, the slow color rising to his face. "As fer me, 
 1 don't allow to owe ary man arything very long. I 
 reckon ye understand that, Ma'am." 
 
 He turned now to the woman, who nodded. He 
 knew that she did understand. 
 
 "Is there anybody else that you can get to take us 
 in there?" demanded Haddon impatiently. "Damn it 
 all, I've almost a notion to turn around and go back 
 again! For half a cent I'd advise the boys to charge 
 off the whole damn thing to profit and loss. I'm sore 
 •—that's what I am." 
 
 The low voice of Marcia Haddon began once more, 
 and as before she addressed not her husband, but the 
 young mountain man. 
 
 "You spoke about going in at some later time," said 
 she. "You interest me. My husband and I have no 
 children. I'd like to do something — something for 
 those children back there in the hills." 
 
 "Ma'am," said David Joslin, his voice trembling, 
 "if ye could do that God A'mighty shore would nuwer 
 fergit it, not whiles He had a universe to run. If ye 
 could do that — I'd do arything in the world fer 
 ye." 
 
 "Well, now, come," said Haddon, still argumenta- 
 
 88 
 
MARCIA HADDON 
 
 tively. "You say you don't know anyone else that you 
 can get to take me in there ?" 
 
 "I don't, sir. The Gannts an* the Joslins is both 
 a-ridin' now. Thar's been men killed, an* goin' to be 
 more killed. If ary stranger went in thar, he'd be 
 liable nuvver to come out at all." 
 
 "Well," rejoined Haddon, "I don't think my salary 
 will warrant my going in there and getting shot up by 
 some long-legged son-of-a-gun toting a squirrel rifle. 
 That doesn't appeal to me any whatever. Listen, 
 man !" Haddon sat up suddenly in his chair as an idea 
 flashed upon his keen business brain. "Listen now," 
 and he extended an arresting forefinger. "I'll tell you 
 what I'll do with you. You know that country and 
 I don't. I'll pay you ten dollars a day and all your 
 expenses to New York if you'll go back with me. I 
 want you to address a meeting of my company and 
 some other companies that are in the business. That'll 
 do just as well, if you tell a good straight story, as if 
 I went in there myself. You do know the country, 
 don't you?" 
 
 "I know it day an* night, through an* through. I 
 know every coal seam in them hills. I know most 
 every old-time poplar tree an' big white oak from 
 Hell-fer-Sartin to the mouth of Rattlesnake, an' from 
 Big Creek to the Main Forks. I don't know nothin' 
 else." 
 
 ow then — now then — now then," resumed Had- 
 89 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 don excitedly — "that's the answer! That certainly is 
 the answer to the whole thing. Now, you come back 
 with us — I'll get you some clothes, and that sort of 
 thing, of course, I'll pay your railroad fare and ex- 
 penses, and ten dollars a day, and I'll keep you in New 
 York until this business is over. In return for that, 
 all I want you to do is to tell my men what you know 
 about that country — how many trees there are to an 
 acre on that Hell-fer-Sartin tract — where the oil crop- 
 pings are, so far as you know — where the railroad's 
 got to come. Can you show it on a map ?" 
 
 "I don't know about maps, stranger," said David 
 Joslin, "but if ye could tell me the names of the places 
 on the maps, like rivers, ye know — ye see, I kain't read 
 very well, not yit." 
 
 "Sure, sure, I'll fix that all right. I'll show it for 
 you just like a book. A child could read it." 
 
 "I kain't read no beiter'n a child, Mr. Haddon, but 
 if ye kin show me whar the creeks is marked on the 
 map I kin show ye whar the railroad has got to go. 
 I kin put my finger on every place whar oil has been 
 found, er gas — ye know, thar's places whar gas has 1 
 been burnin' fer forty year, ever sence the War, an' 
 thar didn't nobody know about it." 
 
 "There doesn't anyone know that there's a contin- 
 uance of the big West Virginia anticline right through 
 these mountains," rejoined Haddon grimly. "Oil? — 
 There's got to be oil in here, and I know it. Our 
 
 90 
 
MARCIA HADDON 
 
 geologists figured that all out before you ever told me 
 there had been oil found in here. Why, man — I can't 
 afford not to take you back with me. And you can't 
 afford not to come/ 
 
 "What do ye think of this, Ma'am?" said David 
 Toslin, turning toward the quiet young woman. "I 
 reckon ye mought be ashamed of me if I went along 
 with ye." He flushed dully. 
 
 "No, Mr. Joslin," said she, quickly. "You'll learn. 
 You wouldn't be unhappy, I think. I want you to feel 
 that we want to help you. Let my husband take care 
 of the business part. I'll see what I can do towarc' 
 getting you a chance to study. If money is good for 
 anything, Jim, it ought to be good for just some such 
 thing as this." 
 
 "Is it a trade, man?" said the Northerner suddenly. 
 
 "I believe I'll go with ye, Ma'am," said David Jos- 
 lin quietly for his reply. He did not speak to the man. 
 
 It was a trade ! When Jimmy Haddon stepped back 
 once more into the house, to the side of the table where 
 the flickering oil lamp stood, he caught the Widow 
 Dunham gaily about the shoulders, chucked her under 
 the chin once more, and kissed her fair on the lips. It 
 chanced he did this just as his wife came into the hall, 
 so that she saw the whole transaction. She made no 
 comment. She also had made her trade, years ago, 
 when she married. If she had lost, she would not yet 
 complain. But Joslin saw the hot flush on her cheek. 
 
 91 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 POLLY PENDLETON 
 
 WELL, Marcia, here we are," said James 
 Haddon, as at last their long railway jour- 
 ney drew to its close in the swift sweep of 
 the train up the gates of the great city by the sea. 
 "Better begin to round up your wild man — I saw him 
 standing in the vestibule looking out of the window as 
 though he was in a trance. What are we going to do 
 with him, now we've got him ?" 
 
 "We'll take him with us to our home, of course, Jim. 
 He'd be lost anywhere else. He knows no more than a 
 child." 
 
 "Pretty husky child, some ways," said Haddon. 
 "Well, all right, all right ! I suppose you're glad he's 
 different from me. You don't seem to have a lot of 
 use for me any more, some way — you've been like a 
 >clam ever since we left New York, and you're more 
 like a clam now that we're getting back. There's worse 
 fellows in the world than Jimmy Haddon, and maybe 
 you'll live to see it yet. I'll show you, if this deal 
 goes through — and it will if your wild friend makes 
 good. 
 
 92 
 
POLLY PENDLETON 
 
 "But now here we are getting into the tube — I'd 
 better catch the wild man, or he may get scared and 
 jump off the train. All right — we'll take him up 
 home." 
 
 The rushing whirl of the city received them — the 
 city, a place occupied, so it seemed to this stranger, 
 with sad-faced madmen hurrying here and yon without 
 purpose. Mad — mad — hopelessly mad — so it all 
 seemed to David Joslin as, himself frightened with 
 the noise, the clamorings, the uncertainty of it all, he 
 finally emerged from the gates of the railway station 
 and stood close to the side of the woman who now 
 made his main reliance in this new world of the great 
 Outside. 
 
 A deferential man in livery came toward them and 
 led them to a long, shining limousine car which stood 
 at the curb. A moment later they were whirling away 
 through the crowded streets, escaping death every 
 instant, so it seemed to the newcomer, by the miracle 
 of a second's fraction. He held his peace, as he had 
 now for five days in a new, mad world of which he 
 had not dreamed. They passed on out through the 
 crowded traffic street until they reached paved ways 
 leading to the north, and so, after a long and steady 
 flight of the car, drew up at the entrance of a great 
 apartment building on the river drive. 
 
 Joslin followed in. He never in his life before had 
 been in a passenger elevator. He felt a strange sinking 
 
 93 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 at the pit of his stomach, and caught instinctively at 
 the bars of the gate. He was still less at ease when 
 they led him into the silent and dim apartments where 
 Haddon and his wife lived, as luxurious as any of the 
 Riverside, the rent of which each month was more than 
 any farm in all the Cumberlands would bring in a year. 
 
 But Joslin was now in the home of a gentlewoman. 
 Quietly she took him in hand, relieving his embarrass- 
 ment, setting him at his ease, showing him where he 
 might live, and telling him kindly what might be ex- 
 pected of him. He looked about him at his own room 
 with awe. These furnishings to him were so unbe- 
 lievably luxurious that he dared not sit down upon a 
 chair. He gazed upon the bed, with its yellow coverlet 
 of silk, with but one resolve — he would sleep upon 
 the floor, but never venture further — nor did he. And 
 when presently they called him to table he felt his 
 heart sink yet further in these strange surroundings, 
 so that he could not eat. He had accosted as "Mister" 
 the servant who went to his room with him — he saw 
 the same man now, and wondered that he stood, and 
 did not eat with the others — wondered that no one 
 noticed him nor the white-capped maid who passed. 
 Surely it was all a strange, mad world. 
 
 "Well," said Haddon, after his hurried finishing of 
 his own meal, "I've got to get down to the little 
 old shop right away, Marcia. They'll not be ex- 
 pecting me, of course, but it's a good piece of busi- 
 
 94 
 
POLLY PENDLETON 
 
 that I'm back when I am, and just the way I am." 
 
 "I presume you'll have plenty to do," commented his 
 wife. 
 
 "Listen! I'll tell you what I'll do. I'm going to 
 get together all the directors of the Company, and 
 we'll pull off a little dinner at the Williston — in the 
 Gold Room. How'll that do, my Christian friend?" 
 said he, grinning at Joslin as he stepped to the hall 
 table and picked up his own hat and gloves. 
 
 "Of course, I can't do that right away," he con- 
 tinued, turning back, his stick over his arm, his well- 
 brushed hat now on his head. "Maybe a couple of 
 days. I'll be busy. Maybe I'll have to stay down at 
 the club tonight, Marcia, I'll check up about dinner 
 time." 
 
 He did not call up at about dinner time, nor at all 
 until past noon the next day, when he explained that 
 he had been crowded at the office and unable to get 
 his own apartments by phone — explanations with which 
 his wife was fairly familiar. 
 
 As for Joslin, he passed the two days in what seemec 
 to him a continual kaleidoscope of madhouse change. 
 Now in charge of one of the chauffeurs, sometimes in 
 the more gracious company of his hostess, he spun up 
 and down the streets of the great city, looking at the 
 untold thousands of its inhabitants, wondering at its 
 stately buildings, wondering at the beauty of its parks, 
 so like and yet so unlike the woods he had always 
 
 95 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 known. In the evening, in his own room, he read 
 steadily, as best he might, spelling out the complex, 
 stern theology of old John Calvin. Now and again he 
 raised his eyes and wondered what Calvin would have 
 done had he been here. 
 
 They brought to him now certain other clothing 
 of Jimmy Haddon's, a trifle short, a trifle large, but 
 serving better than anything he yet had had. He was 
 not happy in all this — no man ever was more unhappy 
 in all his life than David Joslin now. Moreover, 
 there came to his heart, every moment of the day and 
 night, the most exquisite of pain — nostalgia — the 
 actual illness of homesickness. He longed unspeak- 
 ably for the sight of the mountains, for the smell of 
 the wood-smoke of the fires, the look of the stars at 
 night, the pink of the dawn when morning came. Life 
 here was a fearsome thing, and long and hard seemed 
 the unknown road that lay before him. 
 
 Haddon came home after his second night away and 
 announced that all was in readiness for the great ban- 
 quet of the men whom he represented in his business 
 affiliations. 
 
 "I'm going to give you your first chance in public 
 speaking now, Joslin/' said he. "Believe me, you'll 
 have an attentive audience for once, if you never do 
 again — weren't you talking of being a preacher, or 
 something? Talk business, son, straight business — 
 that's all we want to hear. If you make good, you'll 
 
 96 
 
POLLY PENDLETON 
 
 have the time of your life. Help us, and we'll help 
 you — see ? 
 
 "How about clothes?" He turned questioningly to 
 his wife, who was in the room at the time. "Of course 
 it's evening dress — is there a spare suit of mine around 
 anywhere?" 
 
 Marcia Haddon looked at the two for a moment. 
 "Perhaps Mr. Joslin would not prefer it," said she. 
 
 Joslin shook his head. "No," said he. "I hain't 
 a-goin' to change from these clothes I've got on now. 
 I'm used to 'em a little." 
 
 Haddon's companion, therefore — and Haddon rather 
 prided himself on his invariably well-groomed appear- 
 ance — presented something of a noticeable turn-out 
 when they entered the lobby of the great hotel where 
 the banquet was to be, but he did not notice the apolo- 
 getic grimaces Haddon gave in response to certain 
 lifted eyebrows of his friends whom he met here and 
 there. 
 
 "Well, come along, old man," said he to his guest, 
 at length. "We'll leave our coats and hats here, and 
 go and see if we can find some more of the fellows." 
 
 He was not at a loss as to the place of search. The 
 long glazed and marbled bar of the Williston at that 
 time was thronged with hundreds, much athirst. Be- 
 hind the vast reaches of mahogany stood many bar- 
 tenders, all busy. Men in evening dress, with top hats 
 and beautifully fitting evening wear, men impeccable 
 
 97 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 in gloves and glasses and fit for presentation in any 
 city of the world — stood here, laughing, talking, jest- 
 ing, drinking. One after another all these now ac- 
 costed Haddon, some with a sly word, a glance, a hint, 
 a jest — things which he hushed down as soon as might 
 be, for he knew the keen suspicion of the mountaineer. 
 
 ''Well, what are you going to have to drink?" said 
 he to Joslin at length, edging his own way up to the 
 bar. "We've got to lay some sort of a foundation for 
 the dinner, you know. What kind of cocktail do you 
 want — Martini 5 " 
 
 "I never did drink nothin' but plain corn liquor/' 
 said Joslin. "If I could have jest a leetle of that now, 
 maybe " 
 
 "Nonsense! Have a cocktail. It's too early for 
 hard liquor yet. Make him another, John," and he 
 nodded to the bartender. 
 
 Joslin raised the little glass, whose contents seemed, 
 in color at least, not unfamiliar to him as a mountain 
 man, but he drank no more than half of the contents, 
 and then set down the glass. It was his first and only 
 cocktail. He made no comment as his host urged him, 
 but moved away from the bar. Haddon himself re- 
 mained to finish two or three more of the insidious 
 potions before he himself turned and with the others 
 began to move toward the quarters set apart for the 
 banquet party. 
 
 By this time the crowd was much like the usual 
 
 98 
 
POLLY PENDLETON 
 
 male banquet crowd — a trifle flushed of face, a trifle 
 garrulous of tongue, each in his own heart happy, and 
 each in his own belief quite witty and very much 
 aplomb. They were seated in due course at the long 
 tables arranged after the fashion of a Maltese cross. 
 Haddon, it seemed, was to preside. He placed his 
 guest at his own right, in the place of honor. 
 
 "Trust little old Jimmy to pull a thing off," said one 
 merchant to another. "He never went down to that 
 country for nothing. He's got the goods with him, 
 and you can gamble on that. He told me himself how 
 he caught this wild mountain man and brought him on 
 to talk to us tonight. He knows every foot of the land 
 in there, and he can cell us the whole works. Coal — 
 gas — oil — those lands of ours are full of it! Looks 
 like we were going to make a killing. Trust Jimmy. 
 He's one grand little live wire, if we've got one in our 
 village." 
 
 The dinner wore on, much as these things usually 
 run — the original stage of hilarity somewhat modified 
 under the sobering influence of food. It was all 
 strange to Joslin, who, so it seemed to him, scarcely 
 had one plate set before him before it was taken away 
 and replaced by yet another. Few noticed what he did. 
 
 Presently, when all were well forward with coffee 
 and cigars, Haddon rapped loudly on the table as he 
 rose. A change came over the entire personnel of 
 the assemblage. Here but now had been a riotous 
 
 99 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 meeting of full-blooded men, young men, middle-aged 
 men, gray-haired men, bent on nothing better than 
 drinking and eating. But now anyone who glanced 
 down these table* would have seen a steady keenness, 
 a fixity of purpose, on the face of practically every 
 man present. They were hard-headed American busi- 
 ness men on the instant now, each man ready for the 
 purpose which really had brought him here. Money — 
 the pursuit of money — the keen zest of the game of 
 business — that was the real intoxication of these men, 
 and not that of alcohol. They listened now in perfect 
 silence to what their representative might have to say. 
 
 Haddon told them briefly something of his late trip 
 into the Cumberlands, told why it had been ended so 
 abruptly for a second time, admitted that he had never 
 been over much of the Company's land holdings, in 
 the mountains, and explained the reasons why that was 
 a difficult thing. He showed that it was necessary to 
 have a guide to make a successful exploration of the 
 properties in that country, and adverted to the benefits 
 of direct testimony rather than hearsay, explaining 
 how he had brought this mountaineer, who had spent 
 all his life in the middle of the Company's properties, 
 to the city with him to tell them his own first-hand 
 story of the land. 
 
 A large map hung on the wall, and to this he ad- 
 verted from time to time. Joslin's eyes followed him. 
 Yes, he knew these streams — he could locate this or 
 
 100 
 
POLLY PENDLETON 
 
 that territory familiar to himsei-f, here -on* the mm 
 He knew on the ground what Haddon pointed out 
 upon the map. So presently, when they called upon 
 him to speak, he rose with no great diffidence on his 
 own part 
 
 They greeted him with a generous round of ap- 
 plause, which startled him, for he had never heard 
 anything of the sort. But after all David Joslin was 
 a man of great dignity and self-respect, with great 
 powers of mind as well as of body. And there lurked 
 somewhere within him, as in so many of these strong 
 characters of the hills, natural instincts of the orator. 
 
 He spoke strongly, simply, powerfully, with no at- 
 tempt at embellishment, but in such terms as left no 
 doubt whatsoever as to his meaning. After a time he 
 stepped to the map, and, pointing out here and there, 
 explained as nearly as he himself knew the nature of 
 the Company's holdings. He told them where the coal 
 cropped out at the headwaters of this or that creek, told 
 them that on some of the mountain sides three veins 
 of coal had been known ever since he could remember, 
 the middle vein over eight feet thick, the lower four 
 feet thick, and that nearest to the mountain top almost 
 as deep. He explained to them that there was coal 
 over more than a hundred miles of that country, as 
 he knew, and told them how nearly everyone mined 
 his own coal on his own land, and did not trouble to 
 cut wood for much of the year. 
 
 101 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 : hikes of oil, Joslin could put his 
 finger upon the map where every one of these dis- 
 coveries had been made. He said that his own people 
 cared little for that, for they had long grown to be- 
 lieve there was no way for them to get out into the 
 world. He explained to them that there were no 
 roads in that country, that logs were dragged down 
 the mountain side by cattle, rolled into the shallow 
 streams by hand labor, and left to the chance of the 
 infrequent "tides." He told them that in many of 
 those streams there were logs enough to touch end 
 to end from one end of the creek to the other — logs 
 enough bedded in the sand to floor the creek entirely 
 for half its lengtn — black walnut logs two and a half 
 feet through — white oak logs three and a half feet 
 in diameter — and poplar four and a half feet. Their 
 eyes glistened as he went on telling all these things 
 naturally, simply, naively, as one fully acquainted 
 with them. He explained to them the ways of all 
 these methods of logging, how no one could run a 
 saw mill in that region with profit, how no raftsman 
 ever made more than a living at his work, hard as it 
 was. Then he told them how he himself had seen the 
 stakes of the new railroad line coming across the 
 head of Hell-fer-Sartin and making for the upper 
 waters of Big Creek, and passing thence on to the older 
 railway lines. 
 
 "When the railroad comes, gentle-men," said he, 
 
 102 
 
POLLY PENDLETON 
 
 "things has got to change in than We've been alone 
 — no one knows much about our lands. Ye come in 
 thar twenty years ago, when no one cared for nothin'. 
 Ye bought yore land fer skercely a dollar a acre, 
 most of it, an' thar's trees on it thar that's wuth ten 
 an' twenty dollars fer every log in 'em, onct ye git 
 'em out, an' two, three, four logs to the tree. The 
 railroad will let the world in, an' it'll let us out. I 
 reckon the time has come fer that. All I ask ye in 
 turn fer what I'm a-tellin' ye, is to treat my people 
 fair. Give them a fair value fer what they've got. 
 They're pore, they're ignerint, they're blind. I'm as 
 ignerint as the wust of 'em. But we're squar' with 
 ye. We want ye to be squar' with us." 
 
 A blank silence greeted this last remark. Men 
 looked from one to the other. Once in a while there 
 might have been a cynical smile or sneer that passed. 
 After he had spoken for an hour, perhaps more than 
 an hour, and had answered all such questions as they 
 asked him, David Joslin sat down. A voice in the back 
 part of the room arose. 
 
 "What's the matter vyith Jimmy Haddon?" 
 
 A vociferous chorus answered. Joslin did not un- 
 derstand the methods of these men, but vaguely he 
 gathered that what he had said had been well re- 
 ceived. 
 
 On the whole he felt content. Now, he said to him- 
 self, on the very next day he would go about his own 
 
 103 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 business. He would leave this place, which confused 
 him so much. He was done with the city now. He 
 had done his duty. 
 
 But this did not by any means close the entertain- 
 ment of the evening as these men conceived it. As 
 they had been revelers and again business men, so now 
 once more they laid aside the habit of affairs and 
 turned again to the business of banqueting. Waiters 
 came quickly and filled up glasses, large glasses, with 
 bubbling wine. Again mingling voices arose, laughter, 
 jests. The glasses were filled again, and yet again. 
 The business of the day was over. Joy was to be more 
 unconfined 
 
 Men drew back curtains at the head of the hall, 
 revealing a little platform where stood a piano, which 
 was wheeled into place. At a signal from Haddon 
 there entered an orchestra of foreign sort, and they 
 mingled music and jangling discord of the usual kind, 
 perhaps among other things a melody or so of the 
 hour; for voices arose, and sounds of hands and feet 
 keeping time. A basso, very knock-kneed and small 
 of chin, appeared from some unknown region, sang a 
 solo, bowed and disappeared. A quartet of negro 
 singers furnished rather better entertainment, so it 
 seemed. And then men began to push back their 
 chairs, so that they might easily see the entrance of 
 the room. 
 
 All at once a round of general and vociferous ap- 
 
 104 
 
POLLY PENDLETON 
 
 plause arose. Jimmy Haddon arose and hastened to 
 greet the latest comers. 
 
 There stood in the doorway two young women, 
 dressed with a certain similarity, their long cloaks held 
 together by clasps, their arms in long white gloves. 
 There were two, but there might as well have 
 been but one, for the older of the concert team of 
 Pendleton and Stanton — Pollie Pendleton and Nina 
 Stanton, known in every theater of the land that 
 —lacked so much of the charm of her companion 
 that she quite resigned herself to the amiable role of 
 foil. 
 
 They were young women of that sort known 
 in Bablylon and Boston. Whence they come, who 
 shall say? Whither they go, who knows — the 
 young women of the world, the beloved and the for- 
 gotten. The world has always had them, and 
 perhaps will always have them — young, splen- 
 didly beautiful, splendidly alluring — who come from 
 none knows whence, and who go no one knows 
 whither. 
 
 The assembled males applauded when they saw 
 these two young women standing there — short of 
 skirt, low of slipper, low of gown. All but one rose 
 gaily to welcome them. One man sat trans- 
 fixed. 
 
 There was revealed to David Joslin, in the person 
 of Polly Pendleton, such a vision as never had he 
 
 105 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 known in all his life, a dream which he not yet had 
 dreamed, nor could have dreamed, so wholly outside 
 of all his possible experience must it have been called. 
 He never before had seen woman at her frank best in 
 sheer riot of the beauty of her sex. It awed him. 
 
 She was * woman, but scarce seemed that to him. 
 To his eyes she was not woman, but some supernal 
 thing, a Presence, a Being. And in the sheer fact 
 that she was of his genus, of his species, that she was 
 woman and he was man, he sat suddenly exalted, glori- 
 fied himself, superman — for now at last his eyes had 
 seen! 
 
 She smiled at them all in her swift and comradeiy 
 fashion, and stepped promptly toward the little plat- 
 form. Not a man there who did not know Polly 
 Pendleton of the Follies, the best-liked girl on the stage 
 that year. Singer, violinist, dancer — she had made her 
 way up by one or the other of her arts or all of them, 
 until now she might use all or either, as she liked. 
 
 A woman of about middle stature was Polly Pen- 
 dleton, of covetably slender and firm-set figure. Her 
 eyes were large and dark, with long lashes, her face a> 
 strong, clean oval, her skin clear, her teeth brilliant,' 
 her head a mass of short, dark curls. So much might 
 be said of many women, perhaps, but Polly Pendleton 
 had some strange plus charm of her own, that charm 
 for which managers pay any price. She seemed the 
 very spirit, the very embodiment of life, youth, eager- 
 
 106 
 
POLLY PENDLETON 
 
 ness — of vital joy itself. The thought of evil could 
 not touch her, so sweet and clean she seemed, in every 
 fiber of her being there was such life and such joy in 
 living. Her gestures were those of the young animal, 
 of the bird, careless, unstudied. She had no art, but 
 succeeded through her lack of art and through her own 
 zest, her sheer vitality. 
 
 When Polly Pendleton stood waiting for something, 
 interested in anything, keyed up, not even her feet 
 could rest upon the floor. She had a strange way some- 
 times, even when talking to one, of dancing up and 
 clown on her toes, light as a feather, her young limbs 
 seeming not to feel the weight of her body. There 
 seemed an ethereal air about her, as though she needed 
 to walk, needed not to stand, unless she liked. 
 
 She stood now before them, having drawn from 
 beneath her coat her cherished violin, whose music 
 had pleased so many thousands. Obviously she in- 
 tended first to play. She laid aside her cloak and stood, 
 eager, interested, slightly leaning forward, anxious, 
 dancing up and down upon her little feet. Youth, 
 life, joy, vitality, freedom from care, absolute igno- 
 rance and disregard of toil or trouble or anxiety — 
 there stood Polly Pendleton. 
 
 She laid the violin to her cheek and, her eyes now 
 aside and high, drew a strong, firm bow across the 
 strings. When she did this she drew out the heart 
 and soul from the body of David Joslin. 
 
 107 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 But David Joslin never really had heard the violin 
 before. Of actual music he knew nothing. He had 
 never heard a master of any instrument in all his life. 
 But the sound of the violin itself, last keen climax 
 in this atmosphere of exhilaration, where now the 
 young spirit of this one fragile girl commanded the 
 strong masculine spirit of all these massed men — 
 for David Joslin constituted an overwhelming expe- 
 rience. 
 
 She finished her number, and when the roar of ap- 
 plause had ceased turned to her associate, who seated 
 herself at the piano. They both sang — one of their 
 duets; and as part of this Polly Pendleton herself 
 danced — whirling about in pirouettes where her toes 
 seemed scarce to find a footing, her round, strong 
 limbs insouciantly exposed. She was but the spirit of 
 youth, of life, of joy. 
 
 Now certain of the critical began to demand some- 
 thing known earlier as especially delectable. 
 
 "Sing us the real one, Polly !" they cried. "Sing us 
 The Only Man/ why don't you ?" 
 
 "Yes ; that's it— that's it— give us 'The Only Man,' 
 Polly ;" and vigorous handclapping ensued. 
 
 She stood facing them again at the little raised dais, 
 her lips parted, her white teeth visible under her short, 
 smiling upper lip. She was always eager to please, 
 counting not the cost of herself — a rich and generous 
 soul indeed was hers. Not so much her fault as ours 
 
 108 
 
POLLY PENDLETON 
 
 was it that she was here, one of the sacrifices, the 
 perishing imperishables of the world. 
 
 But Polly began to sing. The words matter little. 
 It was the chorus which had brought her fame. She 
 left the dais now, and advanced down the long table, 
 her whole face a-laugh. Her eyes were fixed on a 
 certain large, red-faced and very bald gentleman who 
 sat halfway down the table at the left. Him she ap- 
 proached, singing as she came. She bent above him, 
 put an arm about his face, a hand under his chin, and 
 drew his head back as she bent above and sang to 
 him. 
 
 "For you are my Baby!" sang Polly Pendleton. 
 "You are my Baby ! You're the only, only, only man 
 for me." 
 
 Roars of laughter greeted this. They sang in 
 chorus with her: "You're the only, only, only man 
 forme!" 
 
 "Come here, Polly," called this man and that. "This 
 way ! You certainly are the only girl for me." 
 
 But Polly Pendleton was back at the head of the 
 table once more, still singing, still light of foot, still 
 gay of song. She stood and faced them just for a 
 moment. Something she saw which seemed to arrest 
 her own attention — a grave, unsmiling face, with eyes 
 like coals, a white face which looked straight at 
 hers. . . . 
 
 It was no more than a pace or two for Polly to 
 109 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 reach the head of the table, to push a hand out against 
 the raised one of Jimmy Haddon as he sat there flushed 
 and laughing. The next instant she had stopped, and 
 with the audacity of her very nature, so used to being 
 allowed its own freakish will, she passed an arm about 
 the head of David Joslin, a hand beneath his chin. 
 She drew his white face back, looked down into his 
 eyes, and sang — for a little while at least — "You* re 
 the only, only, only man for me!" 
 
 Something in the tense tableau they saw — some 
 note, undefinable, caused every man of that virile as- 
 semblage to cease his laughter and applause. They 
 stared. They saw the great hands of the man close 
 tight about the white wrists of Polly Pendleton. She 
 ceased to stroke the strong hair of David Joslin, and 
 stood back, finishing her song out of touch and out of 
 tune. Some thought her voice quavered just a little. 
 But she sprang back tiptoe again upon the little dais, 
 and finished boldly — yes, and added thereto the notes 
 of her violin. None the less, there had been a scene. 
 Someone had not played the game. And they must 
 take care of Polly. 
 
 They broke into applause. Someone started to pass 
 a plate down the tabh. It was heaped up with money, 
 in great part yellow in color. Coins fell on the floor — 
 but there were no small silver ones. Some near by 
 flung money in the general direction of the little plat- 
 form where the two young women stood, smiling and 
 
 110 
 
POLLY PENDLETON 
 
 bowing deeply — smiling at what they knew to be the 
 success of their little offerings that evening. 
 
 "Here you go, Polly!" as one man after another 
 cast toward her something folded. And Polly, grave 
 and a trifle white now, leaving her associate bowing 
 on the stage, passed down the aisle, met the heaped 
 plate on its way, stopped here and stopped there, laugh- 
 ing and talking, chattering like some innocent child, 
 picking up money — money — more money than David 
 Joslin had thought there was in all the world. He 
 alone gave nothing, for he had naught to give — only 
 the happiness and peace of a human soul. 
 
 There was so much tribute that Polly made great 
 show of thrusting part of it beneath her garter, till 
 she could hold no more in that fashion. Some she 
 thrust into her bosom, and then, turning, carried the 
 rest of it to her partner, who happily was provided 
 with a reticule. 
 
 Everybody laughed — everybody was pleased. It 
 had cost them very little — perhaps a few hundred dol- 
 lars — to make these two girls feel that they had made 
 a hit. The wine was excellent. Everything had been 
 splendid in every way. The cost? Why, what Jimmy 
 Haddon had done for them in bringing this geezer here 
 to tell them about their property would bring them 
 more than ten thousand times the cost of the banquet, 
 or the cost of the whole investment. 
 
 And so, after a time, the banquet ended, very late — 
 111 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 ended, indeed, when Polly Pendleton and her friend, 
 laughing and kissing their hands — Polly with her 
 violin tucked under her arm and her cloak over all — 
 turned once more to the door of the crystal and gold 
 room of the Williston banquet suite. Men rose and 
 waved serviettes at them, shouted good-by, asked them 
 to come again. Haddon himself walked with Polly 
 Pendleton to the door, kissed her hand, bowed good- 
 night. 
 
 As he turned oack he saw standing, staring at hkn 
 fixedly, the tall, white- faced figure of the mountaineer, 
 whom he had utterly forgotten. The eyes of David 
 Joslin were like coals. 
 
 "Some girl, eh — what?" said Haddon admiringly 
 to his uncouth friend. 
 
 But Joslin made him no reply. What he had seen, 
 what he had felt that night, was epochal, abysmal for 
 him. He had looked into her eyes. He had seen her 
 face framed in her dark hair — had caught the very 
 fragrance of her hair itself. He was mad. 
 
 A motor car stood below, waiting for the popular 
 team of Pendleton and Stanton. It whirled them now 
 far uptown, to the little buffet flat which made their 
 nome. Nina, matter-of-fact as usual, busied herself 
 about her preparations for the close of the day's work. 
 But, singularly enough, Polly, usually riante and active 
 to the very last moment of the day, sat, cigarette in 
 hand, silent, somewhat triste. 
 
 112 
 
POLLY PENDLETON 
 
 •'What's the matter, Polly?— Why don't you get 
 ready ? — I'm sleepy as an owl. What are you wolfing 
 about ?' 
 
 "What makes you ask that, Nina?" 
 
 "Well, it's something." 
 
 Silence for a time, and then Polly spoke. "How 
 dc you think it went to-night, Nina?" 
 
 "Well, all I've got to say," replied that worthy young 
 woman, "if it went this well about one or two more 
 nights a week or a month, we could retire and live 
 along the Sound like ladies the rest of our lives." 
 
 "I wish it was all back," said Polly Pendleton, som- 
 berly. 
 
 "What do you mean ?" 
 
 "Why, the money." 
 
 "Well, of all things!" exclaimed Nina Stanton, 
 staring at her partner. "What's the matter with you, 
 Polly ? Have you gone crazy ? What's set you think- 
 ing this way? Of all things!" 
 
 "Well, it was that man, maybe. He mighty near 
 queered me. It's always a man, you know — a girl 
 can't get away from that." 
 
 Nina still looked at her in wonderment. "You're 
 out of your head, kid," said she. "If anyone in little 
 old New York ought to be happy tonight, it's you, 
 fitting right there grouching like you are. They didn't 
 set me — I wasn't there at all. You were the whole 
 works. J hate to take the money from you — and I 
 
 113 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 wouldn't if I didn't know you'd only spend it. I have 
 to watch you like a mother, kid." 
 
 But Polly sat, shaking her head in somber discon- 
 tent, the little blue rings of her cigarette rising un- 
 disturbed before her. 
 
 "Who was he, Nina?** she asked after a time. 
 
 "Who was who? The big bald-face guy down the 
 table? — that was Rankin of Rankin and Swan. He 
 acted like a good sport. As for Jimmy Haddon, he 
 must have chipped in fifty, anyways." 
 
 But Polly was shaking her head from side to side. 
 
 "Oh, of course, you mean the reuben at the head 
 of the table you were joshing. It was the hit of the 
 evening." 
 
 "Was it, though?" said Polly vaguely. 
 
 "The hit of the evening, kid. That's what brought 
 them across." 
 
 "Well," said Polly, "it was a raw deal for him, I 
 suppose. Look here." She held up her wrist. It 
 showed a blue line about it. "I never felt a man's 
 hand like that in all my life. He could have broken 
 my arm if he'd wanted to." She pushed a bracelet 
 reflectively up and down across the bruised ring which 
 the clutch of Joslin's fingers had left upon her white 
 skin. 
 
 "Oh, I guess he liked it all right," commented Nina 
 casually. "They mostly do." 
 
 "That's the trouble," rejoined Polly sagely. "I 
 
 114 
 
POLLY PENDLETON 
 
 can't tell how it was, but somehow that man made me 
 feel ashamed! There was something in his face — I 
 can't tell you what. Ever since, I've been feeling as 
 if this money didn't belong to us. I've a notion to 
 give you my share, Nina." 
 
 "You can't, kid. I've always been on the level with 
 you. I'll take you over my knee and give you a spank- 
 ing now if you don't shut up. You talk silly. An 
 ordinary hayseed from the hills — you better be think- 
 ing of Rankin with his private yachts, or little old 
 Jimmy, your solid. You can't complain. You'd better 
 be content with what you got." 
 
 "What do you mean, Nina? I only say I feel sort 
 of ashamed. I never felt my skirts were short before 
 in all my life. I did then." 
 
 Nina only turned with a short laugh as she stooped 
 to unfasten her own shoes in her progress towards her 
 night toilet. Polly arose and went to the panel where 
 protruded the handle of the wall bed which these two 
 loyal and thrifty partners occupied in common. She 
 pulled down the bed, went to the little wardrobe for 
 her own night robe, and, moodily silent, prepared her- 
 self for sleep. At last she paused. 
 
 "Nina," she said again, with a certain imperative 
 quality in her tone. 
 
 "What is it, kid?" demanded her good-humored 
 friend. 
 
 "You know what I think?" 
 115 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 "No, I don't. I don't think you think at all." 
 
 "Well, Til tell you. Sometimes I think I've had 
 about enough of this sort of thing. I'm sore on it. It 
 makes me sick. All those men " 
 
 "But if it was the 'only, only, only man'?" grinned 
 Nina. 
 
 "I wonder," began Polly to herself — "I wonder 
 now " 
 
 But what she wondered she did not vouchsafe. It 
 was some time later, in the darkness of the night, that 
 Nina felt a hand upon her arm, shaking her. 
 
 "What's the idea, kid?" she said sleepily "Can't 
 you let a fellow sleep? I'm almost dead." 
 
 "Nina, tell me 1" demanded Polly, a strange earnest- 
 ness in her voice. "Am I bad ? Nina — tell me — am I 
 as bad as that?" 
 
 "Oh, shut up, kid," said Nina, bored. "Go on to 
 sleep. There's bats in your garret to-night, sure 
 thing- 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 MR. HADDON's POINT OF VIEW 
 
 H ADDON, puffy about the eyes, trembling of 
 fingers, sat at table the next day offering a 
 very fine example of the morning after or- 
 ganized hilarity. The man opposed to him, haggard 
 and hollow-eyed, might have been suspected of indul- 
 gences similar to those of his host, although such 
 would have been an unjust accusation. 
 
 Haddon found two stiff drinks of whisky needful 
 to attract his interest to his breakfast. Then he broke 
 the moody silence which had marked him. 
 
 "I say, old man," he began, "you made a pretty fair 
 speech to the boys last night. We're holding down 
 more than three hundred thousand acres of land in 
 the Cumberlands. We're in deep, and some of the 
 fellows were getting cold feet until I brought you on 
 to tell them something about our holdings." 
 
 Joslin sat looking at him in silence, and he went 
 on presently. 
 
 "You see, our money has been in there for twenty 
 years, some of it — that was long before I went into 
 the Company, of course. The holding of raw re- 
 
 117 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 sources is a waiting game — you cash in stiff after a 
 long wait. That's what we've got to do now. 
 
 "But the way to handle this thing is to crowd when 
 the line begins to break. It's time now for us to begin 
 to crowd. We've got to begin to cash in before long, 
 for the interest and taxes have been eating us up 
 long enough. 
 
 "Now, we need a good man down in there. The 
 boys have been sending me because they couldn't do 
 any better. You and I between us know about how 
 much I know — we both know that you know a lot 
 more than I do. Now, you've been talking to me a 
 lot of rot about starting a college or a school, or some- 
 thing — I don't remember what all you were saying. 
 Forget it! Cut out all that business about saving 
 your country. Think a little bit about saving your- 
 self. This business of doing a whole lot for other 
 people is all right on paper, but when it comes down 
 to practical life there's nothing in it. A fellow's got 
 to think of himself. 
 
 "Now, what are you doing for yourself? You're 
 sitting here in my house — not that I want to rub it in 
 by telling you so — in a suit of my clothes and a pair 
 of my shoes. You're wearing my shirt and my socks 
 right now. You haven't got a dollar of your own 
 money in your clothes today. You told me that you 
 had a wife and a grandmother. What are you 
 going to do about them? Any way you look, you're 
 
 118 
 
THE POINT OF VIEW 
 
 in a fine position to build a college! Why, hell! 
 
 "On the other hand, New York ain't such a slow 
 village, is she ? Pretty nice, eh ? Something of a party 
 last night, what? Some girls, huh? 
 
 "Now, listen. You might do a lot worse than stay- 
 ing right here in New York this fall and winter — 
 you'd be on the pay roll all right. We could make a 
 pretty good thing of it for you if you went in with us 
 and stood by us through thick or thin, right or wrong. 
 We might think of a lot of things we'd like to ask you. 
 
 "You've been talking a lot of bally rot about your 
 duty to these people — seeing that we wouldn't rob 
 them in the price we paid for the land or the oil leases. 
 You know mighty well we can go down there and lease 
 a whole farm a hundred years for a dollar. Now, you 
 can crab our whole act — that's easy to see — if you go 
 down there and tell those people they're fools, and 
 that they ought to have two dollars an acre for their 
 oil rights — more'n we've paid them for all their coal 
 and their timber and their land any time these last 
 twenty years! You can see easily enough from the 
 class of men I've shown you here last night that we've 
 got all the money we need, all the money that anybody 
 needs to pay for what we want. But we want loyalty. 
 We want service. We want someone to stand with 
 us, thick or thin, right or wrong. Do you under- 
 stand 
 
 Joslin looked at the puffy face of the man who 
 119 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 spoke, his heavy cheeks, his thickening neck, his watery 
 eyes, scmewhat reddened about the rims. He replied 
 slowly. 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Haddon, I reckon I do understand," said 
 he. 
 
 "Well, well, then, what about it ? Do you find New 
 York such a poor place to live in? Isn't there any- 
 thing here to light you up a little bit more than any- 
 thing you ever saw down in the Cumberlands ?" 
 
 Joslin looked at him, his pale face going still paler. 
 "I've seen things here I didn't know was in all the 
 world. But ye wasn't asking me to sell out my own 
 people, was ye ?" 
 
 "There you go again!" retorted the irritated man 
 across the table from him. "Rot! I've told you the 
 question of right or wrong don't come into business at 
 all. Business is business. Highbrow things don't 
 come into it at all. Don't you want to know what 
 life is — don't you want to branch out — don't you want 
 to see what the world has — all the people in it, the 
 life of it? Why, man, at first you looked to me as 
 though you weren't a sissy or a simp." 
 
 The moisture on Joslin's forehead meant nothing to 
 the man who faced him, who knew nothing of the 
 self-loathing, the self-reproach, that lay in Joslin's 
 heart. 
 
 "Well, anyhow, if you lived in this country for a 
 while you might change your point of view," finished 
 
 120 
 
THE POINT OF VIEW 
 
 Haddon, pushing back his chair. "What's your hurry, 
 getting out of town ? You haven't got a cent to your 
 name, you don't know where you're going, you don't 
 know what to do. I'm sorry for you " 
 
 "Ye needn't be," said David Joslin. "Ye kain't 
 pity a mounting man — he won't have it !" 
 
 "Hell's bells!" ejaculated the irate man whom he 
 addressed. "I'm not trying to change any of those 
 damned hill-billies down there. That's not the ques- 
 tion. I put it up to you that you're here in New York, 
 and you've got a chance to save up a little money to 
 buy your bally old education. You don't have to lose 
 any of your principles. It's just making good — that's 
 all there is to it. If you want to make good you're on. 
 If you don't — good-by!" 
 
 He rose from the table, irritated, his nerves still 
 a-jangle; but a sort of compunction came to him, or 
 perhaps the feeling that he was making a business 
 mistake in crowding this man. A sudden half-smile 
 came to his face as he turned when the house man 
 brought his hat and stick for him. 
 
 "It's a stiff gait we travel here," said he. "Now 
 I'm going to my shop to see if I can earn a dollar or 
 two to pay the rent. I believe I'll turn you over to 
 my chauffeur and let him drive you 'bout town for 
 a day or so. You remember that kid that was there 
 last night — one that sang and played to us — Polly 
 Pendleton, her name was. I saw you having a good 
 
 121 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 look at that young dame. Some calico, what? Yeh, 
 some girl. Now, listen here — how'd you like to go 
 up and have a little visit with Polly around eleven- 
 thirty or so? I could fix it up. Touch of life, eh? 
 Gad, she seemed to be interested in you somehow — 
 scared or something. Now " 
 
 David Joslin went suddenly white. "Ye fergit, I 
 reckon — I told ye I was a married man. I've got a 
 wife — we had two children, down thar in Kentucky." 
 
 "Well, I've got a wife too," rejoined Haddon con- 
 templatively. "If I had any children I'd need that 
 much more of something to make me forget my con- 
 dition of servitude. I don't know where the Missus 
 has gone to, but she's shook us this morning, that's 
 plain! You go up and talk religion to Polly, while I 
 go down to the office and try to make a dollar and a 
 quarter. Maybe you can save a human soul — eh? 
 That's up to you. 
 
 "Life is so short," he went on presently, finding a 
 cigarette in his pocket. "Why hang crepe when life 
 is so darned short? I don't blame you for wanting 
 to learn the alphabet and the multiplication table, but 
 if a man came to me and gave me a chance like this, 
 I'd postpone those things." 
 
 Jimmy Haddon went grimly chuckling to his own 
 desk, and left the question of the gentleman from 
 Kentucky and the lady of Harlem strictly upon the 
 knees of the gods. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 POLLY PENDLETON'S VISITOR 
 
 THE cynically smiling driver of Haddon's car 
 at a late hour that morning deposited a soli- 
 tary passenger at the door of a certain apart- 
 ment building high up on Manhattan Island. Seeing 
 the bewilderment of his charge, the chauffeur himself 
 entered the elevator with him and touched as with no 
 unaccustomed hand a certain button near a door. He 
 then discreetly departed. 
 
 The door opened. There appeared almost in the 
 face of the waiting visitor the figure of a young 
 woman— exceedingly comely even at that hour of the 
 day — a young woman of oval face, of dark, long- 
 lashed eyes, of dark curling hair, of shapeliness of 
 figure scantly veiled by the pink kimono which she 
 wore in morning negligee. 
 
 It was Polly Pendleton. She was alone. Her 
 praiseworthy partner had before this arisen for her 
 morning cocktail, her morning coffee, her morning 
 cigarette, and her morning stroll downtown. 
 
 Joslin stood motionless, silent. In a flash she recog- 
 nized him. Then he stalked in. 
 
 128 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 "Well !" said she. "I wasn't expecting anyone this 
 morning." She flushed, half angry. "I don't allow 
 this." 
 
 "My name is Joslin — David Joslin," began her vis- 
 itor. "Ye don't remember me — last night " 
 
 "Oh, yes, I do," said Polly. "Of course I do. You 
 wore the same clothes then you're wearing now." 
 
 "They're the only ones I have," said the young man, 
 "an' they're not mine. I don't reckon ye want me 
 to come in?" 
 
 "Why, yes," said she, for one half instant hesitant, 
 and closed the door. "Why not, after all?" 
 
 He looked about him curiously at the narrow quar- 
 ters. So, then, this was her home! These were her 
 belongings — the half -emptied glasses on the little 
 buffet, the ashes in a tray, the powder puff, pink- 
 stained, on the dresser-top, the manicure nail pad, the 
 little burnt cork on a hairpin's end. 
 
 "Won't you sit down ?" began Polly Pendleton, more 
 flustered than she had ever been in all her life. "Will 
 you have a little drink?" 
 
 He looked at her in astonishment. "Surely ye ain't 
 meanin' that ye'd take a drink of liquor, Ma'am?" 
 said he. 
 
 "Well," said Polly Pendleton, with a moue, "once 
 in a long while — in case I'm not feeling well, you 
 know! How about yourself? You look rocky." 
 
 He looked in grave contemplation at the half -filled 
 124 
 
POLLY PENDLETON'S VISITOR 
 
 bottle upon the tiny buffet — the glasses which had seen 
 use. 
 
 "Ma'am," said he, "sometimes in my country a man 
 takes a drink of liquor. Sometimes a woman smokes 
 a pipe. But I don't think I'll take no drink this 
 mornin'. It ain't my usual custom." 
 
 Polly seated herself in a deep-cushioned armchair 
 near the window, her half -consumed cigarette still be- 
 tween her fingers. A pleasing enough picture she pre- 
 sented, as, half leaning forward, she sat staring curi- 
 ously at this apparition of the morning. 
 
 "You're an odd sort!" said she, at length, flinging 
 up a hand nervously. "Well, I've not got down to the 
 pipe yet." 
 
 "Say, friend," she went on suddenly, half apolo- 
 getically, "I was talking to my partner last night. She 
 said that she thought our act rather broke you up. 
 Of course you know it was all joshing — nothing more. 
 That's the way we do at those dinner parties — they 
 sor A of expect it of us girls, you know. There's 
 nothing in it, of course. I hope you didn't mind it?" 
 
 "No," he said quietly, "I didn't mind. The ways of 
 sin are allurin', Ma'am." 
 
 "What's that !" But then she spread out her hands. 
 An awkward silence fell. 
 
 The eyes of David Joslin, roaming around the little 
 apartment, spied Polly's violin resting upon the 
 dresser-top. 
 
 125 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 "Ye play the violin, Ma'am," said he. "Ye're 
 the first vvomern I ever knew in all my life who could. 
 I reckon ye studied?" 
 
 "Years," said she simply. "It cost me a lot of 
 money — and at that they don't like the best things I 
 do. You can play?" — eagerly. 
 
 "Only a few of the mounting tunes — ballets such 
 as our folks teached us years ago." 
 
 "Ballads? You mean the folk songs?" 
 
 "Maybe. I could play 'Barbara Allen.' They tolt 
 me it was Scotch." 
 
 "The Scotch have pretty melodies sometimes," said 
 Polly Pendleton judicially. Then she smiled frankly. 
 "You see, I'm half Irish myself — and half French." 
 
 "What?" David Joslin sat up suddenly and looked 
 at her straight. "Ma'am, my own granny was half 
 Irish and half French. There wasn't nuvver a womern 
 in all the mountings like her. That maybe accounts 
 fer a heap of things. My granny loves to sing and 
 dance. She's over ninety year old." 
 
 The unweighed flattery of his tone was a thing to 
 be valued. She extended to him the instrument and 
 bow. 
 
 "Play for me," said she. "Play 'Barbara Allen.' 
 Do something for me this morning !" 
 
 So David Joslin, student of Calvin, Cumberland 
 mountaineer, self-elected minister — and as he now 
 fully felt, lost soul — thus cast away in a buffet flat 
 
 126 
 
POLLY PENDLETON'S VISITOR 
 
 of upper Manhattan, played the old ballad of "Barbara 
 Allen" to one of the gayest young persons at that 
 time in the great city. He played it in minors, bow- 
 ing very badly, missing the key sometimes a half- 
 note or so, slurring here, over-accentuating there, 
 phrasing after his own quaint mountain fashion, but 
 none the less producing something which might have 
 been called a melody. Polly's foot began to beat 
 upon the floor, her fingers upon the arm of the chair. 
 
 "Man !" said she, after he had finished, "if I could 
 take you into vaudeville, we'd break this country! 
 That's class!" 
 
 "It's not much," said he, misunderstanding. "I 
 nuvver had no lessons. I've nuwer been to school in 
 all my life, an' I nuvver seen a music book in all my 
 life — I reckon that's music ye got over thar?" He 
 nodded towards the sheets which he saw standing in 
 their rack. 
 
 "You're an odd chap," said she, with a strange soft- 
 ness in her tone. "I've never seen a man like you — 
 never in all my life. You're a strange chap. What 
 brought you here?" 
 
 "I come out, Ma'am, to build a college fer my peo- 
 ple. I come out to git my education. I come up here 
 with Mr. II addon, jest to talk to a few friends of 
 i about timber an' oil, ye know." 
 immy Haddon, eh?" Polly's lips set rather tight 
 together. "Well, he's a good business man. Ycm 
 
 127 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 have to hand him that. But say — keep an eye on 
 him, that's all. Listen here, son — you're what we 
 call 'easy' in the city. You don't belong here — you're 
 too straight — you're too good for it." 
 
 "What do ye mean?" said he. 'Too good! I'm 
 the wustest of sinners. But if I accepted sin — say, 
 if I made a lot of money — several hundred dollars a 
 month — an' had it clear — would ye tell me to throw 
 that over an' go back home?" 
 
 The dark eyes of Polly Pendleton looked straight 
 into his face now. 
 
 "There's a lot of things a girl can understand with- 
 out explaining very much," said she, simply. She saw 
 the rising somber flame in this man's eyes that met 
 her own so straight. And then, suddenly, he broke 
 out, all restraints gone. 
 
 "Last night ye touched me — it was in a joke — ye 
 was makin' me foolish. Ye don't know how foolish 
 ye made me then. Ye took away my brains. Ye got 
 my soul. God !" 
 
 "I don't want you to talk that way to me !" flashed 
 Polly, swift tears in her eyes. "No, no — don't — 
 don't ! It wasn't right for me to make fun of you — I 
 ought to have known you were different. I came home 
 last night, and I talked about you to my partner. 
 Somehow, I don't know why, you seem like a preacher 
 to me. Besides, once in a while a woman sees some- 
 thing in a real man that gets close to her." 
 
 128 
 
POLLY PENDLETON'S VISITOR 
 
 She rose now and spread out her arms, a very beau- 
 tiful vision of young womanhood, a sort of fair frail- 
 ness about her after all, in spite of her eager vitality 
 and her overflowing joy in life. 
 
 "Why, listen," said she. "I know about men. You 
 needn't make any map to explain anything more to 
 me. You'd be foolish, you'd be crazy; and I'll not 
 have it. I'm not good enough for you. You mustn't 
 stay here. You mustn't be foolish over a girl like 
 me — I'm not worth it. I'm — I'm notgood!" She 
 slurred the last two words hurriedly together. "Get 
 on out of here before you're spoiled n 
 
 Her voice trembled. "The city will get you, some 
 time. It's got me. It's got my partner. We're gone. 
 Lost souls! You? Oh, don't, don't!, You haven't 
 gone the gait that we have. Listen to me now — I 
 think enough of a good square chap not to want to 
 see him go the wrong way. Can't you see that a 
 dancing girl can be a good pal after all? I'm trying 
 to help you." 
 
 "Easy!" said he, his voice trembling in his own 
 self -scorn. "I had nothin', only what ye taken away 
 from me." 
 
 "Take some of this, won't you?" said Polly Pen- 
 dleton, her doubled hands full of bills which she held 
 out to him, her dark eyes shining. "Here, take it. 
 Do something with it. You wouldn't call that tainted 
 money, would you ? ... It isn't tainted yet. Look !" 
 
 129 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 But he put back her hands. "No," said he. "My 
 God! No! From ye?" 
 
 He hurt her, because she wholly mistook his real 
 meaning. Her face fell, but she shook her head 
 bravely, like a fighter taking a blow in the ring. 
 
 "Ye never cared," he added; "ye don't feel — ye 
 don't care." The low notes of his voice rumbled 
 through the little room. 
 
 An odd feeling of helplessness seized her all at once, 
 "It's a good thing for you, I don't," said she at length. 
 "Don't I know men are fools enough without making 
 another fool to add to the list? If I cared — good God, 
 if I cared! Why, I don't dare care for anybody. 
 Now, don't you think you'd better be going?" 
 
 She had his hat in her hand, and was replacing the 
 violin and bow. 
 
 He rose and stood before her, his hands clenched 
 tight, his eyes still burning, his voice vibrant. 
 
 "Ma'am," said he, "I nuvver seen ye but once. 
 Maybe I nuvver will agin. But I'll al<vays remem- 
 ber what ye said to me." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "I was hopin' ye'd say it would be a good piece 
 of business fer me to stay here this winter f er a while. 
 I was hopin' I could see ye an' hear ye play some 
 time, now an' then. I was hopin' — I was hopin* what 
 I ortern't to hope. Ma'am, I nuwer seen no womera 
 like ye in all my life. I reckon I nuwer will agin." 
 
 130 
 
POLLY PENDLETON'S VISITOR 
 
 "Well," said Polly Pendleton, at length having her- 
 self in hand, "you've got none the best of me at that 
 — I've seen a considerable many fools in my time, but 
 you're the human limit, son ! The best thing I can do 
 is to tie a can to you and get you started West as soon 
 as possible. You'll spoil over night. You ain't 
 strictly human. You're the worst Rube that ever hit 
 this island from any place on earth. Get out now — 
 you're liable to be arrested any minute! 
 
 "And yet," she added — still laughing kindly, and 
 all the half-virginal softness of her original nature 
 coming into the wistfulness of her tone — "I'm so glad 
 you came! You're a good sort." She held out her 
 hand. "Listen, friend — when you think of me I hope 
 you'll say I was a good sort too." 
 
 He reached out his arms, his hands trembling. 
 "Ma'am," said he, "I'm a married man. I had two 
 children, onct. My father was a preacher. Ye was 
 right, I'm startin' out to be a preacher myself. I 
 was startin' out to do something in the world to hep 
 the rest of them. But if ye hadn't said what ye said 
 jest now to me, I'd be willin' to throw it all away for 
 jest — for jest — for jest " 
 
 How, he knew not, nor she, he caught her arms, 
 soft and white, in the grip of his great hands, and 
 stood looking down at her fiercely, she as helpless as a 
 child in his grasp. 
 
 She was struggling to escape him now. "It's not 
 131 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 right!" said she. "I'm alone here — Oh, are you any 
 kind of a man after all?" 
 
 At this he dropped her arms, his own falling lax. 
 
 "Why, of course I'm a man," said he quietly. "Of 
 course I am. That's all I am. I'm a lost man, a 
 damned one." 
 
 "Go!" she whispered to him hoarsely. "I'm not 
 worth that. Go on away, and leave me something 
 decent to remember." She heard the door close softly. 
 
 Within half an hour after Joslin had left, Polly 
 Pendleton, unfinished cigarette in hand, turned in her 
 cushioned armchair as she heard the strident call of 
 the telephone, 
 
 "Yes?" she replied. "Who is it, please? . . . You, 
 Jimmy? . . . No, don't come up. I'm awfully busy 
 today. . . . I've got to work. 
 
 "Who ? — the wild man ? . . . Keep him ? . . . Ask 
 him to stay here this winter? I should say not! I 
 told him to get out of town! 
 
 "Oh, come now, Jimmy," she went on in rejoinder 
 to what she evidently heard. "There's no use talking 
 that way. . . . Oh, you're sore? Well, I can't help 
 it. I wouldn't have done any different even if you had 
 told me what you wanted. . . . You don't care if I 
 never come back? Oh, very well — same to you, and 
 many of 'em! ... So long, Jimmy, and when you 
 get decent come up. I may let you in, and then again 
 maybe not." 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE STRAIGHT AND NARROW WAY 
 
 WHEN next Haddon and his wife met at the 
 breakfast table Haddon was more than or- 
 dinarily out of sorts, his wife rather more 
 than ordinarily grave and silent At length he flung 
 back from the table. 
 
 "Well, don't it beat the devil," said he, "how un- 
 grateful some people are! Here our hill-billy turns 
 up missing this morning. Where do you suppose he 
 is?" 
 
 "I fancy he'll find his way back. Perhaps we'll 
 hear from him soon." She spoke quietly, not evincing 
 any of her own uneasiness over Joslin's disappear- 
 ance. 
 
 "You seem to have a very good notion of him and 
 his ways! I'll say he didn't have much politeness 
 about him — just to pull his freight without a word of 
 thanks. He may have left town for all I know." 
 
 "He's a strange man in some ways!" 
 
 "Well, if he's gone, he's thrown over the best chance 
 he ever had in his life. He didn't have a cent when 
 we picked him up. I think he was a nut, that's what 
 
 133 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 I think he was, talking about starting a college when 
 he didn't have the price of a pair of shoes to his 
 name. Why, our Company'd build him a half-dozen 
 colleges if he'd come along with us. I just wanted a 
 Httle more talk with him, and here he's gone, no one 
 knows where." 
 
 "I gave him the name of a little school out in the 
 town where I was born— don't you know — Brandon 
 College?" 
 
 "Well, Brandon, Ohio, don't happen to be on the 
 map of New York or the Cumberland Land and Min- 
 eral Company." He was scowling, his red face puffy, 
 unlovable. 
 
 "Good-by," he concluded abruptly. "I've got to get 
 downtown to a meeting — and I've got a hell of a lot of 
 explaining to do. This Kentucky friend of yours has 
 put me in strictly Dutch." 
 
 Without further salutation he turned to the hall 
 door. She rose, sighing, and passed out of the 
 room. 
 
 At just about the moment that the foregoing con- 
 versation was taking place in Haddon's home, another 
 interview was advancing, in the smoking room of a 
 west-bound passenger train heading from the city. 
 Of the speakers one was a grizzled old passenger 
 conductor who had spent his life on the line, who 
 stood now regarding a tall raw-boned young man, 
 whom he had been obliged to accost for a second time, 
 
 134 
 
THE STRAIGHT WAY 
 
 so much absorbed did he seem in a certain book v*zt 
 which he was poring. 
 
 "Tick-tts, please !" 
 
 "Good mornin'," said the young man, looking up. 
 "I didn't buy any ticket, sir, because I didn't have no 
 money. They let me through the gate in the crowd." 
 
 "Well," said the conductor, "you've no business 
 here without one. Where do you want to go?" 
 
 "I'm a-goin' to Brandon, Ohio," replied the young 
 man, his fingers now between the pages of his closed 
 book. "I've got thirty-five cents to my name." 
 
 "Brandon, Ohio — on thirty-five cents! What do 
 you think we are?" 
 
 "I didn't expect ye to carry me all the way to 
 Brandon fer that much," replied David Joslin. "I 
 only wanted to git out into the aidge of town if I 
 could, so I could find work. Please put me down 
 whar thar's a brickyard, an' I kin work my way. I'm 
 a-goin' out thar to study to be a preacher, ye see." 
 
 The gray old railway conductor looked at him stead- 
 ily for a time. There was something so frank in the 
 gray eyes that all he could do was to shake his head. 
 "I'll see you when I've finished making my train," 
 he growled, frowning; but he purposely delayed until 
 after the train was more than two hundred miles west 
 of the d 
 
 "Well, young man," said he then, "I guess you'd 
 better get off about here. My run ends here. This is 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 quite a manufacturing town, and you can get work 
 in a brickyard, or most any place, I should think. 
 Lord knows, labor's scarce enough so that anyone can 
 find work who really wants to work." 
 
 "I thank ye very much, sir," said David Joslin, 
 simply. "Ye've been right kind to me. I believe the 
 Lord will bless ye." 
 
 The conductor, abashed, made no reply whatever, 
 but stood looking after him as he slowly strode up the 
 station platform, his gaze this way and that. 
 
 The kindly advice of the railroad man proved use- 
 ful. Before mid-afternoon Joslin had once more en- 
 gaged in day labor in one of the brickyards of this 
 place, a city devoted to manufacturing interests. He 
 was delighted to find that here his wages would be 
 as much as a dollar and a half a day. The foreman 
 showed him a row of little buildings where, among 
 foreigners of all sorts, it might be possible to get quar- 
 ters and food sufficient to keep soul and body together. 
 Here, then, in a little room half lighted by flaring 
 gas light, within the sound of profanity and continu- 
 ous card-playing, David Joslin sat down for his first 
 evening alone in the great world of the Outside. 
 
 He began his daily practice of copying the letters 
 of the alphabet, using a piece of brown paper which 
 he had found, and the stub of a broken pencil. Hav- 
 ing completed a certain amount of this exercise, he 
 turned to the pages of his book, laboriously to read, 
 
 136 
 
THE STRAIGHT WAY 
 
 as best he could, the words of old John Calvin, written 
 long ago, about Eve, and the Garden, and the Serpent 
 and the first great Sin. 
 
 He read until he slept even as he sat. But as he 
 slept he dreamed and started moaning. He felt on 
 him all the weight of the original Sin. 
 
BOOK II 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE CLANS 
 
 IN the two years that passed after David Joslin 
 left his home, no word was received from him by 
 any of his friends or his kin, even by his old 
 grandam left alone in the hill cabin. Even had he 
 written, few could have read. But no letter came to 
 the little post-office. David Joslin had vanished as 
 though swallowed up by the great Outside. His ene- 
 mies sneeringly declared him dead or else "run out." 
 His friends had much to do to keep their faith in him, 
 Afterward a report came up from Windsor that he 
 had been seen there. None might know that David 
 Joslin was biding his time. 
 
 It was two years before a vague stirring came into 
 the life of the little settlement near which he had lived. 
 Then, upon a certain day of the late summer time, 
 there came winding down the rugged pathways of the 
 Cumberland coves, along the rocky creek bottoms, and 
 at length along the well-beaten trails of the larger 
 streams, little groups of riders. For the most part 
 they were tall and silent men, their eyes watchful as 
 they rode. All of them were armed. In many cases 
 
 141 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 a woman sat back of her husband on the family mule. 
 It was a gathering of the clans, and it was well known 
 that in case a man were hurt, his own women folks 
 could nurse him better than anyone else. As for that, 
 the women of the mountains were as grim and savage 
 as their lords and masters. 
 
 Slowly, steadily, watchful, alert, these strange peo- 
 ple of the hills came riding down, the little threads of 
 the broken procession converging toward the Forks 
 where, so went the vague word, there was going to 
 be a sort of meeting for a day or two — for what pur- 
 pose, few seemed to know. The general understand- 
 ing was that this meeting was to be held at the old mill 
 building across the river. The village postmaster and 
 the village blacksmith had passed the assembly call 
 impartially. 
 
 There was other advice of import tacitly accepted, 
 but, while it was generally understood that there might 
 be, and probably would be, a reckoning between the 
 tribes of the Gannts and the Joslins, those not imme- 
 diately concerned in the family quarrel treated both 
 parties with politeness. To carry word from one to 
 the other would have been an act of treason, and 
 punishable by the unwritten law of that country. Men 
 went about their daily duties and talked little even to 
 their own families. 
 
 The single street of the little village — scarce half a 
 hundred houses and shops in all — was filled now with 
 
 142 
 
THE CLANS 
 
 groups of men idly strolling, every one of them armed, 
 old and young. Among these were boys, some not 
 older than fifteen years, yet each confident in his own 
 ability to draw quick and hold straight, and longing 
 for the chance. The fingers of many a youth itched 
 to get at the handle of the brand-new gun with which 
 before now he had practiced so faithfully, saving his 
 coppers for "hulls" to feed it. The older men strolled 
 about unagitated. Group passed group upon the 
 street, each man staring into the eyes of his enemy, 
 his own face immobile, over his eye an impenetrable 
 film — the eye of the dangerous man. 
 
 Men who casually estimated the respective repre- 
 sentation of the Joslins and the Gannts thought there 
 were forty or fifty men on each side. It was doubted 
 if half of these would ever get out of town unhurt. 
 The sheriff was somewhere far to the west, at the 
 county seat. There was no peace officer, nor would 
 it have been a good place for one. It was a meeting 
 of the clans. The Cumberlands were going about 
 their ancient business in their own ancient way. 
 
 Some, fitfully interested, spoke of the new railway 
 now advancing from the Middle Fork up Hell-fer- 
 Sartin. There was talk that a pike road had been 
 built in as far as the county seat from somewhere 
 very far in the west, as much as twenty miles. In a 
 general way there seemed to hang in the air an un- 
 settled feeling, as though all knew great events yet 
 
 143 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 might happen. The war Outside — the railroad now 
 impending — the old feud now about to break a-flame 
 again — it was a grave time for these strange, somber 
 folk. 
 
 But a day passed, two days, and nothing broke. 
 The leaders studiously kept away from the young men 
 all that fiery liquor which would be certain to set them 
 beyond control. The tenseness of the long hours be- 
 gan to tell on all. Men became restless — boys stood 
 here and there in groups, talking sullenly, looking this 
 way and that, nodding a head hither or yon. But 
 after their old and usual fashion, the leaders of both 
 factions held them together — old Absalom Gannt and 
 Chan Bullock and their respective attendants. "Wait, 
 fellers/' was the arresting word that went around. 
 "Come to the meetin' at the mill." 
 
 The main floor of the mill building at the Forks 
 afforded a room perhaps fifty feet in one dimension, 
 low-ceiled and dark. The reticent postmaster and the 
 blacksmith had previded a few flickering lamps. And 
 finally thither, soon after twilight of the appointed 
 day, the mountaineers turned, group by group, man 
 after man, silently, two score Joslins and as many or 
 more of the Gannts, all of them too proud to stay 
 away even though a stern mystery lay ahead. Every 
 man of them was armed, every one of them ready for 
 what might come. The old mill building, the only 
 meeting place tacitly held neutral and the only 
 
 144 
 
THE CLANS 
 
 practical town hall available, bade fair to see red his- 
 tory this night. 
 
 And there was history done that very night. They 
 had all gathered, the men of both clans, thronging the 
 dark interior. For half an hour they had sat, silent 
 and alert, squatting here or there on their heels, slouch- 
 ing on sacks of grain or something of the sort. The 
 Gannts were on the left-hand side, the Joslins on the 
 right, as one entered the door. No one seemed to 
 know what was expected. There still was mystery as 
 to what had brought them here. Perhaps the post- 
 master and the blacksmith knew. If so, they would 
 tell in time. That word had been passed to the Gannts 
 that the Joslins would be here, and to the Joslins that 
 the Gannts would come, was the only sure thing; and 
 it was quite enough. 
 
 The blacksmith and the postmaster passed here and 
 there, setting alight their lamps. No man spoke on 
 either side. Both factions sat looking across the little 
 white-floored lane of No Man's Land which lay be- 
 tween them. A quick motion, a shout, the sound of a 
 shot, would have been fatal to half the men present 
 here; but if any one of them felt agitation, it was not 
 manifest by any word or sign, by any paling of the 
 face or trembling of the hand. Unagitated, calm, they 
 sat, each with his eye on his own selected man, ready 
 for what might happen. 
 
 What did happen was this: The door darkened 
 145 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 against the pale starlight. There stepped slowjy into 
 the interior, where the shadows lay heavy upon the 
 floor, the figure of a tall man. 
 
 It was a man whom they all knew. As he came 
 into the circle lighted by the lamps, a sort of sigh 
 went up, audible in its united volume. 
 
 It was David Joslin ! 
 
 Now they knew why they were to come here. The 
 leader of the Joslins had come back! That meant 
 trouble. He had not died — everybody knew that — 
 everybody had heard from down the river that he had 
 run out and left the country. But now he had got 
 courage to come back! 
 
 Yes, it meant trouble. The men on both sides eased 
 off their pistol belts, loosened their holsters, under 
 pretense of settling their coat tails or fumbling for 
 tobacco. 
 
 But David Joslin raised his hand at once. "Wait!" 
 said he. So, still silent, still motionless, they sat and 
 looked at him, many in contempt, as many in judgment 
 suspended. 
 
 He seemed thinner even than when he had left. 
 His face bore a certain scholarly whiteness visible 
 even under the burning of the sun — Joslin did not tell 
 them so, but the truth was he had walked more than 
 half the way from Brandon College — where for two 
 years he had slaved at learning as no man in all the 
 history of that school had been thought able to slave. 
 
 146 
 
THE CLANS 
 
 Penniless at his hopeless start, he still was penniless 
 after his overleaping of all rules and schedules and 
 curricula. He had walked to this, his great trial. In 
 some way he had been fed. In his own conviction 
 that had been by direct act of God. 
 
 Better clad than when he had left, in a dark suit 
 of clothing which did not fit him ill, with shoes at 
 least not badly broken, and with certain touches of 
 refinements of the civilization outside, none the less 
 he remained the mountain man they had known so 
 well But something in his voice seemed different. 
 His diction had altered perceptibly, if not consist- 
 ently. He stood before them now at ease, a leader, 
 a speaker, even an orator of some sort, at least in the 
 possession of that gift of oratory which in simple 
 terms commands the attention of an audience. 
 
 "Wait !" said David Joslin. "Don't make any move. 
 I know why you're here as well as you do, maybe a 
 good deal better. I sent word in for you all to come. 
 I've asked you to come here myself — I arranged this 
 meeting with some of my friends here at the Forks. 
 I wanted every moonshiner and feudist in the moun- 
 tains to be right here to-night, where I could look him 
 in the eye, and he could look me in the eye, and we 
 could have it out together. 
 
 "No! I don't mean to have it out in the old way. 
 I want to tell you those times are past. I see you 
 sitting there, Absalom Gannt — I know you're not 
 
 147 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 a-scared of me, and I'm not a-scared of yon. You're 
 fighting men, every one of you. And you've come 
 here to fight each other once more — to kill each other, 
 just like you and I and our fathers have been doing 
 here in these mountains farther back than any of us 
 can remember. You don't know why you do that, but 
 you think you ought to do it. It's a sort of religion 
 with us, just to kill each other. We don't know no 
 better — we never have. 
 
 "You thought I was a coward because I didn't tell 
 anyone where I was going. I didn't tell any of my 
 own people. In a way, I just sneaked out of this 
 country, that's true, because I wasn't yet sure about 
 it all. I went down the river. I got to the railroad. 
 I went up North. After a while I got so that I could 
 go to school. That's what taken me out of the 
 mountains. 
 
 "Before I left these hills I had resolved to learn 
 how to read and write and to cipher a little bit. I 
 didn't know then how much there was to be learned in 
 the world. I didn't know how hard it was to start — 
 nor how easy once you get started. 
 
 "I've been at school less than a quarter of the time 
 any boy of these hills ought to have been there. I've 
 learned more than I thought there was to be learned 
 anywhere. And this is the first thing I've learned — 
 that it's time we mountaineers stopped raising our 
 children for the slaughter. 
 
 148 
 
THE CLANS 
 
 *Tve learned that the only way to stop that sort of 
 thing is by way of schools. You know how my own 
 father died, and he was a preacher. I'm a-going to 
 be a preacher myself some time — I've preached once 
 or twice — they made me, up North there. But I don't 
 want to preach now. I just want to talk to my 
 neighbors. 
 
 "Now, I didn't run away. You know I won't 
 flicker. If it's war, I'm here for war — but I don't 
 want it to be war. 
 
 "Outside, in the Old World, where our great- 
 grandpaps came from once, maybe, they're having war. 
 It's worse than any of you dream. But they're all 
 fighting for a principle, as they think. We're fight- 
 ing for nothing down here. 
 
 "Now, I want to see peace in the Cumberlands. I'm 
 telling you, I want to start a college right here, on the 
 hill yonder. I'm going to do that some time. Don't 
 you believe me?" 
 
 He was looking straight at old Absalom Gannt, 
 and the old man, his eyes fixed steadily upon the 
 speaker, answered him now. 
 
 "What law have we got to believe ye? Ye've got 
 no money to start a school. Ye couldn't keep a 
 teacher thar if ye did." Thus old Absalom. 
 
 "That's true," replied David Joslin quietly. "That's 
 the Gospel truth 1 As I stand here now I haven't got 
 two dollars in my pockets. It's plumb taken all the 
 
 149 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 money I've got to keep the soul alive in my body so I 
 could study hard as I had to. But when I do get 
 through up there, I promise you I'll come here and 
 start a college. Money or no money — help or no help 
 — I'll come and start that college! If I do, will you 
 promise me that between now and that time you'll 
 not start any trouble here?" 
 
 The grizzled old man — leader of his people, there- 
 fore leader by strength of mind as well as body — sat 
 silent now, looking him straight in the face, and Joslin 
 returned his gaze with equal fearlessness. 
 
 "You know I never flickered, Absalom Gannt! 
 You know my people won't run away, not one of 
 them. You know I won't run away. You all know 
 why I left ; and now you know why I've come back. 
 
 Tve come here to do a mighty work, you'll have 
 to admit that fair. It's a terrible task for all of us. 
 We've got to change the ways we've been living here 
 for more than a hundred years. We've got to break 
 a hole in this wall that shuts us out of the world where 
 we belong, that makes us children and paupers where 
 we ought to be men and citizens. We've got to make 
 our own way out. 
 
 "Now, if I agree with you to make you a college, 
 and keep it open — a place where the children of these 
 mountains can come to learn to read and write and 
 cipher, and maybe go higher than that — if I can bring 
 people here from the outside to show you what a big 
 
 150 
 
THE CLANS 
 
 world it is that you don't know about — tell me, will 
 you promise me to keep the peace ontel I've succeeded 
 or failed — ontel I've made good or ontel I've told you 
 I'm a failure? 
 
 "Oh, I haven't got much," he went on hurriedly. 
 "I've had a hard enough time up there — they laughed 
 at me at first — I was ignorant as a child — I was only 
 a savage, a wild man, ignorant as any nigger in the 
 world — and wild — wild. And I was as big a sinner 
 as any in the world — I had a lot of things to forget — 
 me trying to be a preacher. Oh! haven't I sinned! 
 But I thought if I would come down here and get 
 you all together and promise you that if you didn't 
 like what I told you, you could kill me here — it seemed 
 to me it would part way make up for the heap of 
 sinning I've done in my life, young as I am. 
 
 "I'm a Joslin. You're Gannts over there — you and 
 your kinpeople. We're fine men, both families of us 
 here. We can kill fifty fine men here in three min- 
 utes. Or we can build a school up yonder on the 
 hill, across the river, inside of a couple of years. 
 Which do you want to do ?" 
 
 He stood silent for a long time, and all he heard 
 was the heavy, half-panting breathing of the men at 
 his right, at his left. There was not the shuffling of 
 a foot, not the movement of a hand on either side. 
 The eyes of each faction were glued upon the faces of 
 the other. A tenser scene could not have been; nor 
 
 151 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 could aught but starkest courage have evoked and 
 dared it. 
 
 There came a movement upon one side of the dimly 
 lighted room. A hundred hands went backward, a 
 hundred pairs of eyes gleamed. 
 
 It was old Absalom Gannt who had moved. But 
 his right hand went up above his shoulder, above his 
 head. And it was empty! 
 
 He rose slowly now to his full, gnarled height, and 
 stood, his right hand, empty, still above his head. 
 
 "Wait, boys!" he said. He turned and looked 
 toward his right. Silently as a cat in his motion, Chan 
 Bullock had also risen. But as he saw Absalom's hand 
 thrown up thus, he himself paused. The two faced 
 one another, each sternly gazing into the face of his 
 foe. 
 
 Joslin himself stood motionless, looking from the 
 one to the other, his own hands dropped empty at his 
 sides. He had spoken. But he knew that the fate of 
 the Cumberlands rested here on the decision of these 
 two men. 
 
 One false movement on the part of anyone, and 
 the closed space had been a shambles. But Bullock 
 with a quick gesture threw his own right hand above 
 his head. He advanced toward old Absalom, the lat- 
 ter toward him, steadily, grimly, each with boring 
 eyes that never yet had "flickered." Then there was 
 heard a strong and calm voice. 
 
 152 
 
THE CLANS 
 
 "Fer's I'm concerned," said old Absalom Gannt, 
 "I'm through if ye fellers air." 
 
 "Suits me," rejoined Bullock. 
 
 And so closed the meeting at the Forks of the 
 Kentucky. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 TIIE CROSSROADS 
 
 IF ever was happy wayfarer, that was David Jos- 
 lin, as now he held his course back to the little 
 Ohio village which had been his home these past 
 two years. He walked eagerly, hurrying as does a 
 man who realizes that there is much to be done with 
 little time for the doing. 
 
 He had no staff nor scrip, nor needed any in the 
 course of his journey out from the Cumberlands to 
 the edge of the great plateau. Here he found the 
 railway leading to the north, and followed its line as 
 any common tramp, for the good reason that he had 
 not money for railway fare. Certain gentry of the 
 road he met, but they neither accepted him as one 
 of the guild, nor hindered him in his going, for they 
 could not classify this man who walked slightly 
 stooped, with pale face, but with long and steady 
 stride, a man whose clothing betokened no luxury, 
 but who still had something about him which did not 
 grade him as one of the hopeless drifters of the 
 world. 
 
 At a little town along the road another kindly rail- 
 
 154 
 
THE CROSSROADS 
 
 way conductor lifted him far along his northern jour- 
 ney, so that presently he was coming to the lower edge 
 of what might have been called the North; for now 
 he approached the great Ohio River and its scattered 
 string of thriving communities. He had eaten only 
 when he found the means to pay for what he ate. 
 Twice he found it necessary to stop in a little town 
 and work for a period of a day or so. Rarely did 
 he sleep in a room. He was still a man of the wilder- 
 ness. 
 
 And ne was happy, was David Joslin. For the 
 first time, it seemed to him, the clouds were lifting 
 from his soul. Now, it seemed to him, he had done 
 something to offset his own sin. 
 
 Driving his worn body mercilessly, he was footsore 
 and weary when at length he arrived in one of the 
 little towns on the banks of ;he Ohio River, a junc- 
 tion point where all the north and south railway was 
 crossed by one of the greater systems running east 
 and west, a place of some five or six thousand inhab- 
 itants—one of those many communities which have 
 their own pretensions at metropolitanism, each like 
 to a thousand others. 
 
 Certain features of these centers of civilization still 
 continued to interest Joslin, a man of such extraor- 
 dinary lack of opportunity. He stood today, there- 
 fore, boylike, reading the lettering on the Strattonville 
 billboards which announced certain attractions in the 
 
 155 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 theaters and cinema houses for that evening. And he 
 saw something which caused him to flinch as though 
 smitten. 
 
 He could not turn away from the great letters which 
 he saw, two feet or more, widely displayed. 
 
 POLLY PENDLETON! POLLY PENDLETON! 
 
 HER OWN COMPANY 
 DIRECT FROM HER GREAT BROADWAY SUCCESS 
 
 Polly Pendleton! Polly Pendleton! David Joslin 
 knew not how many times the name stood there in 
 print. That a team of vaudeville artists had grown 
 into a certain vogue in the city; that this vogue had 
 become, for one of the performers, a sort of reputa- 
 tion ; that a concert singer had grown into being some- 
 thing of an actress, and the actress into some sort of 
 a star heading a company of her own; that this star 
 and her company — whether for reasons of success or 
 lack of success — had left the city to tour "the prov- 
 inces" — David Joslin knew none of these things. All 
 he knew, or cared to know, or could understand, was 
 }that without doubt she was here! She, the corpus 
 delicti of his sin ! 
 
 As the criminal will return to the very place of his 
 crime, so now David Joslin found his feet going where 
 he did not list. There came into his soul a great reck- 
 lessness. He forgot the occupation of his last two 
 
 156 
 
THE CROSSROADS 
 
 years, forgot the long road before him. Independence, 
 prodigality, seized him as fully as it might any gilded 
 youth. So, since prodigality also is a wholly relative 
 thing, David Joslin bought him a ticket to the theater 
 that night, repaired to a near-by restaurant, and ate 
 what was to him the most expensive meal of all his 
 life. 
 
 No longer the happy wayfarer, but an anxious, 
 downcast and distraught man, on his soul a shadow, 
 he found his way to his seat — his first time in any ac- 
 tual theater. The whirl of it all, the light, the warmth, 
 the color, the music, at first were things rather of tor- 
 ture to him. Where was she ? 
 
 But presently she came, bowing, smiling, light- 
 footed — it was she, her very self! Yes, these were 
 her eyes, dark and large as ever. Her little mouth, 
 turned up a-corner, was as sweet as ever. Her dark 
 hair curled as it did that other time. Her straight 
 young figure was the same, with all its tender curves. 
 Above all, her frank smile, her compelling air of com- 
 radery, were just the same as then, that time, two 
 years ago. 
 
 She had the same little habit of balancing up and 
 down on her toes, impatient for the music to give her 
 her cue. Her little chuckling laugh of sheer enjoy- 
 ment in herself and in life was just the same. She was 
 still the very spirit of life and joy she had been yon- 
 der, two years ago— two centuries ago it seemed to 
 
 157 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 David Joslin ! Then he had been another man. And 
 now — he was again that other man ! 
 
 As to the play, so-called, it was nothing to him, and 
 he knew not how long it endured. The concordance 
 of the strings and brasses meant naught to-night, 
 though otherwise they might have meant much indeed, 
 new as they were to his acquaintance. He sat mute, 
 his eyes fixed steadily upon one figure upon the stage, 
 the sum total of the sensuous appeal lost for him in 
 the charm of its central figure. 
 
 And then, electric, a clash in the music touched him 
 to the marrow. The orchestra leader waved his baton. 
 A few violins, a flute or two, struck into the opening 
 bars of an air that David Joslin knew ! 
 
 Polly Pendleton was at that moment off-stage, but 
 now ran tripping from the wings, smiling, shrugging 
 up her scant shoulder strap as she came. Her violin 
 was under her arm. She waved a hand to quiet the 
 enthusiasm, and played with the orchestra a few staves 
 of the air. 
 
 "You're the Only Man for Me" — that was what 
 Polly Pendleton would play, of course. Did not David 
 Joslin know? 
 
 When she came to the chorus, she stepped down to 
 the footlights and extended her two round, white arms, 
 bare to the shoulder — her slender, up-curved little fin- 
 gers reaching almost to the face of the bald-headed 
 leader of the orchestra, himself of a family of eight. 
 
 158 
 
THE CROSSROADS 
 
 To him she sang, her eyes dark and pleading, her little 
 feet tiptoeing, her voice no less than blandishment it- 
 self — "For you are my Baby — you are my Baby — 
 you're the only, only, only man for me!" And then 
 Polly Pendleton laughed with her audience at the jest 
 of it. 
 
 She ran off-stage, but must come back again, to be 
 sure. This time she raised her hands and her eyes to 
 a solid-looking citizen, who sat in a proscenium box — 
 a banker and a leading figure of the town, it chanced, 
 well known to all in the audience. To him also, plead- 
 ingly, bewitchingly, she asserted, "You're the only, 
 only, only man for me !" 
 
 And so jn time Polly Pendleton hitched up her 
 shoulder-strap once more, and ran off in her final 
 exit 
 
 David Joslin found himself, slightly reeling, passing 
 out to the open air with the others. Some men 
 whistled, others bore copies of a song, which they had 
 purchased from the ushers at the door. He never 
 could remember how or why he went to the principal 
 hotel. Certainly it was not to find quarters for himself. 
 Aimlessly he walked down the cross hall of the lobby 
 to another entrance ; and so sheer accident favored him. 
 
 He knew that the rustle of skirts at the door of the 
 "ladies' parlor" meant the presence of the woman he 
 sought — knew it by some strange super-sense that came 
 to him. A moment later Polly Pendleton herself ap- 
 
 159 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 peared at the door, looking across the hall to the open 
 door of the cafe upon the other side. 
 
 "All right, Jimmy," she called out to someone be- 
 yond, invisible to Joslin. 'Til be in right away. 
 Order me a milk-fed, won't you, and a bottle of pale — 
 ,with you in just a minute." 
 
 i She stepped back into the parlor. Without an- 
 nouncement, Joslin followed on in, and so once more 
 found himself face to face with her. 
 
 She stepped back, startled, surprised, frightened al- 
 most. "Oh!" she exclaimed; and then frowned. "I 
 didn't ask for anyone. Who are you?" she de- 
 manded. 
 
 Then with a sudden revelation she remembered. 
 Yes, pale and hot-eyed as when she had seen him last ; 
 it was the same man, the wild man from the moun- 
 tains ! 
 
 She could not quite evade him. "What do you 
 want? How did you get in here?" she gasped. 
 
 He did not answer at first, and she herself, not 
 knowing what manner of scene might be expected, 
 resourcefully took him by the sleeve and led him far 
 over to the further corner, where a sofa afforded seats 
 for two. She pushed him down into one end of it, and 
 moved as far as possible into the other. 
 
 "You don't remember me?" His voice was broken 
 and hoarse. She nodded. 
 
 "Don't talk so loud. They'll hear us." 
 160 
 
THE CROSSROADS 
 
 He seemed unconscious of her warning. 
 
 "Why are you here?" he demanded, as though she 
 owed him an explanation. 
 
 "Haven't you seen? We're playing here to-night. 
 This one-night business is getting my goat/' 
 
 David Joslin stared at her. "I know — I saw it all. 
 Sometimes a man's hard to manage." His voice was 
 savage. 
 
 "That's the truth !" said Polly Pendleton. "I'm not 
 big enough to throw you out, and I don't like to call 
 the porter, but I've got to have my supper before long. 
 Have you had yours?" 
 
 "Yes. It cost me six bits. That's the mostest I ever 
 spent for one meal in all my life." 
 
 "Is that so?" said Polly wistfully. "I wish I could 
 get mine down to that scale! Sometimes it's — well, 
 rather more." 
 
 "It left me thirty-five cents," said David Joslin, smil- 
 ing bitterly. 
 
 "Huh! That's just about what you had the last 
 time you saw me. Is it the same thirty-five cents you 
 had then?" 
 
 Again she laughed, and then rippled out in her ir- 
 repressible generosity, her sympathy. "Poor chap!" 
 said she. "Haven't you got ahead any farther than 
 that in two years?" Polly Pendleton could not see 
 any suffering unmoved. She herself had lived. 
 
 "It's odd," she said, something of his old story com- 
 161 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 ing back to her. "You must be thirty-five or six, 
 aren't you? — or maybe forty?" 
 
 "Not yet quite thirty," said he. 
 
 "And you said you were married ?" 
 
 "I was — once." 
 
 "Then what are you doing here? What were you 
 doing there in my apartments in New York? Don't 
 you ever stop to think ?" 
 
 "I've stopped to think about everything in my life 
 except this. But now all that's done. I'm not going 
 back to school any more." He looked directly at her 
 now. 
 
 "Why? What do you mean? Why do you say 
 that? You talk foolish! Why, listen, where do you 
 get this sort of stuff, anyhow? What are you mak- 
 ing me out to be? Have I ever asked anything of 
 you, I'd like to know? What do I owe you, or you 
 owe me? I don't get you, neighbor." 
 
 "No, I reckon not," said David Joslin, still staring 
 at her steadily from his end of the sofa in the dim 
 light. "I don't reckon you do. I don't reckon a woman 
 like you can understand a man like me." 
 
 "Am I so bad, then ? God ! I wish there wasn't a 
 man in all the world, that's all — I'm sick of them ! I've 
 got to make a living, haven't I ? Well, it's jolly hard 
 business sometimes to do that. Why, listen — it's only 
 an angel, and a good one, that's kept us on our feet. 
 I'm wearing all my old clothes and hats and things. 
 
 162 
 
THE CROSSROADS 
 
 And I don't know if I can go back to Broadway again. 
 You don't have all the trouble in the world." 
 
 "An angel?" said David Joslin, not in the least 
 understanding her, more than she had him in his last 
 remark, which she thought so slighting to herself. 
 "Yes, I reckon it was an angel brought you to me. I 
 was walking through here, going back to my school, 
 and here I find you! It was as though an angel of 
 heaven had brought us two together. What for?" 
 
 "You can search me!" said Polly Pendleton. "I 
 haven't got the answer. All sorts of things happen in 
 this game, of course, but I'm free to say I wasn't look- 
 ing for you to-night — and to tell the truth" — she rip- 
 pled out in laughter again — "I don't know what to do 
 with you now I've got you. Won't you please go 
 away ? I'm getting pretty hungry, man !" 
 
 "Miss Pendleton," said David Joslin, "that's not 
 the way to tteat me." 
 
 Silence fell between them. Polly Pendleton, hurt 
 and grieved still over the sting of his earlier words — 
 which he had spoken only in condemnation of himself, 
 not her, began to tremble about her lips. 
 
 She heard his low, vibrant voice go on. "I couldn't 
 bear to see you reach out your hands to those men there 
 to-night. You touched me, once! For sake of that, 
 I'm quitting my school." 
 
 "It was only in a song!" she broke out. "I've done 
 that to a thousand men, I expect, and I didn't care a 
 
 163 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 cent for any one of them. It's in the game — it's part 
 of my way of making a living. I've got to live/* 
 
 She laughed now with half a sob. "There can't be 
 in all the world any one man for me, I suppose — that's 
 the price we have to pay, who do this sort of thing." 
 
 "I don't understand you at all." 
 
 "Well, I don't— I won't— there isn't " replied 
 
 Polly somewhat incoherently. "Listen, man ! You've 
 got to stop this! I can't stand it. This means too 
 much to you. You've taken it all in earnest when there 
 wasn't anything to it but a joke — a game — a business. 
 And besides — I told you " 
 
 "What do you mean that you told me?" 
 
 "I told you — that — that I wasn't good! Do you 
 think that's easy for me to say ?" 
 
 "A woman as beautiful as you could not be anything 
 but good." 
 
 "Don't ! I can't stand this — I told you once before 
 I couldn't stand it." 
 
 "How can I help it? I told you a man is hard to 
 manage." 
 
 "You're the hardest to manage I ever saw. What 
 can I do with you? I want to be as good a scout as 
 I can — I don't really want to take money away from 
 blind babies, nor love'n affection from idiot Johnnies. 
 I don't want you at all, and you mustn't want anything 
 to do with me at all. Do you suppose it's easy for 
 me to say that? Why don't I let you make a fool of 
 
 164 
 
THE CROSSROADS 
 
 yourself the way they all do? Search me — I don't 
 know ! Listen — have you ever doped this thing out all 
 the way down the line? What's in your mind — what 
 would you like to do? — what would you like to have 
 me do?" 
 
 "I never thought it out. I — I don't know. I don't 
 understand this at all. I don't know why I came here 
 to-night, to see you again." 
 
 "Well, let's suppose now that I was a single woman, 
 and you were a single man. It isn't true in your case, 
 and we won't say anything about mine. Suppose we 
 were both free to do as we liked? How far do you 
 suppose, my friend, that thirty-five cents would go in 
 backing a theatrical company like this, that carries 
 thirty-eight performers, its own sets and its own 
 brass?" 
 
 Polly Pendleton, dependable always to do the unex- 
 pected, was not laughing now, but half sobbing, and 
 wiping her eyes on the corner of her skirt. 
 
 "I wish't you wouldn't do that. Please don't!" he 
 exclaimed. "I can't tell you how it hurts me." 
 
 "Well, it's you that's done it," she flared at him over 
 the corner of her ruffles, forgetting a half limb ex- 
 posed. "Did I ask you to come here? Is it the part 
 of a real man to make it harder for a fellow like me, 
 that's trying to get on in the world?" 
 
 "I don't reckon I've thought of that," said David 
 Joslin with sudden contrition. "I reckon I was just 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 thinking of my own self. I know the place in my book 
 that covers that. It's about Adam " 
 
 "Never mind about Adam!" said Polly Pendleton. 
 "Don't I know ! If you were just a case of an average 
 Johnnie that had money and no brains, I'd maybe take 
 you on and jolly well separate you. Such things have 
 happened. But here you are with no money and a lot 
 of brains. Excuse me, my friend, but you don't seem 
 to just qualify for running a theatrical company. Be- 
 sides — I like you a lot. I told you that before. But 
 when I sing, 'You're the only man for me,' that's what 
 I don't mean — what I never mean. Can't you under- 
 stand that? I wish you'd never seen me." 
 
 "I didn't know there could be a woman like you in 
 all the world — I didn't know what a woman really 
 meant." 
 
 "It'd be fine to have a man really believe in you ;" 
 half sobbing now. "It'd be mighty fine to listen to 
 that line of talk, even if you couldn't believe in it." 
 
 Polly Pendleton shrank back into her corner of the 
 sofa, and wrung her little white hands together; but 
 finally she suddenly turned to him once more, one knee 
 bent, her foot under her, as she faced him on the sofa 
 at last 
 
 "There may be women who could break a man and 
 throw away the pieces for the fun of it. Nix on the 
 vamp for little Polly. Oh, dear ! I don't want to talk. 
 I'm tired. What made you come here at all? The 
 
 166 
 
THE CROSSROADS 
 
 trouble with you is, you don't know what an angel 
 face is. You think I'm the way I look. I'm not!" 
 Polly was sobbing freely now into the corner of her 
 skirt. "I'm not, I tell you! Don't you know — and 
 I'd rather have told that to anybody in all the world 
 than you — you're so damned honest !" 
 
 He made no answer at all, and she went on. 
 "You've been such a boob that you haven't done 
 anything wrong. You've got your education ahead of 
 you. I'm twenty-six years old, and I know more than 
 you will when you're a hundred and twenty-six. You 
 don't need to have a house fall on you, do you ? Come 
 now ! I don't" — and here, in spite of all, she laughed 
 through her unwilling tears — "I don't want your little 
 old thirty-five cents at all! Take it and go on, and 
 save the country, friend." 
 
 David Joslin sat for a long time. "Sometimes 
 things are hard to figure out," said he at last. 
 
 "Yes !" said Polly Pendleton in a low voice. "Don't 
 I know?" 
 
 There was no answer save his white-knuckled hands. 
 After a time she hitched up the other foot on the 
 sofa, and sat, her arms about her knees, staring at him 
 that way, her eyes gleaming in the dim light, impulsive 
 still as a child herself — as indeed she was always to 
 remain. 
 
 "Listen !" said she. "I've got an idea. Come now 
 — you seem rather like a priest to me — it didn't seem 
 
 167 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 wrong for me to tell you things. Will you make a 
 trade, honor bright ?" 
 
 "If I gave you my word," said David Joslin 
 soberly, "I'd keep it." 
 
 "If you'll promise to go on and do what you said 
 you'd do — your education — your college — I'll agree to 
 quit this business in about two months, and when I do 
 I'll go into the Red Cross." 
 
 He did not answer her at all. Unconsciously, after 
 how long a time neither of them could have told, they 
 both had arisen. He stood before her, motionless, she 
 herself slightly swaying. Impulsively, she extended 
 her hands towards him in the twilight of the room. 
 
 "I know you!" said she. "I know what you want 
 You want to kiss me, don't you ?" She looked at him 
 gravely. 
 
 He could not answer. He made no motion. But 
 Polly Pendleton knew now that if any salutation came 
 from this man it would be from a different man than 
 the one who had entered this room a half-hour pre- 
 vious. In short, she knew, whether or not he knew it, 
 that David Joslin was saved. 
 
 "Among so many " began Polly Pendleton, try- 
 ing to laugh and half sobbing. "Oh, well " 
 
 He never knew how or when he found the street 
 
 Across the hall appeared the red and irate face of 
 a gentleman who, apparently, had long been wait- 
 ing. 
 
 168 
 
THE CROSSROADS 
 
 "Where on earth have you been, kid ?" he demanded 
 querulously. "Everything's getting cold." 
 
 "Oh, have a heart, old dear," said Polly Pendleton, 
 dabbing indefinitely at her countenance with a hand- 
 kerchief. "I had to powder my nose, didn't I ?" 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE ORIGINAL SIN 
 
 AS Joslin wandered along a street unknown to 
 him, lighted by flickering arc lights, he was 
 not conscious of the exercise of any of his 
 faculties, but a faint, sweetish smell came to him, a 
 thing familiar in its way. It was the smell of distilled 
 liquors. He looked up, and saw by the sign above the 
 door that here one by the name of John Moran sold 
 aged whiskeys bonded in the wood. 
 
 Inside, the room was still light, though now the 
 proprietor was beginning to put away his bottles for 
 the night, it being past midnight. Joslin turned in at 
 the door without any definite purpose in his mind. 
 The proprietor looked at him inquiringly, standing at 
 attention behind the bar. Joslin swayed slightly as he 
 approached, and placed his last two coins upon the 
 counter. The bar man was of the very plausible be- 
 lief that his customer was already the worse for 
 liquor. 
 
 "Sir," said he, "that's all the money I have. I want 
 to rest here to-night if I may. I want to give you the 
 dime, and I want you to let me keep this quarter." 
 
 170 
 
THE ORIGINAL SIN 
 
 "I'm just closing up," began the man, pushing back 
 his bottles upon the shelf. 
 
 Joslin looked at him straight as he replied : 
 
 "I know, but I'm alone in this town, and I've no 
 place to lay my head. I'm in trouble. Perhaps you 
 know what trouble means ?" 
 
 The man looked at him curiously, accustomed as he 
 was to all the vagaries of alcohol. 
 
 "Have one on the house," said he at length, and 
 pushed the bottle once more toward his customer. 
 
 Joslin picked up the flask with trembling hand, and 
 poured out a full drink into the glass. He raised it 
 to his lips, but did not drink. 
 
 "Sir," said he, "I find I do not need to drink." 
 
 The proprietor was disposed to be irritable. "On 
 your way, neighbor," said he. "This is a saloon, and 
 we sell liquor here." 
 
 Joslin perhaps did not fully understand all that he 
 said. Once more he pushed both the coins back across 
 the bar top. "Please, my friend," said he, "I'm very 
 tired. I come to you as to one who will aid the needy. 
 Let me sit to-night in that chair by the little table 
 yonder. Put the glass on the table by me. In the 
 morning I'll be here if the liquor in the glass has not 
 been tasted — and then I can go on my way, as you say. 
 If the liquor is gone, you will have had pay for it — 
 take this larger coin — but I will not be here then. 
 
 "I'd like to sit here and read, that's all," he added 
 171 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 after a while, since the other made no reply. "I have 
 no other place to go." 
 
 "Who are you, bo?" asked the saloon-keeper curi- 
 ously. His education in human nature did not often 
 lead him astray. He knew now this was no ordinary 
 drunk, and no ordinary man. "What's your line?" 
 he asked again. 
 
 "I'm a preacher, sir," replied Joslin, "or I was to 
 have been — till to-night." 
 
 The barkeeper laughed shortly. "Well, I believe 
 you'd fight fair," said he. And then quickly, "Say, I'll 
 take a chance with you ! I'll leave you here to-night. 
 I believe you're up against it. You can drink yourself 
 crazy, or steal all the stock if you like. Or you can 
 do as you say — stay here until I come back in the 
 morning." 
 
 Joslin looked at him, still swaying slightly, his hands 
 upon the polished wood, steadying himself. 
 
 "To some men I'd say, Take a drink and pull to- 
 gether,' but with you I won't," said the proprietor. 
 "Fight it out. It's a man's game, friend. By morn- 
 ing you'll know whether you're going up or down." 
 
 "And you'll accept that risk with a stranger?" said 
 Joslin. 
 
 "You've got the risk — this night will have bigger 
 chances in it for you than for me! Two or three 
 drinks and I might find you on the floor in the morn- 
 ing. None at all, and I may find you sitting there. 
 
 172 
 
THE ORIGINAL SIN 
 
 Risk's yours, not mine. If that's the way you want 
 it 
 
 "Well, fly to it, friend," he concluded, chuckling 
 grimly. "Don't ask it again — I don't know what I 
 might do." 
 
 "No," said Joslin, "I shall never have another night 
 like this. Let me sit here and read to-night. I will 
 thank you a\-ways." 
 
 "You're a mountain man," said the saloon-keeper 
 suddenly, noticing the accent on the last syllable. 
 
 Joslin nodded. 
 
 "They're hardy, and sometimes they can keep away 
 from liquor. Well, luck to you." 
 
 He pulled down the apron screening the shelves of 
 bottles, and coming around the end of the bar stood 
 for a moment looking at his visitor. Joslin was sitting 
 now at the table, the glass of liquor close at hand. 
 
 "If you're going to read," said he, "you'll have to 
 have a light — I'll leave this one burning for you." A 
 moment later he had passed out of his own door, 
 which he left unlocked. Joslin felt for him a strange 
 kinship, so that greater loneliness fell on him when he 
 had left. 
 
 The reek of liquor was still in the air, the sawdust 
 itself was redolent of it. But none of this now stirred 
 the blood of David Joslin. Two or three times he 
 raised the half-full glass in front of him level with 
 his eye — and placed it back again untasted on the 
 
 173 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 table. At last, quietly, pale, he took from his coat 
 pocket a heavy volume, which often he had carried 
 there. 
 
 There were certain worn places where the book fell 
 open readily. Familiar words stared up at him. 
 
 The solitary reader, trained to literal interpretations, 
 pondered what he read. He endeavored to restore the 
 vision of the Garden, the first home of Man. He 
 undertook to conceive the Temptation, to picture the 
 Serpent himself; indeed, tried to think as John Calvin 
 thought when he wrote his words : 
 
 But, since it could not have been a trivial offense, but 
 must have been a detestable crime, that was so severely 
 punished by God, we must consider the nature of Adam's 
 sin, which kindled the dreadful flame of divine wrath 
 against the whole human race. 
 
 Augustine properly observes, that pride was the first 
 of all evils. But we may obtain a more complete defi- 
 nition from the nature of the temptation as described 
 by Moses. For as the Woman, by the subtlety of the 
 Serpent, was seduced to discredit the word of God, it is 
 evident that the fall commenced in disobedience. This 
 is also confirmed by Paul, who states that all men were 
 ruined by the disobedience of one. 
 
 With propriety, therefore, Bernard teaches that the 
 gate of salvation is opened to us, when in the present 
 day we receive the Gospel with our ears, as death was 
 once admitted at the same doors when they lay open to 
 Satan. 
 
 174 
 
THE ORIGINAL SIN 
 
 Augustine ? Bernard ? Who were they ? Dust and 
 forgotten for the most part. But after them and be- 
 fore them men had lived, human beings, hoping, as- 
 piring, falling, sinning. David Joslin, mountaineer, 
 turned once more to the pages of the old dogmatist. 
 
 This is that hereditary corruption which the fathers 
 called original sin; meaning by sin, the depravation of a 
 nature previously good and pure; on which subject they 
 had much contention. Yet this timidity could not pre- 
 vent Pelagius from arising, who profanely pretended that 
 the sin of Adam only ruined himself, and did not injure 
 his descendants. But the temerity of the Pelagians and 
 Celestians will not appear surprising to him whc per- 
 ceives from the writings of Augustine what a want of 
 modesty they discover in everything else. 
 
 Every descendant from the impure source is born in- 
 fected with the contagion of sin ; and even before we 
 behold the light of life, we are in the sight of God defiled 
 and polluted. For "who can bring a clean thing out of 
 an unclean ?" The Book of Job tells us, "Not one." 
 
 We have heard that the impurity of the parents is so 
 transmitted to the children that all, without a single ex- 
 ception, are polluted as soon as they exist. But we shall 
 not find the origin of this pollution, unless we ascend to 
 the first parent of us all, as to the fountain which sends 
 forth all the streams. Thus it is certain that Adam was 
 not only the progenitor, but as it were the root of man- 
 kind, and therefore, that all the race were necessarily 
 vitiated in his corruption. What cavil will the Pelagians 
 raise here? 
 
 175 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 And then John Calvin went on to tell David Joslin, 
 sitting l.ere in the saloon of John Moran, what sin 
 was: 
 
 Wherefore, Augustine, though he frequently calls it 
 the sin of another, the more clearly to indicate its trans- 
 mission to us by propagation, yet, at the same time, also 
 asserts it properly to belong to every individual. And 
 the apostle himself expressly declares, that "death has 
 therefore passed upon all men, for that all have sinned ;" 
 that is, have been involved in original sin, and defiled with 
 its blemishes. And therefore infants themselves, as they 
 bring their condemnation into the world with them, are 
 rendered obnoxious to punishment by their own sinful- 
 ness, not by the sinfulness of another. For though they 
 have not yet produced the fruits of their iniquity, yet 
 they have the seed of it within them. 
 
 When arguing respecting corrupt nature, Paul not only 
 condemns the inordinate motions of the appetites, but 
 principally insists on the blindness of the mind and the 
 depravity of the heart; and the third chapter of his 
 Epistle to the Romans is nothing but a description of 
 original sin. 
 
 We say, therefore, that man is corrupted by a natural 
 depravity. Thus vanishes the foolish and nugatory sys- 
 tem of the Manichaeans who, having imagined in man a 
 substantial wickedness, presumed to invent for him a 
 new Creator, that they might not appear to assign the 
 cause and origin of evil to a righteous God. 
 
 The dour words of the savage old doctrinaire looked 
 up familiarly to David Joslin. More than once alone 
 
 176 
 
THE ORIGINAL SIN 
 
 he had pondered upon the cavilings of the Pelagians, 
 the deeds of the Manichxeans, the Celestians, and oth- 
 ers who had fallen under the invectives of this stern 
 leader of the past. Once they had seemed adequate 
 to him. That very day they would have seemed ade- 
 quate to him. But not tonight. 
 
 Two years ago he had closed the pages of his own 
 past. Now he knew that he was closing the book upon 
 yet another stage of his own development. Fellow- 
 ship, understanding, sympathy, the common human 
 struggles! From John Calvin's interpretation David 
 Joslin turned to an interpretation of his own. He read 
 from larger pages. 
 
 The night passed at length. Dawn grayed the dull 
 windows of the saloon front, opaqued that passers-by 
 might not see what went on within. But this dull 
 dawn was the opening of a new horizon to David Jos- 
 lin. He saw a wider world. He had learned that 
 dogma is not life. 
 
 He heard the door open. The owner of the place 
 entered, his usually impassive face curiously turned 
 toward the interior. Joslin walked fonvard to meet 
 him, on his face now at least the semblance of a smile. 
 John Moran himself smiled, as he looked and saw the 
 untouched glass upon the table. 
 
 "Well, friend, you've won," said he. "Here's your 
 quarter back again." 
 
 Joslin felt in his hand the weight of a gold piece, but 
 177 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 he put it back, his lip somewhat trembling. "I thank 
 you," said he, "but I can't take it." 
 
 "Don't you need it?" 
 
 "Yes. But I'll have to finish my own way, I reckon," 
 said David Joslin. "You see, I've been going to school 
 up North here. But now I've concluded not to go there 
 any more. No— I don't need it." 
 
 He smiled now, as he extended his hand with that 
 quality upon his face which brought friends to him so 
 quickly, and held them so staunchly. 
 
 "Good-by," said he, clasping his brother's hand in 
 his own large one, "I thank you more than I can tell 
 you. I'm better than when I came in here last night. 
 You've been a good Samaritan." 
 
 And so David Joslin passed out into a larger world 
 and a wider dawn. 
 
book in 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE CITY ON THE HILL 
 
 IN the Cumberlands, at the Forks of the Kentucky 
 life went on as it had from time immemorial. 
 There were few more houses than there had been 
 a hundred years ago, no more roads, little more of civi- 
 lization. But one morning, while yet the dawn was 
 young, a man standing contemplatively on the stoop 
 of his house, hands in pockets, looked idly up to the 
 summit of the tall hill, which dominated the little town, 
 and the gaze of this man lingered. There seemed to 
 be someone up there, so far away that he could not be 
 identified. 
 
 A certain mild interest arose in the observer's mind. 
 The figure yonder moved about slowly, rising and 
 stooping curiously. Now and again it disappeared be- 
 hind the crown of the hill. Then it would return, 
 slowly, stooped as though carrying some heavy bur- 
 den, would drop that burden and start back again. 
 
 It was Old Granny Williams who took down the 
 first authentic word regarding the strange work of 
 the man on the hilltop— she had gone up to take him 
 something to eat. 
 
 181 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 "Hit's Davy!" said she. "He's done come back 
 home ! He's a-startin' of his collidge. He war a-layin' 
 the stones in rows, this way and that. He done dug a 
 long sort of trench, like, whar the ground was level, 
 up on top of the hill. He shore air a-goin* to build 
 something." 
 
 Some scoffed at all this. Others looked up still more 
 curiously all that day. Word passed that David Jos- 
 lin had come back home to stay. The next day, at 
 about ten in the morning, as David Joslin dropped in 
 its place a heavy slab of sandstone, which he had car- 
 ried in his hands from his quarry on the hillside, 
 he looked up to see the cause of a shadow on the 
 ground. 
 
 "Good morning, Absalom," said he quietly. 
 
 Absalom Gannt said nothing at first, but laid off his 
 coat. 
 
 "Damn me, Davy!" said he, "Hit hain't nuwer 
 goin' to be said that no Joslin could do more'n a 
 Gannt. Ye a-workin' up here all alone !" 
 
 The grizzled old man stood for a time, hands on 
 hips, and looked about him. 
 
 "What's that blood on that rock yander?" he asked, 
 pointing to a stain on the slabs at the corner. 
 
 "I mashed my hand between a couple of rocks," said 
 David. He held up his hand. The edge of the palm, 
 livid and dark blue, had been bruised off in a large 
 half -open wound, from which the blood still oozed 
 
 182 
 
THE CITY ON THE HILL 
 
 slowly. "It's nothing/' said he. "I swore — before I 
 thought It'll be all right. 
 
 "I haven't any tool except this old piece of crow- 
 bar," he went on. "Dan Bagsley, down at the shop, 
 put a edge on this iron. I managed to quarry some 
 rock with it on the face of the hill yonder." 
 
 "Well, I'll be damned !" remarked Absalom quietly, 
 and, having so expressed himself, he did not fall to 
 work, but set off down the hill without further com- 
 ment 
 
 Joslin sat down to rest on the corner stone, which, 
 with his own hands, he had laid. The blood oozing 
 from his hand still further stained the rock, the color 
 spreading slowly as he sat. Under the corner stone 
 lay something else of the life of David Joslin. 
 
 He had buried here the old book of John Calvin, out- 
 lived of late, since he had found that religion and 
 democracy, and, indeed, hope itself, are naught but 
 human sympathy and human understanding. Between 
 the leaves of the fierce old pragmatist's volume there 
 lay the photograph of a woman — a little picture Jos- 
 lin himself had bought one day in a shop; the picture 
 of a woman with large eyes, dark, curling hair, a smile 
 upon her lips, as she leaned her face upon her folded 
 hands. Joslin was putting away the past, not regret- 
 fully, not longingly, but reverently. The cornerstone 
 was a milestone for him — one of the greatest of his 
 life. 
 
 183 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 After a time men came, old Absalom Gannt at their 
 head. They spoke little, nor expressed any surprise; 
 nor did Joslin's mountain reticence much relax at first. 
 He only said, quietly, that now he had come home to 
 build his school. 
 
 There were teams — two mule teams, a wagon, a 
 plough. Some bore hammers, others spades or axes. 
 More than a dozen strong they were, and as he looked 
 at them Joslin saw among them men of his own kin, 
 and men who but now had been his enemies. 
 
 Some now extended the excavation along the line 
 where Joslin already had pegged out the course of his 
 foundation. Others opened more fully the vein of 
 sandstone at the other side of the hill. The wagons 
 carried loads of rock now around the crest. This rock 
 they laid with no great skill, but steadily and soundly, 
 into the rude continuance of the foundation, which 
 presently began to outline itself definitely and surely. 
 
 It was to be a building far larger than any of these 
 men had ever seen ; but, as one said to the other, Davy 
 had been Outside, so he would know. And David him 
 self, sitting now and again, somewhat wearily, on his 
 bloody cornerstone, looked at this advancement of his 
 labors and was content. 
 
 Toward evening of the day when they had finished 
 the foundation, Joslin called his band of workmen to- 
 gether. 
 
 "Friends," said he, "we have begun. There will be 
 184 
 
THE CITY ON THE HILL 
 
 no more feuds in these mountains. This is your school 
 as much as mine — I don't deserve the credit for it any 
 more than you-all do." 
 
 The steady warmth and trust of their friendship 
 came all about his heart now. After all, they were his 
 people. All they ever had needed was a leader and a 
 chance. 
 
 He now dropped naturally and unconsciously more 
 or less into the vernacular that had been his, swiftly as 
 his own diction had changed in his two years of mi- 
 raculously hard work. 
 
 "We hain't been a part of our own state so far," 
 said he, "but we're a-goin* to be. Now we've got to 
 have papers from our state — a charter — afore we kin 
 run our school. We'll call it the Cumberland Insti- 
 tute, I reckon. Here's our application fer it. I want 
 each of you men to sign this paper. We'll be the 
 trustees. Hit's right we should be, because we started 
 this work all by ourselves, with the help of the Lord. 
 
 "Absalom," said he, turning to the old leader of 
 the clan of Gannts, "I want ye to sign yore name right 
 here. I've signed it first — I took that liberty. Sign 
 here, Absalom." 
 
 The old man stood, his jaws working hard under his 
 dense gray beard. "Davy," said he gently, "ye know I 
 kain't read or write." 
 
 "I know it," said Joslin. "I've put yore name down 
 fer ye, Absalom. Make yore mark. That'll stand just 
 
 185 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 the same. There's fifteen of us here, and we'll all put 
 our names down. We've been plumb forgot, here in 
 the Cumberlands. This will show that we asked our 
 state to accept us and our work. 
 
 "You, Chan," said he, nodding to the next man, 
 "come and sign." And Chan came and signed as Ab- 
 salom had signed — making his mark. And the others 
 followed, each taking in his hand the bit of pencil. 
 Of the fifteen of them only three could write their 
 names. And those names, thus written, stand to-day, 
 in reproach to one of the proudest states in the Union. 
 
 As one of the workmen expressed it, "things sort of 
 begun to drift in, like." Material arrived, and men 
 to handle it. Women now brought up meals. So 
 strangely animated did the men become that they 
 grudged the time spent even in their eating, nor dicf 
 the hours of daylight seem long enough for them. 
 Some found that shavings made an excellent bed for 
 the night. They slept sometimes in the shavings for 
 mattress, with their coats for covering. 
 
 Thus in time there arose, gaunt against the skyline, 
 the frame of the first college building in the Cumber- 
 lands. A sober, steady, quiet plebiscite went on. The 
 entire population of the village was engaged. Many 
 folk from the country around about came in. None 
 asked questions. The common thing was for a man to 
 arrive, and to lay off his coat. The least was said, and 
 all was mended among these. The work of one strong, 
 
 186 
 
THE CITY ON THE HILL 
 
 faith-keeping man had been done. There was not a 
 weapon on the hill. 
 
 Slowly, with incredible toil, the unskilled hands of 
 these unpaid laborers advanced the task which they 
 had set for themselves. Still the building extended it- 
 self against the skyline. About the bottom of the walls 
 now slowly arose the covering of rough-hewn boards, 
 so that it was more apparent what the finished struc- 
 ture would be, if ever it might be finished. The hill 
 folk marveled at the vast size of this building, won- 
 dering at Davy Joslin when he told them there were 
 yet larger in the world outside. 
 
 Joslin worked steadily with the others, growing 
 gaunter and gaunter as the weeks passed. A faint line 
 of gray had come at his temples, though he yet was 
 young. He had driven body and mind alike without 
 mercy these last years. 
 
 None the less, in these surroundings so familiar, 
 among these friends so simple and sincere in their con- 
 fidence, the soul of the man, so long sad and dour, 
 began to thaw, to show itself beneath the wintry as- 
 pect of a nature wholly absorbed in a compelling pur- 
 pose. To his lips came now more often the light jest,' 
 the grim quip, the merry retort, which once had marked 
 him as a younger man. Day by day, not unsettling 
 himself in the new respect in which they held him for 
 his wider experience, he grew into, or fell back into, 
 the old ways of the earlier days. 
 
 187 
 
 / 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 At times when the work was done for the day and 
 dusk had fallen, they would light a lamp in one of 
 the more sheltered rooms of the unfinished building, 
 and Joslin would read to them for an hour or so, ex- 
 plaining to them what he had read, telling them of the 
 greater world of thought and activity in affairs, which 
 lay beyond their knowledge, and thus proving to them 
 all the better the need of this work in which they were 
 engaged. No Homer of old was ever more a god to 
 his listeners than David Joslin here in the rude struc- 
 ture of his unfinished building. 
 
 Again, a yet lighter side of the nature of the moun- 
 tain man would manifest itself — few, indeed, were 
 more human than himself at heart. With a wide 
 smile, upon occasion, he might call a halt in the labors 
 for a time, and, taking from under a board the new 
 violin, which represented his sole acquisition in the 
 outer world from which he now had exiled himself in 
 turn, he would motion to them to clear a space upon 
 the floor, and fall to dancing for his playing. For the 
 time, the natural fervor of the mountain soul would 
 forget itself in the ancient relaxation of their kind, 
 and men and women, or even children, would follow 
 the measure of his bow. He played with a certain 
 native skill, if with unfinished art, but knowing well 
 the power of music as incentive and as stimulus. 
 These matters now strengthened him in the regard of 
 his fellows, so that he became a leader indeed, not of 
 
 188 
 
THE CITY ON THE HILL 
 
 one clan, but of many, of all. His word was law to 
 them now. Had he cared to preach, he could, indeed, 
 have stood before them now, and swayed them with 
 his words. But David Joslin did not preach. 
 
 It was thus that the city grew, and thus that the 
 feuds passed, no man might say when. There had come 
 from among the people, as always there does come in 
 time of need, a man who had learned and lived, had 
 joyed and sorrowed with them, and who, therefore, 
 was fit to lead them, and to speak with the tongue of 
 law and of prophecy. Alone, Joslin was wide-eyed 
 and sorrowing, as any man must be who carries bur- 
 dens other than his own. Unconsciously, he was learn- 
 ing the great truth that human sympathy is the only 
 foundation for human leadership. 
 
 "Fer a man who kin read the way he kin, four syl- 
 lerbles and all, Davy hain't stuck up none at all," said 
 old Absalom Gannt. "No, I reckon he's all right. He 
 hain't changed a bit inside." 
 
 "He kin play the fiddle yit, too," assented Chan Bul- 
 lock. "I dunno as old Levi Gaines kin play Turkey 
 in the Straw' any better than what Davy does, an' 
 Levi's been allowed to be e'en about the best fiddler in 
 these parts fer nigh on to forty year." 
 
 "That's a heap older than Davy is, no matter how 
 he looks," said Absalom. "I re-colleck when he was 
 borned all right, an' he hain't thirty yit. I'll say he's 
 a right servigerous man, young as he is." 
 
 189 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 "Well," explained Chan Bullock, resting his hands 
 for the time on the top of his mattock handle. "While 
 he may have been a heap like the rest of us one way of 
 speakin\ Davy hain't never been profligate. If he had 
 been, I don't reckon he'd of been called." 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 THESE TWAIN 
 
 ONE day, without explanation to his fellows, 
 Joslin ceased in his labors, and started down 
 the hill. No one asked him his intention, for 
 he rarely spoke of his own plans. They saw his tall 
 figure passing by the road beyond the forks of the 
 river — the direction of his home. A half-hour before 
 dusk that day, he arrived at the little gap in the fence, 
 which made the gate of his own scant acres, unvisited 
 for two years. 
 
 He walked steadily up to his own door, and, without 
 announcement, pushed it open. 
 
 Two women stared at him without speech, as he 
 stood in the half-light. One of these was his wife, 
 the other his grandmother — the latter had come in 
 upon one of her not infrequent visits, for in the Cum- 
 berlands kinship is held a sacred thing, and the ravens 
 of the Lord have never forgotten their ancient er- 
 rand. 
 
 Old Granny Joslin was the first to speak. "Well, 
 Davy?" said she, as though she had been expecting 
 him. 
 
 191 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 He did not answer her, did not bend in token of 
 greeting to the other woman who sat sullenly silent 
 He took his own place at the fireside — the chief's place 
 of counsel in a cabin home. It once had been his own 
 fireside. He was a stranger here to-day. 
 
 He stared silently at the ashes after the fashion of 
 the mountaineers, who mostly do so because they have 
 few thoughts. But David Joslin had many thoughts 
 now, riotous thoughts, that left his mind a scene of 
 combat. 
 
 This squalid interior, the unmade bed, the grimy 
 pillow coverings, the table littered with the dishes of 
 the earlier meal, the entire lack of neatness, cleanliness 
 and order that left the place a hovel, and not a home 
 — all this was as when he had left the place. There 
 arose for him the comparison of this with the sweet 
 quiet of other homes. 
 
 He had the feeling that gaunt fingers were reach- 
 ing out to claim him once more. These who sat here 
 — they were flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone. They 
 were his people. He was of them. What, then, was 
 his duty? And why could he not set out of his mind 
 the comparison that urged in upon him — of these with 
 others whom he had seen in a wider and lovelier world 
 than this? These were ignorant as once he had been 
 — caught in the shallows of life, victims of dwarfing 
 poverty all their days. 
 
 Of these two was one whom David Joslin had sworn 
 192 
 
THESE TWAIN 
 
 to love, honor and cherish, cleaving to none other. He 
 had lived after the fashion of his people. Corn bread 
 and hog meat ; pot hooks and the early bed for the 
 woman, crops and the occasional "frolic" for the man 
 — that was the life all of them had known. This might 
 have been any home; this woman, any wife of these 
 hills. But other pictures rose before him — before 
 David Joslin, a man with a conscience and a will 
 to do the right. 
 
 Joslin shifted in his chair, but there was no greeting 
 in his gaze. He did not reach out his hand to touch 
 that of his wife — indeed, he never would have done 
 that in the presence of another, for that would have 
 been in violation of the creed of the hills. 
 
 "Well, Meliss'," said he at last, "I've come back." 
 
 "I see ye hev," said she. "Hit's nigh about time ye 
 did." 
 
 "That may be. At least I'm here." 
 
 "We heerd tell of ye, Dayy," said his grandmother. 
 "We heerd tell all about what's happened. I don't 
 reckon folks'll laugh at ye no more. How far along 
 is the big house by now, Davy ?" 
 
 "The walls are up, Granny," said he. "It looks 
 right fine, up on top of the hill. We're out of nails 
 now — I've got to go down the river before long to see 
 if I can get trusted for a keg of nails at Windsor." 
 The corners of his mouth suggested a grim smile. 
 
 "Ye'd better see if ye kain't git trusted fer a sack 
 193 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 of meal," sneered his wife. "How ye suppose we-all 
 was a-goin' to live here? Hit's two year sence ye 
 left." 
 
 "I didn't suppose, Meliss'," said he. "If I had sup- 
 posed anything at all I'd have stayed right here. When 
 a thing has got to be done, you can't look at what lies 
 between you and it." 
 
 "Ye're a fine preacher o' the Gospel," said she con- 
 temptuously. 
 
 "I'm not a preacher of the Gospel," replied David 
 Joslin quietly. 
 
 "How come ye hain't, Davy?" demanded his grand- 
 dam. "I done tolt everybody ye was called. How 
 come ye hain't a preacher? If ye was, that explains a 
 heap of things. Preachers, they hain't held respon- 
 serble." 
 
 "It's not yet time, Granny," said Joslin gently. 
 "Some time, maybe. I don't know." 
 
 "Not time! When's it a-goin' to be time then? 
 When yore pap beginned to preach, he jest up an' 
 beginned, that's all, an' he was helt as powerful a 
 preacher as ary in these mountings. Don't I mind 
 how over on the Buffalo he preached fer two weeks 
 without a showin' o' grace, an' he kep' right on, an' 
 come evenin' of the fourteenth day things begun fer to 
 break, an' within the next two days he baptized over 
 two hundred souls, tell he taken a chill an' liken enough 
 to die from it, excusin' the quinine I gin him." 
 
 194 
 
THESE TWAIN 
 
 "Yes," said Joslin, "I know about that. But if I 
 don't preach there, someone else will." 
 
 "Well, what then?" demanded the fierce old woman 
 of him. "What's the matter with ye, boy ? Hain't ye 
 as good a man as yore daddy, or air ye made all of 
 skim melk?" 
 
 He only shook his head, and tried to smile. 
 
 "Ye' re a-workin' right alongside of them Gannts 
 up thar, they tell me," went on the old dame. "Hit 
 don't look to me like ye had sand enough to hurt a 
 flea. Why hain't ye killed old Absalom long afore 
 this? My Lord, looks to me like ye'd had chancet 
 enough ! Did ye come back fer yore pistol ?" 
 
 "No, Granny, I didn't come back for my pistol." 
 
 "If ye don't kill that man I'll do it myself some 
 time!" exclaimed the old woman savagely. "I hain't 
 a-skeered to do it, if ye air. An' look at Chan Bul- 
 lock — he's all the leader the Joslins has got now, sence 
 ye turned tail an' run out. He's a-workin' now, too, 
 along with the Gannts — well, maybe he's only waitin' 
 to git a good chancet. Maybe he'll git old Absalom yit 
 some time." 
 
 "I don't think he will," said David Joslin quietly. 
 "They've slept side by side for more than one night, 
 and neither made a move. Neither of them had a 
 gun — there's not a pistol in the whole lot." 
 
 "Well, couldn't Chan taken a hammer and mashed 
 him while he was asleep?" demanded the old woman. 
 
 195 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 "What better chancet will he ever hev than he's got 
 right now ? Did them people ever give us ary chancet, 
 I'd like to know?" 
 
 "No ; nor did we them until now, Granny. But that 
 day's gone by." 
 
 "Don't ye be too damn sure," reiterated the fiery old 
 dame. "They'll git ye yit, ef ye don't watch out." 
 
 "If they do," said Joslin, "I'm ready to go. I tell 
 you, times have changed in these hills." 
 
 "Huh!" began his wife again. "Ye're takin' a heap 
 on yoreself, seems to me, Davy Joslin. I reckon ye 
 think ye done all this — in two year!" 
 
 "No, I don't think so, Meliss'. I think the Lord 
 did it." 
 
 "And yet ye hain't set up f er preachin' yit ! How'd 
 ye come through school, anyhow? I'll bet ye're pore 
 as Job's turkey right now." 
 
 "I'm worse than that, Meliss*. I've got nothing." 
 
 "That's it! That's right!" went on his wife heat- 
 edly. "Hit's what I expected. Ye'd let us starve. 
 Well, I'll fix ye anyhow." 
 
 "What do you mean, Meliss'?" asked David Joslin 
 curiously. Under his words now, gentle as they were, 
 was the fierceness of the mountaineer, jealous of any 
 liberties taken with him. 
 
 "Well," she said, "ye quit me. Ye done left me 
 fer full two year." 
 
 "No, I didn't, Meliss'. I didn't quit you for two 
 
 196 
 
THESE TWAIN 
 
 years. I told you when I left it was for all my life." 
 
 "Yes, an' that throwed her on my hands," growled 
 Granny Joslin. "Still, I wouldn't complain if it hadn't 
 been them Gannts stole eight or ten hawgs often us 
 last year." 
 
 "Hit was a fine way to do," went on his wife, with 
 growing confidence in her own powers now. "I nuwer 
 seed a man in these mountings run away from his 
 wife that way, lessen he was obleeged to lay out er 
 git free from the law fer a while." 
 
 "I didn't leave the country," replied David Joslin. 
 "I left you. Thrt don't mean that I've left any of my 
 responsibilities. I told you I didn't dare look at the 
 things I ought to do — it was only a question of the 
 thing I ought to do the most. I had to get my educa- 
 tion first. Now I've come back. I want to see now 
 what I'd best to do about you." 
 
 "Fine time to begin plannin' now!" rejoined his 
 wife sullenly. 
 
 "It's true," said he, "I can't do much. I've got 
 mighty little to do with. Still, I want to pay my 
 debts." 
 
 She rose and stood before him, close to his chair, 
 her hands clenched into fists, her eyes flashing. 
 
 "Dang ye !" said she, with all the fury of the woman 
 scorned in her face. "Ye quit me yellow, that's what 
 ye did. Ye run away an' left me — ye was a coward — 
 ye was a-skeered to stay in here — an' now ye want to 
 
 197 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 come sneakin' around, tryin' to make peace with them 
 Gannts that we fit with all our lives, the hull of our 
 fam'ly agin the hull of theirn ! Ye come a-crawlin' in 
 here atter dark, an' talkin' to me about plans! Ye 
 say the Lord has been a-holpin' ye. I don't reckon the 
 Lord had much to do with it. I reckon ye could tell 
 a-plenty different story right now if ye wanted to." 
 
 "Yes," said David Joslin, his forehead wet now, "I 
 could." 
 
 "Ye act to me like a houn'," said she. "If ye'd been 
 ary part of a man ye wouldn't of runned away an' lef 
 
 •VIA N 
 
 me. 
 
 "David, I reckon ye got to call that kind of talk," 
 said the old woman quietly. 
 
 "Yes, Granny," said he, "I reckon I must." But 
 yet he sat silent, while his wife, now lashed into a fury, 
 reviled him in such words as need not be repeated. 
 Granny Joslin sat and chuckled ghoulishly, her pipe be- 
 tween her toothless lips. 
 
 "Well, go on, Meliss'," said she. "Ye're a-gettin' 
 ready for a trouncin', 'pears to me. Hain't no Jos- 
 lin'll take that." 
 
 But presently her grim face turned to the man who 
 sat there silent, staring into the ashes of the fire. 
 
 "What's the matter with ye, boy?" said she. "Air 
 ye quittin' ? Tell me — have ye been actin' up with ary 
 other womern Outside? If ye hain't, it's time ye tuk 
 an' taken a hand now in yore own house." 
 
 198 
 
THESE TWAIN 
 
 "Granny," said David Joslin suddenly, his face white 
 in his resolution for a "true confession and not a false 
 defense," "there are three women in my life. Meliss' 
 here is one. There were two others — Outside. If 
 you'd mean that I've gone wrong — for always — with 
 either, or any other woman in the world, that's not 
 true. I came here to tell you the truth. What I've 
 done you know — as much as you're big enough to 
 know or understand, Meliss'. Now, what do you 
 mean? You say you've fixed me — what do you 
 mean ?" 
 
 "As though I was a-goin' to keep on standin' it!" 
 half screamed his wife. "I tell ye I'm through with 
 ye as much as ye air with me. That new doctor filled 
 yore mind with notions about our bein' married. Well, 
 all right!" 
 
 "Yes, he did. It was wrong that we ever should 
 have been married. But I've ended that as far as I 
 could. I studied over it for a long time. What's 
 right for me to do ? Whatever it is, I want to do it." 
 
 "I didn't need to study so much fer my own part," 
 retorted she. "Thar's lawyers as well as doctors comin' 
 in this way nowadays. Well, I'm a-goin' to git me a 
 ch'vorce, that's what Pm a-goin' to do. I done sole 
 the red hawg to pay the lawyer, and he done tolt me 
 what to do." 
 
 "Ye heerd her, Davy," said Granny Joslin, nodding 
 her head. "I've knowed it. I was a-hopin' ye'd give 
 
 199 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 her a good thrashin\ though, afore she tolt ye — hit 
 would of been more manful if ye had. But it's true. 
 She's a-goin' to git a divorce — the fust time that word 
 has ever been heerd in our fam'ly." 
 
 "Nor in mine neither," rejoined the younger woman. 
 "We was always fitten to be married ontel the rail- 
 roads come in here — with their new doctors an* their 
 new lawyers. IVe been mocked here in these mount- 
 ings because my man left me, an* because I didn't 
 have no fam'ly. Well, I said I fixed it. I've got out 
 the papers." 
 
 "But there was no law against cousins marrying in 
 this state," said Joslin. "It was only a natural law 
 we broke — that's the pity of it all, and the awful part 
 of it all." 
 
 "If thar was law agin hit thar^d be a heap of mar- 
 riages ontied in these mountings," said Granny Joslin. 
 
 "Hit don't need to be that," expounded Meliss'. 
 "The lawyer done tolt me, if a man done lef his wife 
 fer two year 'thouten no support, she could git a 
 Jtvorce from him. Well, ye lef me two year ago — 
 ye jest been a-hintin' at something of yore goin's on 
 fer two year. Live with ye? — Not if ye was the last 
 man on airth! I'm done — I'm a-goin' to be free." 
 
 "You've different ideas from what I had," said 
 David Joslin, still quietly. "I only thought it wasn't 
 right for us to live together. I wasn't thinking of 
 shirking any duty, or breaking any promise, least of 
 
 200 
 
THESE TWAIN 
 
 all my marriage promise. I was going to pay you 
 all I owed — all I could in every way." 
 
 "Ye kain't pay me nothin' an' nohow !" stormed his 
 wife. "I don't need ye noways on airth!" 
 
 "I've got mighty little in the world," went on Joslin 
 whitely after a time. "I'll deed you the farm here. 
 I never asked you to do what you've done — divorce is 
 a thing unknown in our family or in these hills. But 
 one thing's sure — not for any reason — not even if 
 the first reason was taken away — could I go on living 
 with you now." 
 
 Trembling in her rage at this, the first actual slight 
 he had put upon her, his wife rose and half ran from 
 the room, deeds, speech and even tears denied her. 
 Joslin made no motion to restrain her, nor did the 
 old dame, chuckling over her pipe, even follow her 
 with her eyes. 
 
 "It's done, Granny," said Joslin bitterly after a time. 
 "She can do what she likes about marrying again — 
 I'll not raise a hand to help her or stop her. What 
 I have is hers, all of it, and that's all I can do. As 
 for me, I've not got a dollar, and I never will have 
 while I live, I suppose." 
 
 "Thar !" exulted the old woman. "I fotched it ! I 
 knowed it — I knowed thar was a other womern — but 
 two! Tell me all about it, Davy. Furriners, huh? 
 Well, I must say, Davy, that's more like — that's more 
 like ye had some sort of a m<w-sperrit left to ye!" 
 
 201 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 Her shrill laughter now filled the room, and swayed 
 her gnarled form as she rocked to and fro, her pipe 
 involuntarily falling from her mouth in her merri- 
 ment. "Tell me about 'em." 
 
 "One was a married woman," said David Joslin, 
 speaking freely before his grandmother as he could 
 not have done before his wife. "I didn't know how 
 fine and steady and sweet a woman could be till I 
 saw her. I never heard her say a word above her 
 voice. She was fine, always. I reckon she gave me 
 my start — she showed what there was to hope and 
 work for in the world. And she was beautiful, too — 
 in a way I can't well describe. She was so quiet, so 
 still, folks never would think she was much, maybe 
 not even beautiful. She's one worth more than the 
 world's estimate. There are such — the finest of all in 
 all the world, in all its days. She's married." 
 
 "Go on, Davy," chuckled the old dame. "Tell the 
 rest — tell about the other furrin womern. Ye said thar 
 was two on 'em. That's some sperrit, boy! I declar, 
 I'm a-thinkin' more of ye now than I done hafe a hour 
 ago ! While ye're confessin', come on through an' tell 
 me the hull story. Was this-un old or young — was 
 she married or single ?" 
 
 "Single," said David Joslin, still staring into the 
 fire; "and young." 
 
 "What manner of gal was she? Was she purty?" 
 
 "I didn't think any woman ever could be so beau- 
 
 202 
 
THESE TWAIN 
 
 tiful, in one way," said Joslin soberly and truthfully. 
 He raised his eyes now and looked fair into the face of 
 his granddam. 
 
 The old woman shrilled with laughter as she saw 
 the pallor of his cheek — the laughter of the old at the 
 ways of life gone by. "Go on, Davy!" said she. 
 "What sort of lookin' gal was she? Tell me now — 
 was she big or little — dark or fair?" 
 
 "She would just about go under my arm if I stood 
 up," said David Joslin slowly. "She was dark — her 
 hair and eyes both dark. She told me she was French 
 and Irish — she came from Boston, so she said." 
 
 "French and Irish — oh, my God!" exclaimed the 
 old dame. "Same as myself! Law sakes, Meliss'," 
 she shrilled through the half-open door beyond — 
 "could you a-blame him? Didn't I know his daddy, 
 an' don't I know him? Don't I know ary man, come 
 to that 
 
 ''Well, Davy," she added at last, "when air ye 
 a-goin' to leave us and go on back Outside ? I reckon 
 thafs the one ye're a-goin' back to, huh ?" 
 
 "I'll never see her again, Granny," said David Jos- 
 lin quietly. "But — now you ask me why I'm not a 
 preacher — that's why." 
 
 Silence fell now in the little cabin, so agonized was 
 he. The old woman nodded her head slowly. 
 
 "I'm going away now, Granny," he continued at 
 last. "I've hurt Meliss' mightily, and I'm sorry. I 
 
 203 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 sinned, and I was to blame for it, not she, and I know 
 that clear enough — she didn't know any better. I've 
 made nothing but trouble all my life, for myself most 
 of all. Sometimes it's hard to stand." 
 
 "That's right, Davy," said his old granddam, nod- 
 ding. "Yore way is a-goin' to be right hard, I kin see 
 that. Ye got a heap of troubles, one thing with an- 
 other." 
 
 "Well," said he after a time. "It's no use my 
 hanging around. I'm going back." 
 
 "Goin' back!" shrilled the old dame, in her tooth- 
 less mirth fulness. "We'll look fer ye some day — but 
 ye go on back now to that other womern. French- 
 Irish! — she'll be givin' ye the slip if ye don't watch 
 out!" 
 
 "I'm not going back to her," said David Joslin. 
 "I told you that was done. I'm not coming back here, 
 either." 
 
 "Huh !" commented his wrinkled ancestress. "Here 
 ye was with three wimmern on yore hands afore ye 
 was thirty year old — Meliss' an' them two others! 
 Well, I've heerd tell of mounting boys that has went 
 Outside an' made their fortunes an' come back. — Ye 
 been right busy, one way of speakin'. 
 
 Her grandson only stared at her, mute. 
 
 "As fer Meliss'," she added maliciously, "the Lord 
 has gave an' the law has took away. I don't put it 
 a-past her to marry agin — the lawyer man tolt her she 
 
 204 
 
THESE TWAIN 
 
 could if she liked an' could find ary man'd take her. 
 She's powerful homely now." 
 
 Granny Joslin filled her pipe and went on smoking 
 and chuckling. She stared so steadily into the ashes 
 of the fireplace, was so deeply engaged with her own 
 self -communings, that she scarcely noticed her grand- 
 son as he pushed back his chair, arising. 
 
 "Good-by, Davy," said she, as he reached the 
 threshold. 
 
 He turned from her and once more closed the door. 
 It was his door no more. 
 
 "Meliss'," said the old woman when at length she 
 heard no more his feet passing on the hard ground 
 walk. "Come on back in. He's done gone." 
 
 "What did I say 1" broke out the younger woman as 
 she clumped in once more. She flung herself into a 
 chair, her face distorted with her jealous anger. "I 
 knowed it — I knowed it all along. I knowed he'd be 
 a-carryin' on with wimmern- folks outside — he done 
 owned up to two — ye heerd him, didn't ye? Us 
 a-starvin' here, an' him livin' soft with them rich! 
 Well, I fixed him, an' I'm glad of it — he had it a-com- 
 in' to him, that's one thing shore." 
 
 "Well," said Granny Joslin after a time, "hit don't 
 look to me like thar was much hope; that's right." 
 
 "Hope!" half screamed the other, unrestrained. "I 
 don't want no hope. If he quits me, I reckon I've quit 
 him. I hain't so old, come to that. I kin raise my 
 
 205 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 fam'ly yit, somewhars else. Thar's other men in the 
 world besides him — an* real men at that." 
 
 "What do you mean, Meliss' ?" said the old woman, 
 quietly. "You've said that twict now. I know the 
 Joslins. He hain't nuvver comin' back agin — not in 
 all his hull life. He's done. He'll have enough trou- 
 ble — but he'll nuvver trouble ye agin. He's gone." 
 
 "All right, then," retorted the other angrily. "Let 
 him go. He's been gone fer two year, an' he mought 
 as well have been gone fer another year afore that 
 What do I need with him, with all the other men thar 
 is in the world?" 
 
 "Huh !" rejoined the old lady, "as though I didn't 
 know ye'd been a-carryin* on a civil courtship already ! 
 Seen him lately, Meliss'? Tears to me like ye git 
 worse favored every year, Meliss'. Ye're a powerful 
 homely womem, like I done tolt Davy now." She still 
 chuckled savagely, fearless as ever. 
 
 "Go on home!" cried the irate woman who faced 
 her. "I hate ye all, ye Andy Joslins. Who air ye, 
 anyways, to put on sech airs with me?" 
 
 But Granny Joslin did not go home for yet a while. 
 Instead, she lighted her pipe with a coal once more, 
 pushing it down with a horny forefinger. 
 
 "To dance through life, Meliss'," said she, after a 
 time, apropos of nothing apparent, — "that's what life 
 is fer. Ye set mopin' and dawncey all the time — sour 
 as a last month's cornpone — do ye expect a man's 
 
 206 
 
THESE TWAIN 
 
 a-goin' to love ye fer that? Yore old one didn't, an* 
 yore new one won't. But me — I kin dance yit !" 
 
 And suiting the action to the word, the old dame 
 did arise, and catching her scant skirts up in either 
 hand, executed a sturdy jig after the fashion of the 
 olden times, stamping out the time on the puncheon 
 floor, with an occasional exclamation of her own, 
 whirling and turning, and now and then extending 
 her skirts, at last snapping her fingers as she ceased. 
 She seemed not too weary nor out of breath as she 
 sank again into her chair. 
 
 "My God, Meliss\" she said, "I'm glad thar's one 
 Joslin that's showed hisself a man!" 
 
 She spoke to a vacant room — the other and younger 
 woman, gone fey of her own savage humors, once 
 more had flung from the room and was standing, 
 hands clenched, in the yard beyond. But old Granny 
 Joslin was not perturbed. She lighted her pipe once 
 more and sat for a time engaged in her own thoughts 
 as before — her eyes fixed exactly on a certain knot of 
 a certain log in the rude wall — she voiced her own 
 conclusions to herself. 
 
 "I was about that height my own self when I was 
 a gal. An' Lord ! hain't it sweet — to come just inside 
 the arm of a strong man, Meliss'? Don't I know? 
 
 "I was a-wonderin' fer a while which one of them 
 two wimmern Davy'd turn up with fustest. But, 
 sakes! I know — he tolt me plenty, if he didn't Meliss'. 
 
 207 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 French-Irish — dark and curly-haired — big eyes, like 
 enough — she come right under his arm when he stood 
 up — the sort that's sort of squushy when you hug 'em 
 — maybe light on her feet — laughin', maybe! Wim- 
 mern that laughs has always got the aidge on them 
 that cries. Why, I kin see that womern dancin' as she 
 goes along, alive clar down to her toes — that's the 
 one — you hear me now 
 
 And having demolished all argument on the part of 
 the listening knot, Granny Joslin at length did knock 
 the last ashes from her pipe, and, rising, leave the 
 empty house and cold hearthfire of what was no longer 
 a home. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 MARCIA H ADDON 
 
 DAVID JOSLIN wished nothing so much as to 
 be quite alone. He did not rejoin his com- 
 panions on the hill. Pleading his errand at 
 Windsor, he set out at once down stream with no 
 companion other than his own bitter thoughts. It 
 seemed to him he never had known a longer or more 
 terrible day, nor had the future ever appeared to him 
 so hopeless and foredoomed. 
 
 It was yet daylight when he arrived at the little 
 town, and he turned once more to the boarding house 
 of the Widow Dunham. As he reached the gate he 
 caught the fragrance of a cigar whose aroma was 
 unusual in these parts. Unwilling to meet strangers, 
 he halted an instant ; but finding no way out of it, he 
 advanced, an odd sort of conviction suddenly in his 
 mind. Sitting there, almost as they had sat two years 
 ago, he saw two figures, both familiar to him. 
 
 "Well, well," growled the raucous voice of James 
 Haddon as he turned. "What, what? We meet 
 again! How's this happen, stranger? Where you 
 been all the while?" 
 
 209 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 Joslin shook the hand of each simply, without a 
 word. 
 
 Haddon was heavier, redder, yet more coarsened 
 by his manner of life, than when he last had seen 
 him. The flesh hung puffily on his cheeks, drooped 
 from his folded neck above his collar. His promi- 
 nent eyes were yet more prominent and bulging. 
 
 As for his wife, it seemed more than ever as though 
 she did not belong with him, as though she degraded 
 herself by sitting even thus close to him. 
 
 "We didn't expect to see you here, Mr. Joslin," 
 said Marcia Haddon — "nor anywhere else," with a 
 faint smile. 
 
 "I always planned one day to explain to you, 
 Ma'am," said Joslin. "I didn't want you to think me 
 ungrateful. I may have seemed so." 
 
 Marcia Haddon's quick senses caught the increased 
 dignity about the man. She noted also, keenly, wom- 
 anlike, the new shade of sadness on his unsmiling face, 
 and wondered what was the cause. 
 
 But Haddon himself had no interest in these mat- 
 ters. "Well," he growled, "I'm not going to say I 
 was tickled to death at the way you treated us. You 
 double-crossed me — you threw me down, that's all." 
 
 "Mr. Haddon," said David Joslin quietly. "I did 
 not double-cross you. I never did that in my life to 
 anyone. You can't call that to me." 
 
 "Well, you didn't go along," rejoined Haddon 
 210 
 
MARCIA 
 
 testily. "I hate above all things the man that won't 
 go along with the bunch. It knocks to pieces any 
 sort of business — big men go in front and plan things, 
 and some little fellow comes along and knocks it all 
 out. I've got no patience with that sort of thing." 
 
 Joslin's pale face suddenly went white. 
 
 "I've not a dollar in my pocket now, Mr. Haddon," 
 said he at last. "I didn't have when I was in your 
 country. I didn't know the ways of your country — I 
 was ignorant. But you don't know the ways of my 
 country, and you're ignorant, or you'd not speak that 
 way to me." 
 
 "Don't bring it all up again, Jim," interposed Marcia 
 Haddon quickly, and raised an arm of intervention, 
 although Joslin had not moved. She tried to catch 
 her husband's eye, for she herself knew it was not 
 far to trouble now. "Why, Mr. Joslin," she went on, 
 "we were just talking of you and wishing we had 
 someone to take us in. We're here just as we were 
 two years ago; and, as you say, we're ignorant. We 
 don't know this country any better now than we did 
 then. You say you're not ungrateful — won't you let 
 us be grateful too?" 
 
 "He knows what I want now," interrupted her hus- 
 band testily. "It's time I knew something absolute 
 and sure about my company's investments in there. 
 Well, are you going to take me in this time, young 
 fellow?" he demanded brusquely of Joslin. "Let me 
 
 211 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 tell you, I'm not going to turn back again. Are you 
 going to try to square it now a little by helping the 
 man that helped you?" 
 
 "If it's any help to Mrs. Haddon to have me go in 
 with you, I'll be glad," said Joslin directly. "She has 
 been very good to me. I'm going back up river to- 
 morrow as far as the Forks. 
 
 "But I've got to be going now," he added, and so 
 turned away to the street gate, so shaken with white 
 anger that he scarce cared where he went. 
 
 Haddon, mumbling, rose and went into the house, 
 leaving his wife alone. Not long later she heard a 
 giggle, a protest, a chuckle of low laughter. James 
 Haddon had chucked the comely Widow Dunham un- 
 der the chin, had cast an arm across her somewhat 
 ample shoulders. 
 
 "Who was that talkin* outside ?" queried the widow. 
 
 "Oh, that? It was that long-legged chambermaid 
 
 you had working here last year — Jucklin — Joslin 
 
 What's his name? Never mind him — won't I do? At 
 least I used to." 
 
 The widow replied in such fashion as was obvious. 
 Their joint murmured, low-laughing conversation be- 
 came unescapable for the single auditor on the gallery. 
 At length Marcia Haddon rose. Something came upon 
 her on the instant, some swift, unappointed revolt, an 
 unspeakable disgust with the married bondage she had 
 so long borne unwillingly. She could not speak with 
 
 212 
 
MARCIA 
 
 her husband — quietly she passed the two and went 
 into her own room. 
 
 He followed her, after a time, and there she turned 
 upon him suddenly, her cheeks burning in two red 
 spots. 
 
 "Jim, I can't stand this sort of thing any longer. 
 I can't— I can't—and I will not!" 
 
 He stood suddenly crestfallen at this sudden revolt 
 of one long thought so passive. She went on hur- 
 riedly. 
 
 "It's gone too far. If it's not one woman, it's an- 
 other. It's in your blood now — you've been at this 
 sort of thing so long you can't stop. I've been ashamed 
 for years. How can I help knowing?" 
 
 "If I did, who's to blame?" he rejoined surlily. "A 
 woman as cold as you " 
 
 "Yes, that's true now, that's true ! But why should 
 you care? Only, I'll not go on this way any far- 
 ther." 
 
 Hands in pockets, he only turned away, growling. 
 
 "Oh, yes, back home," she went on, her hands at 
 the sides of her temples, "I seemed to be able to stand 
 lit. But here — things seem plainer, some way." 
 
 His sneer had the sullen anger of a man who knows 
 the indefensibility of his position. "That long-legged 
 lout has taught you to cheek me too. Damn him !" 
 
 "Jim," said she, "I don't like to hear such things 
 of you. It's not worthy of the man you used to be. 
 
 213 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 When we get back to the city we'll have to get on some 
 other way. I'll go on through with you now, because 
 I know your business interests are in real danger. I 
 won't say anything now. But that's all. I'm done. 
 This is good-by for you and me." 
 
 Dum founded, Haddon left her and went out again 
 into the darkness. He sat moodily, his cigar hanging 
 from his flabby lips. Mutiny such as this he had never 
 suspected as a possible thing from a woman like his 
 wife. There came to him, sternly facing him now, 
 two influences — new in his life of bluffing and jolly- 
 ing and pretending and evading and deceiving — the 
 indomitableness of a real man and the immutability 
 of a real woman. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE NARROWS 
 
 BY morning, Haddon had become a trace more 
 possible in his comportment. He did not 
 need to speak to Joslin further about the 
 joining of forces up the river, for the latter had his 
 own supplies at the landing early, ready for the em- 
 barkation, and had arranged to send down for his 
 own boat at a later time. They set about their journey 
 in Haddon's boat, as being more commodious and 
 faster. It did fairly well, the out-board motor chug- 
 ging along around bend after bend of the ancient river, 
 awakening echoes whose like had never before that 
 time been known in these hills where oar and paddle 
 and sweep had served immemorially. 
 
 At noon they ate their luncheon on a shaded bank — 
 not too happy a company, for Haddon was strangely 
 silent, his wife not less so, and Joslin himself, always 
 taciturn, found no reason for speech. As they re- 
 embarked Haddon did make some inquiry as to the 
 length and character of the remaining way. 
 
 "By and by, in four or five miles," answered Joslin 
 civilly, "we'll come to the foot of the Narrows. I 
 
 215 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 reckon we'll have to drag the boat up through the 
 Narrows. Between here and there we'll have trouble 
 — the water shoals out in a good many places." 
 
 This last was fair prophecy, as they were to find. 
 It never occurred to H addon that he could go over- 
 board and help in the progress of the boat when it 
 grounded. Joslin stepped out as he was, took the 
 painter of the boat across his shoulder, and, bent for- 
 ward like any beast of burden, waded on, dragging 
 the heavy craft behind him. Marcia Haddon sat 
 watching all this, looking from the one man to the 
 other. The patience of the poor man, the carelessness 
 of the rich man — these things indeed came to her soul 
 in the nature of a comparison. At length Haddon had 
 the bad taste and bad judgment to complain queru- 
 lously about the slowness of their progress. 
 
 "Damn it, man, is that as fast as you can go?" he 
 exclaimed, perhaps having in mind earlier experiences 
 with half-breed guides in tourist countries. 
 
 Joslin made no immediate reply, but stood rigid for 
 a time, very pale. At length, the painter of the boat 
 still in his hand, he waded back alongside the boat 
 and looked the other man in the face, his own eyes 
 glowing. 
 
 "Mr. Haddon," said he, "get out here in the water. 
 If we both pull on the line, we can get this lady up 
 there a good deal faster." 
 
 And Haddon, being wise, got out, accoutered as he 
 
 216 
 
THE NARROWS 
 
 was. Joslin, somber, taciturn, did not speak to him at 
 all for a half-hour or more. 
 
 At length they came, with an hour or so yet of day- 
 light, to the foot of the great pool which lay below 
 the Narrows. 
 
 "Here's where we'll have to be careful," said Joslin 
 now, as rounding the bend they caught the full roar 
 of the waters which had assailed their ears for so 
 long. Before them lay a deep black pool with a high 
 ridge of white running down the middle. Above the 
 pool a transverse bar of white entirely crossed the 
 river, here pinched down between two rock walls. 
 The stream plunged across a broken reef, dropping 
 some feet in a wide cascade. On either side were flat 
 ledges of rock now exposed above the water. Obvi- 
 ously, it was the intention of Joslin to walk alongside 
 and drag up the boat close to the shore. 
 
 "How far is it on from here?" demanded Haddon, 
 sullenly. "It's one hell of a looking spot, ain't it, 
 you've brought us to — black already as though it was 
 night ! I never did like water anyway." 
 
 "There's a short cut across the hills from here to 
 town — only a few miles," Joslin answered quietly. 
 "We can make good time once we get above here." 
 
 "It's a mighty bad-looking place," grumbled Had- 
 don. "I don't like the looks of it at all. How are you 
 ever going to get up through there ?" 
 
 "It's easy," said Joslin. "I've been through a thou- 
 217 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 sand times, I reckon. I'll take care of you, so don't 
 be afraid. Now, when I run alongside the ledge yon- 
 der, Mrs. Haddon, you climb on out the best you can." 
 
 She did so quickly and lightly. Haddon clumsily 
 scrambled out on his knees, red of face, still grum- 
 bling, irritable. 
 
 They stood now on a flat ledge of the sandstone 
 which made a fair footway, broken here and there 
 with steps as one eroded stratum after another dropped 
 down. The river itself had cut through the entire 
 ledge in the course of a£es, and made a plunge, as 
 has been stated, of many feet. From their new place 
 of vantage they could see the full height of what the 
 mountaineers called the "king breaker" of the Nar- 
 rows — a white crest of up-flung water which rolled 
 back toward the foot of the cascade before it was 
 caught in the downward pull of the current. The 
 roar of the water was now full in their ears. The 
 spot was gloomy, oppressive. 
 
 "I wish it wasn't so dark!" said Marcia Haddon, 
 huddling her arms to her. She scarce had spoken for 
 an hour before. "It's growing colder, too." 
 
 "We'll not be long, Ma'am," said Joslin. "Don't 
 be afraid at all. Just walk on up, and I'll get the boat 
 up a little way." 
 
 "\Yait a minute," said Haddon. "It's late, but I 
 just want to try to make a picture here — I want to 
 show the boys what sort of a place this is that they've 
 
 218 
 
THE NARROWS 
 
 sent me to — I've left my camera on the boat seat. 
 I'll have a try at it anyhow." 
 
 As Joslin now paused, bracing back on the painter 
 of the heavy skiff, it was caught by a strong side cur- 
 rent where the stream was flung back from its impact 
 against the rocky bank — a current which ran out, 
 headed almost mid-stream, toward the main break of 
 the big wave. The boat, held thus strongly, had no 
 great bearing on the water at its bow, but Haddon, 
 unaccustomed to such matters, forgot that, or did not 
 know it. Before Joslin could stop him he was clum- 
 sily bending over as though to climb once more into 
 the boat, tugging at the gunwale to pull it closer to 
 him. 
 
 It was then, in some way — no one could tell how — 
 that his foot stumbled and caught at a ledge of the 
 rock. He pitched forward into the unstable portion 
 of the boat, stumbled, and, as the wash of the water 
 came in-board, went over, still under the impetus of 
 his fall, and sank, directly into the outflung current. 
 It all had happened in an instant, nor could mortal 
 man have prevented it. 
 
 Marcia Haddon for just half a moment saw the 
 
 upturned face of her husband as it disappeared, a 
 
 face on which horror was written — unspeakable and 
 
 unforgettable horror. The next instant he was gone — 
 
 Hie was under. 
 
 "Quick!" called Joslin sharply to Marcia Haddon, 
 219 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 and cast her the rope. "Make it fast over some- 
 thing." 
 
 But he did not stop to see whether or not her weak 
 strength would serve to hold the boat. He was kick- 
 ing off his shoes, throwing off his coat, even as he 
 spoke, his eyes fixed on the water, as he made ready 
 for a leap few men would have dared. 
 
 A hat floated, far below. But nothing else showed 
 — neither here in the eddy, nor yonder in the side cur- 
 rent, nor in the great pool below. Haddon had gone 
 deep in his fall, he might have been carried out some- 
 where midstream, but why did he not show on the 
 surface somewhere in all this time? 
 
 All the time he called back over his shoulder reas- 
 suringly to Marcia Haddon, but he could not see what 
 she was doing — only he waited, eyes outward, strain- 
 ing, to find some object on the waters — some /object 
 now so fatally long delayed. But nothing showed. 
 At length, hesitating no longer, he did what no man 
 ever had been known to do before. He dived straight 
 out for the foot of the up-flung crest of the Narrows 
 of the Kentucky — straight down under the roll of the 
 "king breaker" itself. 
 
 Joslin before now had seen a log roll about here 
 for hours in the clutch of the back-turned wave, toss- 
 ing up and down until at length some freak of the 
 current set it free. He fancied that perhaps Haddon 
 might be caught in something of the same way. It 
 
 220 
 
THE NARROWS 
 
 was one chance in ten thousand for him now, on« in 
 hundreds for the man who was giving him that 
 chance. Would he win? 
 
 A myriad of blue- white bubbles made a veil across 
 the current down in below, and he saw this vaguely, 
 although the sun was so low that the water was lighted 
 but ill at this hour. The yeast of the water did not 
 hold him up well — he sunk deeper, still deeper, he 
 knew not how far down. Blindly his arms reached 
 out, feeling every way. They touched nothing — the 
 thin, oxygenated fluid hardly could be felt at all. He 
 rose, swam on across the stream, on, out, indeed, he 
 knew not where. He rose just beyond the foot of 
 the main chute, having been down longer than he 
 dreamed a man might stay and live. 
 
 But when he found himself still able to swim and 
 still able to see, when he had flung the water from his 
 eyes, he still saw nothing near him, nothing on the 
 black pool. He was alone. He could hear the cries 
 of a woman. He could not go back. It was all he 
 could do to reach the further shore. 
 
 He landed well toward the foot of the pool, with 
 difficulty pulling himself out upon the ledge there. 
 But as he turned once more, nothing but the black and 
 the white water met his gaze. James Haddon was 
 gone. Where ? 
 
 He dared not now look across to the woman whom 
 he saw wringing her hands. He ran to the head of 
 
 221 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 the pool, toward the flat rock where lay some charred 
 embers of many earlier fires. Eagerly, intently, he 
 looked out and down upon the water for some sign 
 of what he sought 
 
 There was some sort of sign ! Deep below the sur- 
 face, it seemed to him he saw some long dark object, 
 floating, swinging, rising and falling, but not going 
 down on the current. It hung as though held. Was 
 it some log? Joslin knew it could not be. 
 
 Drawing his breath in deep and full, he sprang again 
 far out, feeling with his arms, with his feet, but at 
 first touching nothing. Suddenly, just inside the 
 ridge of white water, there came up against his body 
 from below a heavy blow, as from some object flung 
 upward by a giant hand. 
 
 It was the body of James Haddon, swaying there. 
 It was swaying strangely, for some unknown reason. 
 It was James Haddon's free hand had smitten Joslin 
 in the face as though contemptuous of him even now. 
 
 But Joslin caught at the hand, tugged at it. The 
 body would not give — it swayed in the current, but 
 it still was held! 
 
 Joslin knew now what it meant. Slowly, gasping, 
 he turned once more to his side of the river, and once 
 more climbed out upon the ledge. He was growing 
 weaker, but there was yet much to be done. He 
 dared not look across the river now. In truth, Marcia 
 Haddon's face most of the time was buried in her 
 
 222 
 
THE NARROWS 
 
 hands— only she raised it once in a while to see what 
 new terror was here for her. 
 
 She saw this strange man, apparently insane, on 
 the farther side of the river, once more pull himself 
 up on the ledge, once more run up to the head of the 
 pool, once more stand there, at the edge, hesitating. 
 
 But Joslin was hesitating only to summon up his 
 powers once more. When he dived this time, the 
 open blade of his pocket knife was in his teeth. He 
 swam out again, and she saw him working part of 
 the time above, part of the time below the water, the 
 dark outline of his own body now and again flung out, 
 visible above the course of the white water which 
 ridged down into the dark pool. 
 
 At last she saw his head turn. He followed some- 
 thing, apparently, down through the fast water, down 
 into the black, down to the foot of the pool. She 
 guessed what it must be. 
 
 Joslin had known what held the body of James 
 Haddon fast. Carried deep down outward by the side 
 current, Haddon had felt something floating down 
 there, had caught at it — a thing no larger than the 
 straw at which a drowning man will clutch. It was 
 no larger than a straw — the thick cord of a fisher- 
 man's heavy set-line, armed with hooks depending on 
 short lines — two score hooks or more, each of them a 
 man-trap in such waters. As he had grasped at this 
 line the current had carried him on down. The first 
 
 223 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 hook had impaled him, passing entirely through the 
 palm of his hand. He swung without any possibility 
 of escape. Below him somewhere two or more heavy 
 catfish were tugging at the line, themselves impaled 
 without hope of escape. 
 
 All these things had caused what Joslin had seen 
 — the strange swaying of the man's body back and 
 forth there below the surface. 
 
 And Joslin knew by the time the body had reached 
 the foot of the pool, by the time he had cut loose the 
 remaining line and dragged the body up on the beach 
 below, that all hope was long since gone for James 
 Haddon. 
 
 Weakly now and inefficiently he did what he could 
 to try to revive life in the victim, but the bluish-purple 
 face, the wide-open mouth, the staring eyes, told him 
 well enough the truth. 
 
 Joslin rose after a time. The woman was standing 
 there still, her hands at the side of her face, staring. 
 He knew that she must know. 
 
 The boat was gone. Joslin looked down the stream. 
 He saw it on his side of the river, by freak of the 
 stream grounded on the bar which made out from 
 the point. He hastened to the boat, waded out, caught 
 it, and with the oars by chance left in the boat made 
 his way upstream to the foot of the pool. With dif- 
 ficulty he got into the bottom of the boat the heavy 
 body of the dead man. 
 
 224 
 
THE NARROWS 
 
 He did not speak at all when at length the boat lay 
 once more along shore on the left-hand bank, below 
 the flat ledge on which Marcia Haddon stood. He 
 caught the painter now around the stump of a 
 gnarled cedar near the edge, and so turned toward 
 her at last, facing the hardest of all this grievous 
 task. 
 
 She stepped slowly, horror-smitten, toward the 
 brink, her hands at her temples. Joslin held her 
 ;he arm as she looked down into the swaying 
 boat. The face of her husband stared up at her 
 — bluish-white, the thickened lips open, the eyes 
 staring. 
 
 "You must go away," said Joslin at last. — "Go over 
 there in the brush and sit down. I'll have to drop the 
 boat down." 
 
 He did drop it down to a point where the ledge 
 dipped so that he could make some sort of landing. 
 Slowly, with very much difficulty, he managed to dis- 
 embark the ghastly cargo. Able to do no more, he 
 literally dragged the body of James Haddon out and 
 let it lie upon the sand at the edge of a thicket. But 
 she had followed him and looked down speechless as 
 she knelt now, her hands still at her face, her head 
 shaking from side to side. 
 
 "Jim! Jim!" she whispered. "Oh! Oh!" 
 
 "I feel as though it had been my fault," broke out 
 Joslin. "I put out that set-line myself when I came 
 
 235 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 through yesterday. We fish there for catfish all the 
 time — they run in that deep water out there. He 
 must have got fouled in the line somewhere when he 
 got in. My God ! — I feel as though I had killed him 
 myself." 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 THE COMING OF JAMES HADDON 
 
 THE sun was gone, and the shadows were 
 black in the defile. The ancient river went 
 on with its mocking of them, now low and 
 hoarse, now cynically shrieking, as the voice of flow- 
 ing water will come, altered by the currents of the air. 
 
 The two thus alone in the wilderness spoke not at 
 all for some time, and then Joslin could only go on in 
 his own self-reproach. 
 
 "It was where we built the fires, Ma'am," he said 
 vaguely, still endeavoring to explain what could not 
 be explained save in the books of the gods. "I've sat 
 there myself more than one night — I studied there, 
 Ma'am, read my lessons, getting ready to teach. I 
 read while I waited for the fish to bite. I set that 
 line my own self. I never knew — oh! it seems as 
 though I had done this with my own hand." 
 
 "Don't," she said, gentle and just even now. "I was 
 afraid you both were gone. Please don't talk. I'm 
 afraid — oh, I'm afraid! — and I'm so cold — I'm so 
 very cold." 
 
 She was shivering now, Joslin as well. He hur- 
 227 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 ried to his flung coat and found matches this time, 
 came with bits of drift wood, pieces of dry branches. 
 He built a little fire. "You must get warm," said he. 
 
 "What shall we do? Oh, what shall we do? This 
 awful place — oh, this awful place!" 
 
 "Wait just a little," said David Joslin. "You must 
 get warm." 
 
 They cowered at the fire, two small human objects 
 here in the grip of the wilderness, in the hands of 
 fate indeed. It was some time before Joslin raised his 
 head. 
 
 "There's someone coming — 1 hear a wagon on the 
 rocks, Ma'am," said he, starting up. "You stay here 
 — I'll go see — it must be someone on the trail above." 
 
 He hurried to the edge of the undergrowth and 
 disappeared. The sound of wheels became apparent 
 to her ears. Soon after they stopped she saw Joslin 
 come again, accompanied by a tall gaunt man his equal 
 in stature, a man who came and stood near by her, 
 looking down in pity. 
 
 "Ma'am," said he, "this is mighty bad — mighty 
 bad." 
 
 "Help me, Absalom," said David Joslin. "Mrs. 
 Haddon, you go over there. We're going to take him 
 to the wagon." 
 
 Marcia Haddon turned away, her face buried in her 
 hands. She did not see David Joslin and Absalom 
 Gannt as they bent and lifted between them the dead 
 
 228 
 
THE COMING 
 
 body of the man who but now might have boasted 
 that he held these and the land of these in the hollow 
 of his hand. They held him now, neck and heels, 
 in the hollows of their hands, such being the will of 
 fate. They carried him up the hillside, and they laid 
 him on the top of the rough load of lumber which 
 was to make his resting place for a time. Then they 
 came back after the woman. 
 
 "I was down to the mill fer a load," said Absalom 
 to Joslin as they walked. "Hit's a lucky thing. That's 
 his wife? Oh, my Lordy, hain't that hard! Ye say 
 he's the Company man? He was rich " 
 
 "Very rich," said Joslin. "She's a good woman, 
 his wife. We'll have to help her, Absalom. She'll 
 have to stay with us for a while. We'll have to bury 
 him in here, I reckon — he couldn't ever be got out." 
 
 "Tell me, how come him to get in thar, anyways?" 
 
 "Fell into the boat — and on over — he was trying 
 to get something out of the boat," replied Joslin. 
 "The current carried him down under. You saw his 
 hand — that was where I cut the fish hook out. He was 
 swinging on the set-line when I saw him. I was on 
 the other side then." 
 
 "Ye've had a hard time savin' of him, Davy, that's 
 shore enough," rejoined Absalom soberly. "I know 
 what that water is. Well, the Narrers has got one 
 more man. Damn 'em, anyways!" 
 
 They spoke no more when they had come to Marcia 
 229 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 Haddon. She felt the hand of each of these tall men, 
 one at each elbow, aiding her to rise, aiding her up 
 the steep slope of the mountain, aiding her to climb 
 up on the load of lumber where lay the long shrouded 
 figure, covered with coats now — all that was left of 
 what had been, or ought to have been, all in the world 
 to her. 
 
 Absalom Gannt took up the reins and sat at the 
 front of the load of lumber, his back toward them. 
 Joslin sat at one side of the load, reaching out a hand 
 now and then to steady Marcia Haddon, who sat op- 
 posite, swaying weakly against the rude jolting of the 
 vehicle on the rough mountain roads. His hand was 
 light, gentle, quickly withdrawn. The wagon wheels, 
 creaking and groaning, sent their protest now up 
 against the mountain side as they jolted onward. 
 The wagon, tilting and rocking, carried on. Now and 
 again the long shrouded object rolled horribly from 
 one side to the other. On one side it met a hand firm 
 and strong — this sodden body of James Haddon, now 
 gone to his accounting. Upon the other side it met a 
 hand which steadied it gently — the hand of a woman 
 who, all her unhappy life, had never been otherwise 
 than gentle with him. 
 
BOOK IV 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 THE FURRIN WOMAN 
 
 THE new doctor from the new town on the 
 new railroad came not only once, but many 
 times to call upon Marcia Haddon, seriously 
 ill at Granny Williams' home. A high fever held her 
 by the time she had arrived in the night after that 
 terrible day upon the river. By the next day delirium 
 had its will of her. The kindly inhabitants called 
 it "chills and fever." It was a chilled heart, a fevered 
 mind. 
 
 Granny Williams was wholly contemptuous of the 
 new doctor, or of any doctor. It was Joslin who 
 insisted that the old-woman remedies should not be 
 trusted, who sent for the only modern physician thus 
 far known in that portion of the world. The presence 
 of the latter was accepted only grudgingly by Granny 
 Williams, who insisted that camomile and boneset was 
 all the "furrin woman" needed. But the new doctor, 
 himself a voice in the wilderness, was a young man 
 who understood many things. 
 
 hen after many days his patient had worn out 
 the fever and showed certain signs of convalescence, 
 
 233 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 she lay a long time with mind apparently a blank, 
 inquiring nothing as to her surroundings, and equally 
 incurious in regard to herself. 
 
 "Where is he?" she asked at length, upon one day 
 when Joslin had come to find how she was progress- 
 ing. She had come, weakly, to look forward to these 
 daily visits, although often she did not speak to him 
 at all. 
 
 "We cared for him," answered he. "When you are 
 well enough we'll show you. We sent out a man with 
 a telegram. We have word for you." 
 
 She shook her head slowly from side to side. 
 "Poor boy," she said, "poor boy! Well, it's over for 
 him. I wish it were for me." For the time she did 
 not speak further. 
 
 But slowly, under inexorable nature's rule, the duty 
 of living came forward to her consciousness, insistent, 
 imperative. Marcia Haddon, little by little, under- 
 took once more to knit the raveled sleeve. The 
 strangeness of her new surroundings proved of itself 
 a benefit. The faces that she saw about her, kindly 
 as they were, were faces as of another world. Those 
 who attended her spoke a language which at first she 
 scarcely understood. For days she lay and looked at 
 them with not even a smile upon her face to thank 
 them, passive, incurious, but after a time observing and 
 questioning. 
 
 "She's powerful weak," said old Granny Williams 
 234 
 
THE FURRIN WOMAN 
 
 to a neighbor, shaking her head now and then. "Them 
 furrin women kain't stand nothin\ To look at her 
 ye'd think she was the one that got drownded in the 
 Narrers, not him. 
 
 "They say he was moughty rich," she continued. 
 "They say he owned all the land acrosst the river from 
 here, an' him an' his Company owns half of Hell-fer- 
 Sartin, an' most on Newfound. Well, I reckon it 
 won't do him no sight of good right now — nor her 
 neither, onlessen she gets pearter right soon. If she 
 hain't better in a week or so, we'd e'en about as well 
 measure her." 
 
 But they did not measure Marcia Haddon for her 
 grave clothes. She began again to take up the affairs 
 of life. She found the sympathy of all these people 
 of a very gentle sort. The secretiveness and the 
 apathy of the Cumberlands, taking life as it came, were 
 extended to the stranger as well. But all her life it 
 had been Marcia Haddon's trait to observe rather than 
 to talk; and for a long time she only observed — and 
 pondered what she saw. 
 
 These strange people — how poor they were, how 
 very poor ! Their furniture was mostly made by hand 
 — these chairs, their legs stubbed by an age of wear 
 on the puncheon floors, went back a generation or 
 more. She rested in a corded bed, made of walnut 
 in rude mountain workmanship. The table upon which 
 she saw daily meals served was hewn out by a local 
 
 235 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 carpenter. The spinning wheel whose whirring she 
 heard in another room was, as Granny Williams as- 
 sured her, made by her own father in an earlier time. 
 "An* she's a good wheel/' added the old woman. "I 
 kin run her all day an* she'll never onct throw her 
 band." The little flax wheel with its more strident 
 hum also was an heirloom carefully preserved. 
 
 And all these people were so busy, so under the 
 constant necessity of individual, personal labor. The 
 skeining and the hanking of yarns, the winding of 
 bobbins for the looms, the repair of the loom sleighs by 
 the ancient who made a specialty in such matters — all 
 these things spoke of a day entirely foreign to all 
 the experience of Marcia Haddon, who, born into easy 
 circumstances, in another country, never had known 
 real labor. 
 
 There was no cook-stove in Granny Williams' house 
 — the old pot-hooks at the fireside, the crane and its 
 pendent hooks, the heavy cast-iron oven, the brass 
 kettles, an infrequent copper vessel of this sort or that 
 — all these went back to another day. The "furrin 
 woman" for the first time in her life saw what was 
 the responsibility of a home, saw first the beauty of 
 personal industry. 
 
 Time was coming on now for the hoeing of the 
 corn planted on these steep hillsides. From her win- 
 dow Marcia Haddon could see women working along 
 with the men, children as well. And then Granny 
 
 236 
 
THE FURRIN WOMAN 
 
 Williams would tell her of her own young wifehood, 
 when with her husband she had started in to clear their 
 farm, and had helped in digging out the stumps and 
 in logging up the felled trees for the burning. She 
 spoke with pride of granddaughters of her own able 
 to do as good a day at the hoe as "ary man." 
 
 ve got a hundred and twenty-two children an* 
 grandchildren," said Granny Williams with much 
 pride, "or else it's two hundred and twenty-six — I 
 don't remember which. I could have tolt it all right 
 a while back, but someone made off with my fam'ly 
 stick — I had it all notched on a stick. Ever' time a 
 grandbaby was borned I cut a notch on that stick, an' 
 I lef it out at the woodshed. I reckon somebody 
 taken it fer a poker. How many children have ye got, 
 Ma'am?" 
 
 "None," said Marcia Haddon. 
 
 Granny Williams looked at her with pity, but made 
 no comment, for this thing, to her so deplorable and 
 indeed so disgraceful, was not to be mentioned in 
 reproach. 
 
 Humoring the sick woman, she contented herself 
 with showing the many articles about the house which 
 she herself had made with her own hands — counter- 
 panes and quilts, cloth woven on her own hand-loom. 
 There were a few things which she declared must 
 have come "acrosst the mountings" ; that is to say, they 
 must have been brought in by her ancestors in the first 
 
 237 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 migration over the Appalachians. A book or two — 
 strangely enough, an old Latin grammar — remained of 
 these belongings. 
 
 "I kain't read in none of 'em," admitted Granny 
 Williams. "Some of my folks mought have been able 
 to onct, but none of us kin read or write. 
 
 "Do ye reckon, Ma'am/' she added, "that when the 
 railroad comes we'll be able to buy calico an' jeans 
 in the stores? Hit's powerful slow weavin' cloth, 
 though I will say it wears longer'n anything what ye 
 kin buy. . . . How old was ye when ye first begun to 
 spin. Ma'am?" 
 
 "I never did," said Marcia Haddon. "I can't even 
 knit 
 
 "Well, 'pears like ye must be powerful triflin'," 
 said Granny Williams candidly, plying her own needles 
 with renewed zeal at the moment. 
 
 Marcia Haddon looked at her suddenly. "I believe 
 you're right, Granny!" said she. 
 
 "That new railroad," resumed the old lady, pres- 
 ently, "hit's a-goin' to change a power of things in 
 these valleys. I always said that if it actual come in 
 here, I was a-goin' to take one ride on it if it kilt me. 
 Plenty of our folks is a-skeered to go on the railroad 
 keers. Now, thar was Preacher Bonnell — he went 
 Outside, an' he taken a ride on them railroad keers, 
 an' it liken to been the eend on him. He tolt us all 
 about it when he come back. 
 
 238 
 
THE FURRIN WOMAN 
 
 "Preacher Bonnell was a-ridin' along in the keers 
 with his haid outen the winder, an' he seen a place 
 bigger'n a house, a regular black hole in the side of 
 the hill, an' the engyne an* all them keers a-headin' 
 right straight fer it. He knowed in a minute the 
 Devil had a holt of the engyne, an' that this here was 
 the Bottomless Pit whar he was a-goin' to take all 
 them people. Preacher Bonnell, he up an' give one 
 whoop, an' off he jumped. He rolled down on the 
 bank more'n fifty feet, an* when he come to he looked 
 up, an' thar wasn't nary sign of the engyne or them 
 keers ! They had went right inter the Pit, like he had 
 knowed they would. Preacher Bonnell, he said it war 
 a leadin' to him nuvver to go on no more railroad 
 keers. He says something about that every sermon 
 he preaches nowadays. He warns us all agin them 
 keers. I don't see how ye ever had the heart, Ma'am, 
 to ride on them things, weak an' triflin' as ye seem 
 mostly. Fact is, what made ye come in here anyways, 
 Ma'am?" 
 
 "It was my husband — you know he was one of the 
 officers of the Company that owns so much land 
 around here. I had met Mr. Joslin before. He went 
 to New York with us two years ago." 
 
 "Well, ye'll see a moughty big building up on 
 
 yon hill, Ma'am," said Granny Williams with pride. 
 
 .\ y, he's a-buildin' it. Hit sartin is bigger'n ary- 
 
 thing ye ever seen in New York. Hit's bigger'n ary 
 
 239 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 church house ever was knowed in these mountings. I 
 reckon it was part of the boarding they had in that 
 load of lumber they brung yore man in on. 
 
 "But Davy," she went on, "he's changed a heap, 
 these last two years. Used to be as natteral fer him 
 to swear as to take a drink — an* in buildin' a house 
 swearin' comes natteral to ary man. But thar hain't 
 nary man heerd Davy Joslin say one cuss word sence 
 he come back from the North. All the trouble he's 
 had with his wife, too Ye know about his wife?" 
 
 "I knew he was married." 
 
 "He was, an' he hain't," said Granny Williams. 
 "Well, Meliss', she tuk an* up an' went over to the 
 railroad an' seen the new lawyer that's come in thar, 
 an' last term of co'te she got her a divorce — that's 
 what she done. That was a few weeks ago, while ye 
 was sick." 
 
 "Divorce? He didn't tell me " 
 
 "That must of been a right interim* term of co'te, 
 Ma'am. Thar was only two men kilt, an' this here 
 one divorce — but it's the fust divorce ever knowed in 
 this country. They say he didn't make no furse at 
 all about her leavin' of him. Somebody was a-tellin' 
 me that that leaves her free to marry agin if she wants 
 to, or him either. Nuwer was such a thing knowed in 
 these mountings afore, fur as I can tell — there shorely 
 wasn't nuwer such a thing knowed among my people, 
 nor my dad's people, nor my mammy's neither. 
 
 240 
 
THE FURRIN WOMAN 
 
 "Of course, they didn't have no children — er only 
 leastways two puny ones, that died. An* ye said ye 
 never had no children at all, Ma'am?" 
 
 "No," said Marcia Haddon, her face flushed. 
 
 "Well, ye look to me right triflin'," said Granny 
 Williams with calm candor. "Ye kain't knit, ye kain't 
 spin, an' I reckon ye couldn't hoe corn noways. Maybe 
 the Lord knows His business — what could a womern. 
 like ye do with children if she had 'em? 
 
 "I was merried when I was sixteen year an' eight 
 month old," she ran on. "I had eighteen children 
 that lived, an* three that died. Like I said, T could of 
 tolt ye how many grandchildren I had in all, ef some- 
 one hadn't been so keerless with that air countin' stick 
 of mine. 
 
 "Air ye goin' to merry agin arter a while maybe?" 
 she added. "Some does." She spoke in a wholly 
 matter-of-fact way. 
 
 "You mustn't talk to me about such things, 
 Granny," said Marcia Haddon, a faint flush still on 
 her cheek. 
 
 "How comes I mustn't?" rejoined Granny. "Hain't 
 yore man dead ?" 
 
 "I know you mean it well" — Marcia Haddon reached 
 out a hand to the gnarled hand of the old woman who 
 sat close by. "All my life — it's been so different, 
 that's all." 
 
 "Davy tolt us something about them things," said 
 241 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 the old woman gravely. "I'm content to live right 
 here the way we always done — leastways, I will be if 
 I ever git to take jest one ride on them railroad keers." 
 
 "Yes, they'll come through here before long," said 
 Marcia Haddon. "I'm not sure I'm glad — usually 
 when a railroad comes into a new country it changes 
 it so much." 
 
 "Hit's had changes a-plenty a'ready, seems to me," 
 said Granny. "Thar hain't been a killin' in here fer 
 two year ; sence the big meetin' down at the mill house 
 nobody's been ridin' fer nobody else, an' nobody layin' 
 out — the old fam'ly diffikilties seemed to jest come to 
 stop right suddent. An' as fer liquor — why, of course 
 ye know here, Ma'am, everybody makes his own liquor, 
 as much as he wants. An' now ye kain't hardly git a 
 bottle of liquor in lessen four er five hours, an' I 
 declar', ye have to look around a heap to find that! 
 How come that? Well, it was Davy Joslin done that 
 — him an' his school. Like ye, I dunno if I'm glad 
 er not." 
 
 "He's a good man," said her listener vaguely. 
 
 "Yes, an' odd as Adam's off ox. Kain't nobody 
 explain Davy noways. While ago, couple of year 
 back, he was called to be a preacher. Then he goes 
 Outside fer a couple of year, an' comes back, an* — 
 ye never seen sech a change in no human man in all 
 yer borned life, Ma'am — his clothes is different, he 
 walks different, an' he talks different. Kain't hardly 
 
 242 
 
THE FURRIN WOMAN 
 
 nobody understand him no more. But he hain't done 
 preached onct! But everybody knows that if Davy 
 says he's a-goin' to run that school, it'll run, some 
 time, 
 
 "Ye see," she went on, "accordin' to Davy's count, 
 it's the Lord that does things." 
 
 "Maybe he's right," said Marcia Haddon slowly. 
 "Which one of us shall say?" 
 
 "Well," said Granny Williams after a while, thrust- 
 ing her needles through her ball of yarn, "Ef I was 
 ye, I wouldn't bother much about nothin' fer a time 
 yit. Ye got plenty of money anyways — yore man was 
 plumb rich, accordin' to all I hear. Like enough he 
 done lef ye a thousand dollar, Ma'am? Davy's tolt 
 me about how ye an' him lived. But ontel ye git ready 
 to go home, Ma'am, ye're welcome here, jest as wel- 
 come as the flowers, an* as long as ye like. 
 
 "When ye kin begin to walk around a bit," she 
 concluded, "we'll take ye an' show ye whar we buried 
 yore man. Hit's up in the old buryin' ground on the 
 hill — my folks is buried thar, an' my daddy's folks, 
 years an' years back, an' plenty of others — fifty or 
 maybe a hundred year, fer's I kin tell. Hit's right 
 qu'ite an' purty up thar." 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 WHEN GHOSTS ARISE 
 
 MARCIA HADDON'S lawyers wrote with 
 greater and greater insistence from New 
 York, asking her return to care for the 
 matters of the estate of James Haddon, but she still 
 shrank from the thought of going back to the old 
 associations. A strange apathy encompassed her, a 
 leaden indifference to life, as though all were ended 
 for her as well as for the unfortunate lying yonder 
 on the hill. She found nothing in life to interest her, 
 to offer her any hope, to excite in her any ambition, 
 "I'm useless, useless !" said she to herself more than 
 once. She held her own life in review now, day after 
 day, feeling herself unworthy and forsaken, herself too 
 merciless a critic of herself. 
 
 Joslin she saw frequently. His visits were quiet, 
 unobtrusive, almost apologetic. He was very sad, and 
 always taciturn, but she often looked forward to his 
 coming with something to ask him, something to 
 discuss. 
 
 "I feel so worthless here !" she broke out, suddenly, 
 to him one evening, as she sat in her chair, looking out 
 
 244 
 
WHEN GHOSTS ARISE 
 
 across the blue hills of the valley below them. "It's 
 
 time for me to be going home, I suppose But I 
 
 don't think there ever was a woman so worthless in 
 all the world, nor one so much alone. I don't want 
 to go back. Granny Williams " 
 
 He sat silent, looking across the forests as they lay 
 in the twilight. 
 
 "Seme day," he said slowly, after a time, "will 
 
 I ide out with me, Mrs. Haddon, into these hills, 
 
 with one of our women here? I'll show you things, 
 
 Ma'am, you never thought could exist in all the world. 
 
 "Do you know what I've been doing, Ma'am?" he 
 went on. "I mean since I came back here? At night, 
 when I have time, I'm teaching school — I've begun 
 already." 
 
 He smiled at her whh his wide, pleasant smile. 
 "My first scholar, Ma'am, is old Absalom Gannt. He's 
 the man that killed my father — or made him kill 
 himself. He's the leader of the Gannt faction. 
 There's been war between the Gannts and Joslins long 
 as anybody can remember in these mountains. Well, 
 Absalom was my first scholar!" 
 
 She only looked at him quietly. "What made him 
 come?" said she at length. 
 
 "You measure your own ignorance of these people 
 by that question," said he. "I've got a night class of 
 twenty people, every one of them over forty-five — 
 men and women both — some women with babies in 
 
 245 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 their arms. They don't know how to read or write. 
 They're learning their letters, Ma'am— like little 
 children ! What's the difference whether we're happy 
 or not? It's no consequence if we've got something 
 to do. Don't you think there's much to be done, here ?" 
 
 "Children?" said Marcia Haddon vaguely— "Old 
 Granny Williams said " 
 
 "I had two children. I was glad they died. But 
 I'm trying to make ways for other children to grow 
 up fit to live." 
 
 She sat for a long time, her hands idly in her 
 lap, her pale face turned steadily out toward the enigma 
 of these hills. 
 
 "Spartan!" she exclaimed. "All Spartans! And I 
 had so much ! They tell me my husband's estate will 
 be about two million dollars." 
 
 David Joslin smiled. "It must be fine," said he, 
 "to know where your next meal's going to come from. 
 I've hardly ever known that." 
 
 "Granny Williams said You see, I have no 
 
 children of my own. And here — why, here are hun- 
 dreds waiting." 
 
 He was looking far over the hills. 
 
 "Do you suppose," she went on after a time, as he 
 remained silent, "do you suppose if I built another 
 building up on the hill, with a part of this money he 
 made out of this very country — if I built one building 
 for girls, dormitories, you know, or class rooms — big 
 
 246 
 
WHEN GHOSTS ARISE 
 
 enough for two or three hundred children — would 
 there be that many?" 
 
 He smiled. "Many thousands," he replied. "They'd 
 come from fifty miles around, a hundred miles — every- 
 one begging, like these old people in my night classes, 
 to learn how to read and write. They want knowledge, 
 Ma'am ! They want up — they want out ! If you could 
 help in that — I don't think you'd feel 'worthless,' ever 
 again! Whether you ever did that or not, you 
 mustn't ever say that word again. At least, you've 
 given one man, once hopeless, his hope and his chance 
 — and his dreams, we'll say. I've had quite some 
 dreams, you see." 
 
 "Fifteen or twenty thousand dollars would go quite 
 a way toward making a building of that sort?" 
 
 He smiled. 
 
 "There's not been fifty dollars put into our build- 
 ing, I suppose, Ma'am," said he. "Twenty thousand 
 dollars — that's more money than there is in all this 
 county. But there's twenty thousand millions in 
 sight of where we sit." 
 
 She turned to him contritely — "It's plain enough 
 what my husband and his Company wanted to do with 
 these people — they wanted to steal away their very 
 birthright, before they were wise enough to know its 
 value. It wouldn't be charity for me — it wouldn't 
 be even a gift. It wouldn't be a fraction of what you 
 have owing to you from me and mine. 
 
 247 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 "And it might be done too," she went on shrewdly. 
 "With the Johnston and Bulkley and Oddingham 
 holdings, my husband's estate would pretty nearly 
 control the Land Company's affairs — they would vote 
 with me, I'm sure. So maybe, you see" — smiling for 
 almost the first time in all these weeks — "it was in my 
 destiny to come here?" 
 
 "It may have been," said David Joslin simply. 
 
 She ran on eagerly now. "We'll have a church 
 up there too, some time. Couldn't you be the preacher 
 some time, Mr. Joslin? And of course you'll be presi- 
 dent of the college. Listen at me talking! I'm just 
 like a child. 
 
 "But you don't answer," she said, looking at him 
 keenly. He was staring out steadily. Gaunt, with 
 sunken eyes and prominent cheekbones, worn and 
 drawn by the long hours of labor bodily and mental, 
 David Joslin was not a handsome man, nor did even 
 physical well-being seem vouchsafed to him now. He 
 was sad, very sad. It seemed to her she had never seen 
 a face so sad as his. 
 
 "Of course," she reiterated, "you'll be the presi- 
 dent. You'll have to preach — no one else could." 
 
 He turned to her and half raised a hand. "You 
 mustn't," said he. "That's my school — yes. But I 
 can't be its president." 
 
 "Why? What do you mean, Mr. Joslin?" 
 
 "You don't understand. No, I reckon not." 
 248 
 
WHEN GHOSTS ARISE 
 
 "No." She shook her head. "You start a thing 
 and don't finish it — is that the plan ? And this the very 
 thing in all your life which outweighed everything 
 else? And you've got me to thinking it was a won- 
 derful thing that you had planned. You'd drop it 
 now?" 
 
 She was resting her chin on her hands, now white 
 and thin, supported on Granny Williams' cane. Now 
 she lifted her head and half turned away. He caught 
 the significance of the act, and it made his gaunt face 
 paler. 
 
 "Well," replied he quietly, "now perhaps you can 
 see why I'm not happy." 
 
 She looked at him so deeply regretful that he pulled 
 together with a resolve obviously painful. 
 
 "You don't know much about me. That's of no 
 importance. But if you are interested in my school 
 and my people, then I do become important in one 
 way. Shall I have to tell you about myself ?" 
 
 "Go on," said she, nodding. "Yes." 
 
 So then, simply, baldly, unsparing of himself, he 
 did go on and tell her about himself and his life — the 
 hopelessness of it, the narrowness, the meagerness, the 
 despair of it all, the tenfold shackles of misery and 
 ignorance which had held him and all his so long. 
 Then he told her of his own marriage ; and of the end 
 of it. 
 
 "I don't wonder you are unhappy," said she slowly 
 249 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 at last. "But still I don't know why you should not 
 go on with your school as you planned." 
 
 "I reckon I'll have to tell you all the rest/' said 
 David Joslin desperately after a time. "I didn't think 
 I ever could." 
 
 "Why not?" she asked simply. 
 
 "You want te know what is my stumbling block? 
 I'll tell you — it was a woman." 
 
 "You mean your wife? But I don't think I ought 
 to discuss that." She half rose. 
 
 But she could not stop him now as he went on 
 stumblingly, unalterably. 
 
 "Oh, no! Not that woman — my wife," said he. 
 "Another." 
 
 "You needn't tell me anything more, I think," said 
 she. "Are you going to tell me just some common 
 story about yourself and some woman?" 
 
 "That's just precisely what I'm going to do!" said 
 he. "I'm going to kill all the respect for me you've 
 ever had. Then you'll know why I can't be president 
 of my own college. I'll have to go through fire before 
 I can. I'm not good enough. Now then you can see." 
 
 "Who was she? When ?" 
 
 "You ought to know, certainly. It was your hus- 
 band " 
 
 She sat up suddenly, her eyes flashing. "Thai 
 woman !" 
 
 "So then you knew her?" 
 250 
 
WHEN GHOSTS ARISE 
 
 "Why should I not?" rejoined Marcia Haddon, now 
 all aflame. "Did she not ruin my married life, as 
 much of it as there was to ruin? Didn't all the town 
 know about her, and him —and me ? Of all the women 
 in the world I ought to hate, that's the one!" 
 
 "And of all the men in the world you will hate, 
 I'm the one," said David Joslin. "But I can't lie to 
 you now. My conscience made me a coward for a 
 while, but it's my way to go on through." 
 
 "How could you have known that woman? When 
 did you meet?" 
 
 "Twice," said David Joslin. "Once was at the din- 
 ner of the Company; the next in the morning at her 
 own rooms. That was twice, in New York." 
 
 She looked at him, utter scorn upon her face. Her 
 cheeks at last had color. 
 
 "Don't be too harsh if you can help it," he began 
 once more, half raising his hand. "Don't suspect too 
 much in some ways. In others you can't suspect 
 
 enough. You don't understand Well, I was a 
 
 fool. I was tempted. The Evil One followed me right 
 along all the time from the day I left these mountains. 
 He was right at my side every minute, though I didn't 
 know it. I reckon it was you that kept him away 
 from me, Ma'am. For me, you have been the power 
 of light. If I had stayed right close to you I'd never 
 had such temptation. The Evil One had his own 
 devices with me — it was — it was the temptation of St 
 
 251 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 Anthony, Ma'am. I can't well talk. Can you under- 
 stand?" 
 
 "It's not necessary for me to understand!" said 
 Marcia Haddon in white scorn. "I understand enough 
 already. That woman was my husband's mistress — 
 everyone knew it except you — or did you know it?" 
 
 He turned upon her a face now suddenly so hor- 
 rified in its suffering that even she relented. 
 
 "I've — I've been very ignorant, Ma'am," said he. 
 "I've known very little. I — didn't know that. I 
 thought she was very beautiful and good. Oh, not 
 so beautiful as you, not so good — but what could I 
 know about such things? I've never met but three 
 women in my life, you might say. Well, you know 
 the three, and you're one of the three. You see, I 
 didn't know much about women, that's all. Well, 
 what she told me was true." 
 
 "But surely you must have known " 
 
 "How could I know? How much experience had 
 I? How far had my education gone? I've met three 
 women in all my life, I said. I've had two years of 
 school. Well, that's all. That's my life. It isn't 
 much. I never knew much of — what you say." 
 
 "Often?" asked Marcia Haddon— "How could it 
 have been often that you met her?" 
 
 "Twice, Ma'am," said David Joslin. "The last 
 time to say good-by. That was up at Strattonville, 
 not so very long ago. If it hadn't been for that, I 
 
 252 
 
WHEN GHOSTS ARISE 
 
 reckon I'd have gone on and finished my college course. 
 I reckon maybe if I hadn't met her then I could have 
 been a preacher some time — I could have been presi- 
 dent of this school — I could have had my life's ambi- 
 tion and my hope. You say she ruined your life. 
 Didn't it come to the same thing with me? But I 
 can't call her bad — surely it wasn't her fault in the 
 least. I reckon it was the fault of life. But that was 
 why I came back so soon. And that was why I met 
 you when you came in. And you — you are a woman 
 too. . . . But of another sort, I suppose. Better " 
 
 "Did you know," she said to him after a time, "that 
 the Polly Pendleton Company was backed by my hus- 
 band's money all along? He was out on the road for 
 weeks at a time — he practically abandoned me. Well, 
 that was my husband !" 
 
 "And I've lost every honest dream of all my life 
 because of that same woman," he spoke after a time. 
 "She herself tried to tell me, and I wouldn't believe 
 her. Well, you've made it easier. 
 
 "Not that it wasn't over anyhow," he added, with 
 not the slightest trace of self-pride in his words. 
 "Ma'am, let me tell you something — do you see that 
 college house of ours up on the hill ? Well, under the 
 cornerstone of that building there are two things, and 
 I put them both there myself. One is my copy of old 
 John Calvin's Institutes, and the other is a picture of 
 Polly Pendleton. That's a right odd combination, 
 
 253 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 isn't it, to go under the cornerstone of a college? 
 Well, the/re both there. 
 
 "So now you know. As for me, I've got to finish 
 my education before I'm big enough and good enough 
 to teach or preach up there. It was you — not that 
 woman — made me feel that. It was you that taught 
 me how big and grand and sweet the world is, how 
 much there is to learn, how much there is to do. It 
 was you who have shown me how far I have to go. 
 I reckon it'll be over hot plowshares, Ma'am. I've got 
 my ordeal yet ahead. May justice and not mercy be 
 mine in my ordeal. 
 
 "You've made it easier," he added after a time, "a 
 heap easier. It's only what the girl herself was trying 
 to tell me — but I couldn't believe it. Another man's? 
 No — I don't share a woman with any other man on 
 earth. What's mine is mine. What's his may be his. 
 Let him rest up there on the hill. She's dead, too, I 
 reckon, now. But you see, I didn't know. I'm glad 
 you told me, Ma'am." 
 
 "Don't call me 'Ma'am' !" exclaimed Marcia Haddon 
 suddenly. "I hate that word!" Without any expla- 
 nation, she rose and left him. She had seen the un- 
 veiling of a stark human life, and had begun to meas- 
 ure back her own life, her husband's, with this whose 
 story she now had heard. Hot plowshares? Why, 
 yes, if need be. But that was his ordeal, and one that 
 he had earned. Were men indeed all alike? 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 GRANNY WILLIAMS NARRATIONS 
 
 DAVID JOSLIN did not come to renew his 
 invitation to Marcia Haddon to ride into 
 the mountains. She saw him no more. Nor 
 did she herself even yet keep her oft-renewed promise 
 to depart at once for the North. Moody and silent, 
 aloof and unhappy, this passed from one resolve to 
 another until one day Granny Williams, by chance, 
 offered a means for carrying out her own self-formed 
 plan of a visit deeper into the hills. 
 
 "I sartinly would enj'y it, child, fer *o go back in 
 thar a ways with ye," said Granny. "Three or four 
 of my boys lives up in Redbird, an* I hain't been in 
 thar fer a long time. We could ride up in one day 
 an' stay a month, fer as that, if we wanted." 
 
 "Aren't you afraid to go?" asked Marcia Haddon, 
 hesitating, knowing that the old lady would never see 
 her eightieth birthday again. 
 
 "Afeerd? Why should I be afeerd, womern? I 
 reckon I'll never see the day when I'll be afeerd to 
 ride a mewel that fer an' back, if I want ter." And, 
 indeed, when on the following day they embarked for 
 
 255 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 their journey, the old dame herself sat carelessly, with 
 one skinny knee across the horn of her man's saddle, 
 thrust almost up into her face as she perched, a bag 
 on one arm and a basket on the other, and smoked her 
 pipe in perfect contentment as she rode. 
 
 "Ye like enough don't know much about mewels," 
 said she, "bein' a furrin womern. Mewels is best fer 
 the mountings. They'll just walk along if ye leave 
 'em be. All ye got to do is to foller right behind me, 
 an* keep yore beast a-walkin' right peart." 
 
 The full foliage of the vernal season now covered 
 
 all the mountains. The stream, idling and loitering, 
 
 broke into rapids over rock ledges, or swum out into 
 
 \ still pools under the far-flung fringes of the elms 
 
 beaches. As they rode, Grannv Williams told the 
 
 story of this place or that. 
 
 "Over in yander house," she said, nodding her sun- 
 bonnet in the direction indicated, "is a woman lives 
 that's got six sons, ary one of 'em over six foot two 
 inch tall. An' not one of 'em nuvver had a father. Old 
 times, folks that lived fer back in couldn't always git a 
 preacher noways. Shouldn't wonder if they got mer- 
 ried some day even yit, now the railroad's come. But 
 s! me a-talkin' that way! I reckon I'd better 
 wet my finger an' touch the top of my left air. Ye 
 see, Ma'am, if ye wet yore finger an* rub the top of 
 yore left air, that makes folks bite their tongue when 
 they talk about ye. Didn't ye know that ? Ye furrin 
 
 256 
 
CRANNY'S NARRATIONS 
 
 wimmern certainly is plumb ignorant, hain't ye?" 
 
 "Go on," said Marcia Haddon, chuckling to her- 
 self. "Tell me some more, Granny." 
 
 "Not much to tell about these mountings, Ma'am — 
 nothin' ever did happen here much. Hit's a settled 
 sort of country. Now, over thar ye see that pile of 
 logs, like? That's whar Old Man Stallings used to 
 hev a barn. He never did git no roof on the barn, 
 nohow, though fer thirty year he was a-plannin' about 
 it. He used to set right thar on that log jest below 
 the ridge, an* look at that barn, an' wish thar was a 
 roof on it. He done that fer thirty year, an' then he 
 died. So that's how come the barn to rot down that 
 way. 
 
 "Now, over yander on the creek is whar Preacher 
 Bonnell's pa used to live. He was about the fightin'est 
 preacher we ever did have in here — always used to 
 ride with a Bible an' a pistol an' a bottle of liquor in 
 his saddlebags when he was out a-preachin'. One 
 day he rid twenty mile over the mountings to New- 
 found jest to shoot a man. The co'te finded him 
 fi f ty dollars. That's too much to fine a preacher. We 
 all allowed twenty dollars'd been plenty. 
 
 "Preacher Bonnell, he used to have a nigger man 
 a-workin' fer him — onliest nigger ever was in these 
 hills, I reckon. We used to have 'em here along atter 
 the war, but one time, come 'lection, when they was 
 a-sellin' their votes fer two dollars each, the folks paid 
 
 257 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 em off in counterfeit money. That riled the niggers, 
 an' they done left. 
 
 "Speakin' of old Preacher. Bonnell, Ma'am," she 
 went on reminiscently, "he was a odd sort of man. 
 Onct in a while he'd sort of take spells, like. He 
 didn't speak to his wife fer nigh about five year, one 
 time. He used to shoot at a mark, and drink liquor 
 like all the other men folks. One time he bet eighty- 
 four twists of tobacco, agin a new wagon, that he 
 could beat Tomp Frame shootin' at a mark. Tomp, 
 when Preacher Bonnell wasn't lookin', he cut his bul- 
 let in two so he couldn't hit nothin'. That's how come 
 him to kill Tomp later, and git finded fifty dollars. 
 Hit made him so mad he couldn't talk — he jest played 
 deef an' dumb fer a long time. One day he set in a 
 game of keerds, an' luck came his way, an' he said right 
 out, afore he thought, 'High, low, Jack an' game, by 
 God!' Ye see, he wasn't always a preacher. He 
 wasn't called ontel he was nigh about fifty year old, I 
 reckon." 
 
 Her auditor turned away her face, so that her own 
 amusement might not be seen, and the old lady rambled 
 on, chewing at her pipe stem as she rode. 
 
 "Nothin' nuvver happens in these hills, ye see, 
 Ma'am," said she. "I hear tell, Outside, of picturs 
 that moves jest like they was alive. O' course, that's 
 a lie. But hain't it funny how many things folks thinks 
 up ? Now, we nuvver had no sich things as that when 
 
 258 
 
GRANNY'S NARRATIONS 
 
 I was young. Fact is, I kain't say as I ever had but 
 jest two kinds of amusew^nf. One was to hear the 
 preacher tell about hell fire — he painted it up like a 
 lake of red, with yellow around the aidge. Other was 
 a picture a temper'nce preacher had all done in colors, 
 showin' how a drunkard's stomach looked. Hit was 
 red, too, like hell. I kin recollect even now about them 
 r s — hell fire an* the drunkard's stomach. We 
 never had no other amusements but jest them. When 
 Old Man Bonnell got to a-<fopictin' hell fire, and shak- 
 in' folks out over that, time them folks come fore- 
 werge ! 
 
 "Over yander is whar Old Mammy Pierce 
 
 lives " pointing to a small cabin by the wayside. 
 
 "She's a granny womern — we call 'em granny wim- 
 mern that he'ps folks when childrens comes, ye know. 
 Her husband was a sort of doctor, too. He didn't give 
 nothin* but nux vomic very much. He says nux vomic 
 would fotch arything every time. He done killed 
 ummage of the stomach with nux vomic, an' even ton- 
 sils. 
 
 "Now, jest beyant whar Mammy Pierce lives is whar 
 used to be Bill Coates' house — ye kin see whar it 
 burned down. Me an* my man was a-ridin' right 
 along here when the house was a-burnin', an', well, 
 air! Bill Coates was a-settin' thar watchin* it burn. 
 'Sakes alive, man !' says I to him, 'why don't ye put it 
 out?' 'Well,' says he, 'I sont my gal hafe a mile up 
 
 259 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 the creek to git a pail of water, an' she hain't come 
 back yit. That was more'n hafe a hour ago.' Tears 
 like the gal stopped to talk with some of the neighbors 
 up thar about how the house was a-burnin' down, an* 
 time she got back it was too late. 
 
 "I wish'! we had time to ride up to Big Creek, 
 Ma'am. Thar's a fine store up thar — travelin' men 
 comes in thar from the other side, an* sells all sorts of 
 goods thar. They carry their sample things in the 
 saddlebags same as Old Preacher Bonnell used to. 
 
 "But ye see, we kain't read an* write in these mount- 
 ings. The storekeeper, he always has kep' his books 
 with marks, like, on the boards of his cabin. He 
 makes a short mark, like, fer two bits, an' a long one 
 fer four bits, an* he'll have some sort of picture fer 
 each man that he's a-trustin' out goods to. Sometimes 
 he has to make signs fer to show what he's done sold. 
 A few month ago Arch Morrison come in, and they 
 liken to have a diffikilty over his account. The store- 
 keeper said he'd sold Archie a cheese, an* Archie he 
 done denied of it. 'Thar's a pictur of it,' says the 
 storekeeper, an' sure enough, thar was a big, round 
 thing like a cheese. 'Oh,' says Archie, 'that hain't no 
 cheese I bought. That's a grindstone.' 'Shore enough, 
 Archie/ says the storekeeper, 'shore enough. I done 
 fergot to put the hole in it.' 
 
 "No, times is right qui'te in here, an' always has 
 been, Ma'am, as ye kin see easy. In the fam'ly fight- 
 
 260 
 
GRANNY'S NARRATIONS 
 
 in's thar's a good many killin's, but we hain't had what 
 ye might call a real murder, not in sixty year. Ye see 
 that house acrosst the creek thar? — well, over thar, 
 sixty year ago, a fam'ly named Baker murdered a 
 feller named Pruitt fer some land an' money he had. 
 That Baker woman sartinly was servigerous. Her man 
 hit Pruitt in the haid with a hammer, an* they left him 
 out in the yard, but he come to. The old womern says, 
 'Well, I'll kill ye so ye'll stay killed.' So she taken 
 up a ax an' cut off his haid. That was a long while 
 ago. Things like that don't happen often. That was 
 murderin', not killin'. 
 
 "Fact is, times is gittin' qui'ter even at 'lection and 
 co'te settin's nowadays. Thar wasn't nobody shot over 
 in Leslie County co'te settin's last term, excusin' Mose 
 Post. The depity sher'f, Wilson, went out to 'rest 
 Mose. He was about the fightin'est man in them parts. 
 Mose was a-leanin' aginst the fence when the depity 
 come up, an' his gun got hung in the palin' when he 
 pulled it, so the depity shot him a couple times. Hit 
 hain't much like old time co'te settin's when I 
 young, Ma'am. 
 
 "No, T reckon it's the new railroad that's a-changtn' 
 everything nowadays. We're within twenty mile of 
 whar it's a-goin* acrosst the haid of Hell-fer-Sartin. 
 Folks says that farms is a-goin' up right along nowa- 
 . an' timber, too. Land didn't useter have no value 
 here when I was a gal as old as ye air now. Folks jest 
 
 261 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 moved out an* set down on a piece of land, an* cl'ared 
 it up like — that's the way me an' my man done. I've 
 seed a good farm sold fer a fiddle an* a hog rifle — an* 
 now here's that farm wuth they say maybe twenty-five 
 thousand dollars, 'cause they found a little ile on it. 
 How much is twenty-five thousand dollars, anyway, 
 Ma'am? 
 
 "Times sartinly is changin* ! Now, in my time I've 
 seed the hull upper part of Tejus Creek — they allowed 
 over two hundred thousand acres — sold fer a rifle an' 
 a bell-crowned hat. What ye reckon that land's wuth 
 now, Ma'am? 
 
 "The Joslins had land over in thar, too, someone 
 tolt me. Fer matter of that, Davy like enough owns 
 or will heir from his granny a heap of land over on 
 Hell-fer-Sartin, besides the farm he give to Meliss' 
 over thar on Coal Creek, whar he used to live. He 
 nuwer would sell his land, an' he nuvver would let his 
 granny do it neither. The blacksmith an' the post- 
 master tolt me that like enough when the railroad 
 comes Davy sartinly will be rich. I've knowed coal 
 rights to go fer five cents a acre, an* old-time poplar 
 an' oak timber fer a dollar an' a hafe a acre. Yit folks 
 tells me that one log outen them trees would be wuth 
 ten or twelve dollar down at Windsor, maybe. Ye 
 reckon that's so, Ma'am? 
 
 "Oh, shucks, I expect I'm a-makin' ye tired, 
 a-talkin' this way. I'm just a-narratin* along, 'cause 
 
 262 
 
GRANNY'S NARRATIONS 
 
 ye said ye wanted to lam somethin' about our mount- 
 ings. I w isn't we had time to git up to Big Creek. 
 Thar's a fam'ly of twelve people up thar, Ma'am, an* 
 y one of 'em plays some kind of a musercal in- 
 strumcnt. When all twelve of them people begins 
 to play ye'd think hell was a-poppin', Ma'am. Didn't 
 ye nuvver hear ary one of our old fiddle tunes ?" 
 Marcia shook her head. "I'm afraid not," she said, 
 'o? Why, Davy useter be a powerful fiddle: in 
 his time, afore he got religion so hard. I reckon he 
 could play most all the old-time tunes. Didn't ye 
 nuvver hear 'Barbara Allen,' or 'Lord Lovell,' Ma'am? 
 I've seen men set an' cry over 'Lord Lovell.' Then 
 thar was 'Polly Allen,' another ballet. Thar was some 
 folks always that could make words fer ballets, an' 
 they'd sort of sing 'em. 
 
 "As fer fifkllin' tunes, thar's so many I kain't hardly 
 Meet. Thar was 'The Flowers of Edingburg' — I 
 don't know whar that come from, but they says it's 
 old, an' like enough come over the mountings. An' 
 thar was The Deer Walk' — I don't know whar that 
 come from neither. Then thar was 'The Hog-I 
 
 ,' an' 'Jawbone,' an' 'The Puncheon Floor,' an' 
 'Jones's Still House.' an' 'Sugar in the Bowl,' an' 'Suds 
 Over the Fence,' an' 'Turkey in the Straw' — didn't ye 
 never hear none of them tunes, Ma'am?" 
 
 m not sure, Granny," rejoined Marcia Haddon. 
 "As you say, I'm powerful ignorant, and I'm afraid 
 
 2C3 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 my education isn't very wide in these matters. Go on 
 and tell me some more." 
 
 "Well, thar was 'Round the Sugar Tree'— that's an- 
 other tune the boys played at dancin's — and 'Notchy 
 on the Hill/ That tune come from the raftsmen. 
 They tolt us thar was a river called the Missi 
 somewhars, an' a good many tunes come up from 
 down the Mississip'. 
 
 "Then thar was 'Sally Ann,' an' 'Ida Red/ an' 
 'Shreveport' — like enough 'Shreveport' come from the 
 raftin' times, too. Then thar was 'Dan Hogan's,' an' 
 'Old Ned,' an' 'Gall of the Yare' (Guadalquivir?). 
 Tolk an' Dallas' was a 'lection tune. Then thar's 'The 
 Campbells Air Comin',' — why, law \ Ma'am, I could 
 go on a-tellin' names of fiddlin' tunes fer a hour yit. 
 
 "But hain't this a purty country, Ma'am, we're 
 a-goin' through? I think it's right purty, an' I al- 
 ways done so, from the time I was a gal, old as ye 
 air. Davy says he hain't seen no purtier country'n 
 this, an' he's been Outside. I wonder how much land 
 he'll heir from his granny — mother of Preacher Jos- 
 lin? She's ninety-five year old, if she's a day. 
 Wouldn't it be strange if the new railroad would make 
 some of us pore folks rich atter all? Ye don't know 
 much about Davy?" 
 
 Marcia Haddon had turned away her face from the 
 scrutiny of the old woman's keen eyes, but the latter 
 went on : 
 
 264 
 
GRANNY'S NARRATIONS 
 
 "I always did wonder what Davy done when he 
 went Outside. Do ye know? He sartinly come back 
 powerful changed. He useter be a right servigerous 
 kind of a man, like I said, the fightin'est of all the 
 fightin' Joslins. But, shucks! he's so different now ye 
 wouldn't know the boy. He's as mild as skim melk. 
 He always was good to Meliss', too. Her gittin' a di- 
 vorce from him when he was away — an' all he was 
 a-txyin' to do was to git a education so's to he'p pore 
 folks like me! 'Pears to me like Meliss* Joslin got 
 entirely too much attention paid to herself along of 
 that divorce. She nuwer was so much noways. She 
 couldn't neither spin nor weave wuth shucks, an' be- 
 sides, her two babies both died on her. She wasn't so 
 much. 
 
 "Law, I could tell ye a heap more things if ye liked 
 narratin*. Fer instant, here's whar the men in my 
 grandad's time chased the last two Injuns outen this 
 country, an' kilt 'em up on Redbird. This creek was 
 named atter one. Thar's a hole up the river called 
 Jack's Hole, whar the other was shot. One Injun was 
 named Red Bird, an' the other they called Jack. They 
 cotched 'em up above, but they used to live in a cave 
 round here, not far from whar we air now. 
 
 "Wasn't Davy a-tellin' ye about the cave whar the 
 : k-rin' wimmcrn lives? Well, that's the very 
 place whar them two Injuns useter live years ago. 
 Hain't he never tolt ye about 'em?" 
 
 265 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 "I don't think so," said Marcia Haddon, content 
 with the one-sided conversation. "What about them, 
 Granny?" 
 
 "Well, I'll show ye the very place right soon. Hit's 
 jest beyant the two rocks that leans together, whar 
 Davy says some time he's a-goin' to start another 
 school. Hain't he nuvver tolt ye about that neither? 
 Seems to me ye an' him hain't talked much noways. 
 "Well, now, them two wimmern is jest pore wild 
 folks, ye mought say. This cave is the onliest home 
 they've had fer years. The young woman is named 
 Min, an' her little gal is named Min, too. She hain't 
 got no pap, but she's purty as a pictur, that little gal." 
 "The poor child !" said Marcia Haddon. "Granny, 
 I almost wish I hadn't heard so much." 
 
 "Well, Ma'am, suppose ye was throwed down in 
 these mountings, with nothin' to do with — what do ye 
 reckon ye'd do? About the best ye could, huh? I 
 reckon that's what all of us folks has had to do — yes, 
 it's jest what all of us folks has had to do. It's what 
 everybody has got to do, come to that. 
 
 "Say, child, was ye ever merried more'n onct?" 
 Granny demanded suddenly. "I reckon ye was young 
 when ye was merried — ye hain't larned much yit." 
 
 "Yes, I was young," said Marcia Haddon. "And 
 once — only once." 
 
 "Uh huh ! Man jest come along an' got foolish over 
 yore purty face, like enough, an' talked fine to ye, an' 
 
 266 
 
GRANNY'S NARRATIONS 
 
 so ye was merried ! It goes that way. Well, I reckon 
 in a year or two ye'll like enough merry again. Ye're 
 gittin' purtier every day. Some folks merries in lessen 
 a year, but hit hain't ordinary helt decent to be in too 
 big a hurry " 
 
 She went on, ruminatingly. "Me an* my old man 
 has lived together a long while — I nuwer was merried 
 more'n only onct, neither. He's so damn tough nothin' 
 couldn't kill him, 'pears like. He got a tree fall on 
 him, while ago, when he was turned fifty, an' he hain't 
 been much of a fightin' man sence then, but still he's 
 lived along sever'l year sence then, too. 
 
 "Well, now, what I was a-goin' to say was, Ma'am, 
 supposin' if he'd of died when I was, say, young as ye 
 air. Do ye suppose I'd of stayed single all of my life? 
 I don't say if I would or I wouldn't, but I've knowed 
 wimmern to merry four or five times, like enough — I 
 mought of merried sever'l times, come need fer't. But 
 thank God I didn't haveter. 
 
 "Didn't ye never have no sweethearts afore ye 
 was merried, Ma'am ?" she went on in her own fashion, 
 her inquisitiveness now growing under the reticence 
 of the other. 
 
 "Don't all girls?" said Marcia Haddon soberly. 
 
 "Most has," said the old dame, "mostly, yes. All, 
 ye mought say, that's as purty as ye was. An* as I 
 was sayin', ye're a-gittin' purtier right along. Ye'll 
 be a right peart-lookin' widder afore long. Well, like 
 
 267 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 I was sayin\ ye mought of merried ary one of 'em if 
 ye hadn't of merried the man ye did." 
 
 "It never came up for discussion in my mind, 
 Granny," said Marcia Haddon with dignity. 
 
 uh ! Thar's most always two or three men in ary 
 womern's life," responded Granny Williams calmly. 
 "Thar was two or three in mine. Like enough I'd of 
 merried one of 'em if I hadn't of merried Henry like 
 I done. I been too busy to think about sich matters 
 sence. But, just so long as a woman is foot-loose like, 
 chances air she mought merry two or three men, or 
 even sever'l, like I said." 
 
 Marcia Haddon made no response to this matter-of- 
 fact reasoning, but her ancient companion continued 
 in her monologue. 
 
 "Yes," she chuckled, "that's so. An' yit, if ever a 
 man admits to his wife that he has ever saw more'n 
 one womern in all his borned life, she'll raise hell with 
 him ! Now, Davy " 
 
 Marcia Haddon suddenly pulled up her mule an' 
 hastened on, but relentlessly the old woman resumed 
 when she had come alongside. 
 
 "I was savin' about Davy — he were merried onlucky. 
 It jest happened that way. An' now she's got her a 
 Jivorce from him. That's a awful thing." 
 
 "We'll talk of something else, Granny," said Mar- 
 cia Haddon. The old dame looked at her keenly, cu- 
 riosity in her unseen glance. 
 
 268 
 
GRANNY'S NARRATIONS 
 
 "An* why not talk of Davy?" she insisted after a 
 time. 
 
 "I don't wish to do so, Granny. It's nothing to me 
 how he has married or what he does." 
 
 "I reckon that's so," sighed Granny Williams. 
 "He's only a mounting boy at that, though powerful 
 smart. Some said he hadn't orter of ever left the 
 mountings, because he war the leader of his fam'ly — 
 Chan Bullock, he's too young. Well, maybe they're 
 right, an' maybe they hain't. They say the old quarls 
 is about all fixed up in here now — the whole country's 
 changed come these last two year, now the railroad's 
 comin'." 
 
 "An* Davy's changed, too," she went on. "He's 
 sadder'n what he used to be. I don't know as I ever 
 seed a man any sadder'n he is, especial right now. In 
 the old times he used to be the fightin'est, whisky- 
 drinkin'est young man in this here hull valley, an' now 
 he's got to be the workin'est man in all these parts. I 
 reckon it's the divorce that shames him. Not that I 
 suppose he's a-seekin' around anywhars for any more 
 merryin' — he like enough had his satisfy of gettin' 
 merried." 
 
 Marcia Haddon did her best to change the conver- 
 sation. "You were telling me about a place where 
 they used to teach school long ago— right out of doors, 
 in the open," said she. 
 
 "That's furtherer on up the creek, beyant the old 
 269 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 ford whar the buffcrlo come down to the salt lick in 
 my granddad's time. That's a purty place, right in 
 the bank of the creek. I'll show it to ye Lome day. 
 
 "But now," she resumed, as, turning the bend of the 
 road, they saw before them the blackened roof of a 
 deep cavern in the sidehill — "thar's whar them wan- 
 derm' wimmern lives I was tellin' ye about, Ma'am. 
 Looks like thar wasn't no one to home." 
 
 But presently what appeared to be a little bundle of 
 rags far off at a back corner stirred, moved, and devel- 
 oped itself into a very ragged little girl with very 
 tangled hair. She was perhaps seven or eight years 
 of age — a child with wide, dark eyes and white, even 
 teeth, as now they might see, for she smiled shyly as 
 they paused at the opening of the cave. 
 
 "Come here, Mill," said old Granny Williams. 
 "Come on out here an' talk to the lady, won't ye ?" 
 
 The child came out, very slowly, shy as some wild 
 creature. She was clad now in a single-piece nonde- 
 script garment, was barefooted, and her hair appar- 
 ently had never known comb or covering. 
 
 "Whar's yore mammy at, Min?" demanded the old 
 lady. 
 
 The child made no answer ; only stood twisting a toe 
 into the gravel of the roadway, painfully embarrassed 
 by the presence of this strange creature whose like she 
 never had seen in all her life. 
 
 "It's only a furrin lady with fotched-on clothes," 
 270 
 
GRANNY'S NARRATIONS 
 
 said old Granny Williams. "She won't hurt ye. 
 Kain't ye come an' shake hands?" 
 
 "Yes, little girl, come," said Marcia Haddon sud- 
 denly, holding out her hand, and leaning forward with 
 so bright a smile that slowly the child came to her, 
 shyly extending her hand. 
 
 Marcia Haddon took the child's hand in her own. 
 As she did so a strange emotion suddenly came upon 
 her — a primal glow at this touch of a child's warm 
 ■I in her own. Sudden tears came into her own 
 eyes — tears not unhappy, either ; for now, in some way 
 unexplainable to herself, a whole, new, wide world 
 seemed to open all around her. In her own world of 
 ease, apart, she never yet had known or dreamed the 
 great, throbbing, vital things of life itself. But these 
 simple folk, poor, forgotten — they knew them all. 
 They were so far richer than herself. Their world 
 had been so much wider than her own. 
 
 The child stood looking shyly at her, like any wild 
 creature, her dark eyes wide and wistful, across them 
 passing alternate waves of light and shadow, as left 
 by a passing cloud upon the sky. But, moved though 
 she was to speak to the strange lady, she did not do 
 so. Only she stood looking up wistfully, and the 
 woman who sat above her looked down wistfully in 
 turn. 
 
 ave ye had yore breakfast, Min?" asked Granny 
 Williams brusquely. The child shook her head, her 
 
 271 
 
J 
 THE WAY OUT 
 
 finger in her mouth now, her toe still twisting at the 
 earth. 
 
 "Well, well, hain't that a shame! I reckon yore 
 mammy's at the corn-hoein' up to the big house in the 
 bottoms, hain't she?" 
 
 The child nodded her head. 
 
 "Well, well, ye shall have somethin' to eat." The 
 old lady opened the top of the small basket which hung 
 on her arm, a basket which it was always her custom 
 to take to church with her for the Fake of certain chil- 
 dren and grandchildren of her own. She drew out a 
 round cookie with a hole in the center, which she ex- 
 tended to the child of the wandering women — the first 
 sweetmeat the little one had ever known in all her 
 life. 
 
 "I'll tell yore mammy to bring ye down somethin' 
 to eat," added Granny Williams. And so she clucked 
 to her mule. 
 
 The solitary occupant of the cave stood now in the 
 road, looking after them wonderingly, even the beloved 
 cookie arrested halfway between hand and mouth. 
 
 "Granny, what will become of a child like that left 
 here in these hills?" demanded Marcia Haddon after 
 a while. There was a half sob in her voice, though 
 still that strange, new, warm feeling in her heart. 
 
 "Why, she'll go to hell, that's what'll become of 
 her," said Granny promptly. "Excusin' of that school 
 of Davy's up thar on the hill, an' what it kin do fer 
 
 272 
 
GRANNY'S NARRATIONS 
 
 these chiklern, why, they're all goin' plumb to hell, 
 accordin' to ary sort of preachin' I ever did hear." 
 
 "Yes," she went on reflectively, "thar's a heap of 
 the onredeemed in these mountings, I reckon. Maybe 
 the railroad'll make all the valleys alike — I hope so. 
 It may not come in my time. Davy says it's a-comin' 
 right soon. I don't know about them things." 
 
 Marcia Haddon made no answer. She looked across 
 the tree-clad slopes' of these rounded hills, trying to 
 visualize the point of view of that man, her husband, 
 who once had felt his own right to so much of this 
 country and its contents. Ownership of these hills, this 
 great world that lay about her undiscovered! Did, 
 then, the rights of sovereignty impose no duties in re- 
 turn? 
 
 "Granny," said she suddenly, after they had traveled 
 for a time in silence. 
 
 "What is it, child?" asked the old dame gently. 
 
 "Do you suppose the mother of that child would let 
 her go away to school?" 
 
 "Do I suppose so?" ejaculated Granny Williams 
 fiercely. "Don't I know she would ? We been waitin', 
 here in the Cumberlands. Jest waitin'. Lord ha' 
 massy on us. 
 
 "Look what Davy done," she went on. "He war 
 only out a couple of year, an' yit he changed complete, 
 ye mought say. I kain't hardly understand him talk no 
 more, he talks so furrin, same's ye. If Davy has went 
 
 273 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 furrin, 'pears like we all mought as well chirk up some 
 an* git more furrin, too. The new railroad'll sartinly 
 change a heap of things. 
 
 "Well, here we air at the gate of my cousin, right on 
 beyant. We'll light clown an' stop here overnight," 
 concluded Granny Williams at last, knocking the ashes 
 out of her pipe and thrusting it into her pocket. "Was 
 ye ever to school much in yore life, Ma'am?" she 
 demanded as she stood, her lean arm across her mule's 
 neck. 
 
 "Yes, Granny," replied the "furrin woman" gently. 
 "But I've learned more to-day, I think, than in all my 
 life before." 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 THE DRUMS 
 
 WHEN, on the afternoon of a later day, Mar- 
 cia Haddon and her ancient chaperone re- 
 entered the long and straggling street at the 
 forks of the river, they noted certain signs of excite- 
 ment. A group of men was standing ; others were hur- 
 rying to the open space in front of the big store. 
 
 A striking sound came to their ears — a sound not 
 known in the Cumberlands for a generation — the throb- 
 bing of a drum, the shrilling of a fife. 
 
 Upon a staff, upheld by the hand of one of a 
 little group of four men in uniform, was something 
 h focussed the eyes of all. It was the Flag — the 
 Flas for which the Cumberlands once had fought 
 
 "Why, look-a-thar !" exclaimed Granny Williams, 
 hurrying up her mule. "I know them boys, all four of 
 'em! It's Jimmy an* Willy Sanders, Tom Carswell, 
 an' Grief Talley — all four of 'em went out an' 'listed 
 more'n eight year ago, an' been in the Army ever sense. 
 I'd like to know what fer they come in here now." 
 
 Marcia Haddon could see posted up in the window a 
 flaming poster whose letters of red spoke loudly 
 
 275 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 mough to all who could understand them: "Your 
 country needs you!" 
 
 Their country! Their country! It had forgotten 
 them all these years — these men who once had saved 
 the principle of freedom for a world — a world now 
 gone mad once more with blood and crying aloud now 
 again for aid in the salvation of that same principle. 
 
 "What is it, Ma'am?" demanded Granny Williams, 
 jts they hurried on down the street "What's the paper 
 jay?" 
 
 "It's the war ! They must be a recruiting party from 
 the Army," said Marcia Haddon. "The paper in the 
 window says, 'Your country needs you!' " 
 
 "It 'pears to me I heerd some talk about thar bein' 
 fightin' goin' on Outside somewhar's," said Granny 
 Williams. "But what's that got to do with us down 
 here? Ye don't reckon the Governwzrnf needs us, do 
 ye?" 
 
 That was the message of this flaring placard hung 
 up for these, so few of whom could read ; that was the 
 import of archaic drum and fife, and modern flag and 
 uniform — here in the far-off and forgotten Cumber- 
 lands. "Your country needs you!" 
 
 Men came from all parts of the little settlement, at- 
 tracted by the sound of the music. They gazed dumbly 
 and vaguely at the sheet in the window, whose mean- 
 ing they knew from what these soldier boys told them 
 — a recruiting sergeant, a corporal, and two privates, 
 
 276 
 
THE DRUMS 
 
 sent in from the district recruiting station on the rail- 
 road, far away. 
 
 " Whar's Davy ?" asked old Absalom Gannt. "Some- 
 one go git Davy. We got to look into this thing." 
 
 Before David Joslin could be found, the two women 
 had turned in at Granny Williams' home. Huddling 
 like fowls, all the women had taken to cover at the 
 alarm. The street was empty save for men and boys. 
 
 "What's all this about, Davy?" asked old Absalom, 
 when presently Joslin joined them in the street. "Is 
 our Government in this here?" 
 
 "Yes," said David Joslin. "It's war ! Our country's 
 in it That's what it says." 
 
 Someone handed him a newspaper, and he read its 
 headlines hurriedly, interpreting for them as he did so. 
 These men well enough knew what war was, or had 
 been — the traditions of their fathers told them. The 
 faces about him were serious now; no light remark 
 was ventured by any. Their eyes shifted from the 
 gaunt, lean face of David Joslin, as he read, to this lit- 
 tle fluttering emblem which stood driven in the moun- 
 tain airs. 
 
 "They've fired on our Flag!" said David Joslin to 
 them at last. "Our women and our children have been 
 killed by these — the enemy." 
 
 A low murmur, amounting to a growl in sum, rose 
 from the group of men. Silently they gathered more 
 closely about him. 
 
 277 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 "Shot at Dur flag?" said old Absalom Gannt— "an* 
 wimmern and children — that kain't be! That hain't 
 right." 
 
 "But it's true," said David Joslin. "We'll have to 
 fight" 
 
 "Ye* re damn right we'll have to fight!" said Absa- 
 lom. "Our Government kain't stand that/' 
 
 "The sergeant here will tell you/' went on David 
 Joslin, after a time. 'The Government wants volun- 
 teers, up to forty — that'll let me in. It may be some 
 of you boys will want to go along. Maybe it's our 
 time come at last !" 
 
 And now, all at once, swiftly, exultantly, gloriously 
 unrestrained, the full gift of tongues fell upon David 
 Joslin, as he stood there in the open street of a moun- 
 tain village in a forgotten land ! Suddenly the clouds 
 cleared in front of him. He saw, and was content 
 now with what he saw. Now he knew his life had not 
 been in vain; that yet it might be of worth; that on 
 ahead, if he should be spared to win it, lay the great, 
 wide education of life and citizenship, and a share in 
 the building and the keeping of a world! He spoke 
 in such fashion that all his own longings, his own 
 yearnings for his country and his people became ap- 
 parent to them now, so that they listened in trust and 
 awe and reverence; as well as in somber anger when 
 he swung to the great summons. Had there been 
 David Joslins throughout the land, the American Army 
 
 278 
 
THE DRUMS 
 
 had been a matter of a week, a day, and we had not 
 been laggard in Freedom's great day of peril. 
 
 "There's goin' to be a draft, a conscription," said 
 the sergeant in explanation after a time. 
 
 "Draft be damned !" said Absalom Gannt, and spoke 
 the mind of all. "Thar kain't nobody draft us, not 
 even the Government. We'll go ahead of ary draft." 
 
 "They won't let you go, Absalom. You're too old," 
 said Sergeant Talley to him, smiling. 
 
 "Too old ! Who — me? I'd like to see ary man tells 
 me I'm too old to fight," rejoined that stark citizen. 
 
 "Twenty-one to thirty-one," smiled Sergeant Talley. 
 "Up to forty, if you volunteer." 
 
 "Well, that lets me in, anyway," said Chan Bul- 
 lock, and there were nods through the little crowd. 
 Only the older men turned face to face, shaking their 
 heads. 
 
 "It hain't no ways reas'ner'ble to let the boys go 
 alone," said old Absalom Gannt. "It hain't no ways 
 right, an' it wouldn't do — we'll all go out together, 
 that's what we'll do! Davy Joslin, ye'll have to go, 
 too— I reckon ye'll have to lead us — Outside." 
 
 "Well, we could make up a band of men," said Ser- 
 geant Talley, hesitating, "and go over to the examin- 
 ing officers at the station. A day's march, maybe." 
 
 "That's the talk !" said Absalom. "We'll all go out 
 together. Davy, tell me," and he turned to him sud- 
 denly, "who is it we're a-fightin' with?" 
 
 279 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 And David told him as well as he might, suiting 
 what he said to the understanding of these who heard. 
 
 "Give us a day, Sergeant, to fix things up at home," 
 suggested Joslin now. "We'll not keep you long." 
 
 "Look at them old guys," grumUed the smart ser- 
 geant to his corporal, aside. "We don't want them 
 along, but it don't look like we could head them off." 
 
 The color-bearer picked up his flag once more. The 
 drummer pulled around his slings, and the fifer 
 handled his instrument. The throb of the drum, the 
 high note of the fife, passed down the street to yet an- 
 other stand. And behind them, ragged, gaunt, un- 
 kempt, somewhat uncouth, fell in the band of the lost 
 children, the men of the Cumberlands, now following 
 the Flag, which had so long forgotten them. 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 STRANGERS WITHIN THE GATES 
 
 THE civic center of the village at the river forks 
 might have been called the long building, in 
 which were located the post-office and the 
 blacksmith shop. It was here that, on the morning 
 following, old Granny Joslin stood in the door, pipe 
 in mouth, looking up the long street, which rambled 
 down from the hills. Her gaze was fixed upon the 
 approaching vehicle commonly known as the mail stage. 
 It seemed to carry passengers this morning, an un- 
 usual thing, and the passengers themselves were such 
 as to attract special attention of Granny Joslin and 
 others. 
 
 That they were "furriners" Granny Joslin would 
 have pronounced long ago. There were two women, 
 both young, and their apparel, had it been worn by any 
 of these parts, would distinctly have been recognized 
 as "fotched on." 
 
 The two young women climbed down, unassisted, 
 from the vehicle, and stood, perhaps as extraordinary 
 a pair as ever had been seen thereabouts, in the dust 
 of the street, looking about them curiously. The 
 
TIIK WAY OUT 
 
 younger of the two, with hands in pockets and feet 
 just a trifle wide apart — a trim young woman and 
 noticeable anywhere — was clad in well-cut traveling 
 garb and tailored hat. She caught now in her gaze the 
 old woman, who leaned against the side of the post- 
 office door, silent and motionless, regarding these new- 
 comers. 
 
 "Good-morning, Grandma," said she, not pertly, but 
 with a certain easy assurance, which seemed to go nat- 
 urally with her. 
 
 "Howdy, Ma'am." replied Granny Joslin, still with 
 her pipe in her mouth. 
 
 "Is this the town," continued the young woman, "and 
 if it isn't, where is it?" 
 
 "I reckon's as much as ary other place," admitted 
 Granny. 
 
 "And where's the hotel? — the driver said there 
 wasn't any." The latter, shaking his head, mystified, 
 had stepped within, carrying his meager mailsacks. 
 
 "Hotel ? Tavern, you mean? Well, now, he's done 
 tolt ye the truth, Ma'am. There hain't no tavern here, 
 none at all." 
 
 "What ! And we've ridden twenty miles from the 
 railroad because we couldn't find anything fit to eat 
 there." 
 
 "It's tougher the furtherer in ye git," said Granny 
 Joslin. "Ye orter see Hell-fer-Sartin, Ma'am. Ye're 
 from the North, I reckon?" 
 
 282 
 
WITHIN THE GATES 
 
 The young woman nodded. 
 
 "Well, I reckon Granny Williams will take ye in, 
 like enough. She's got another furrin womern in thar 
 now." 
 
 "Oh, all right — that will be fine. Do you know what 
 her rates are?" 
 
 "Rates, Ma'am?" 
 
 "How much she charges by the day, or maybe 
 longer." 
 
 The old lady looked at her silently for some time, 
 but at length answered with a certain calm dignity of 
 her own. 
 
 "I don't reckon nobody would charge ye nothin' fer 
 what ye et while ye was in here, Ma'am," said she. 
 "Ye'd be welcome." 
 
 "What do you think of that, Nina?" chuckled the 
 spokesman of the two new arrivals. 
 
 She turned again to the old woman. "Well," said 
 she politely, "we want to do what's right. I just 
 thought I'd ask you, you know. We're strangers here, 
 all right enough. We wouldn't plan to stay long — 
 maybe not more than a day or two." 
 
 "Who air ye?" demanded Granny Joslin succinctly. 
 "Have ye heerd anything about the war outside? I 
 heerd tell thar was some sort of diffikilty we-all was 
 havin' with some other folks somewhars. I come down 
 to sec." 
 
 "War! Have we heard of the war! I should say 
 888 
 
THE WAV OUT 
 
 we hadn't heard of anything else!' 1 rejoined the young 
 woman. "It's put a crimp in business, all right— espe- 
 cially our business." 
 
 hat is yore business, Ma'am?" queried the old 
 dame. 
 
 "We're players — actors— don't you see? — theatrical 
 people — you know. And we've lost a perfectly good 
 angel. That's why we're he 
 
 tcment likewise seemed to Granny Joslin a 
 most extraordinary one. She made no comment, as the 
 speaker went on, feeling a trifle angered in the sus- 
 picion that these others were making sport of her. 
 
 "Well, it was the war that did that," said the young 
 woman. "And here we are." 
 
 "Tell me, Madam," began the older of the two new- 
 comers, seeing the perplexity of the old lady, "do you 
 know of any one in here lately by the name of Had- 
 don 
 
 Granny Joslin bent the calm gaze of her deep-set 
 hazel eyes upon her. 
 
 "The furrin womern over to Granny Williams' 
 house is name Haddon," said she after a time, "but 
 her man, he hain't here no more now." 
 
 "Isn't here! Has he been here? When did he 
 leave ?" It was the younger woman who spoke again. 
 
 "He lef ' a while back." 
 
 "Where did he go ? Do you know ?" 
 
 "No, I don't. The Lord only knows whar he went, 
 284 
 
WITHIN THE GATES 
 
 but he's daid all right. Up yander on the hill is whar 
 he's buried at. His womern has been stayin' on here 
 fer a little while yit, over to Granny Williams', like I 
 done toll 
 
 Her close scrutiny saw consternation upon the faces 
 of both the newcomers. 
 
 "But — you don't mean Mr. Haddon — you don't 
 mean that Mr. James Haddon — he isn't dead, is he?" 
 
 "He sartinly is," replied Granny Joslin. "He was 
 drownded down to the Narrers while he was a-comin' 
 in here. They had a boat an' they come up from 
 Windsor. Davy — that's my grandson — saved the 
 corp, and he had a moughty hard time doin* it, too, let 
 me tell ye. He liken to have drownded hisself. But 
 , he fotched the corp, anyways." 
 
 The two strangers looked at one another, horrified. 
 
 "We heard he came in that way," began the younger 
 woman. "You see, we knew him very well. We wired 
 to New York — don't you see, he was our partner, the 
 backer of our company, as they say — we had a theatri- 
 cal company on the road. Well, they told us he had 
 started in for this place here. Then we didn't g^t any 
 more word from his oftu weren't so far away 
 
 from here by rail, so we started over — of COOTI 
 we'd come in the same way he did we would have 
 heard of it — but we didn't. You see, Mr. Haddon 
 in business with us. Dead? — why — why — what'll we 
 
 dor 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 The old lady still regarded them both fixedly, her 
 pipe still between her lips. 
 
 "What's yore name, Ma'am?" said she after a time. 
 "Ye're migh: . 'pears like to me." 
 
 "They call me Polly Pendleton, Grandma." said the 
 young woman. "I don't know your name — we don't 
 know anything at all. What you say to us is terrible — 
 it's awful." 
 
 "Yes, it's right hard," admitted Granny Joslin. 
 "Say, Ma'am, tell me, did ye ever meet a young man 
 from these parts? An' tell me, furthermore, air ye 
 French and Irish mixed ?" 
 
 Polly Pendleton suddenly flushed to her eyes. 
 "What makes you ask that ?" she demanded. 
 
 "I reckoned ye was," replied the old dame quietly. 
 "Ye jest about come under a tall man's arm, too, don't 
 ye? Ye're purty as a pictur. I don't know as I ever 
 seed a purtier gal than ye, lessen it's the furrin woman 
 over thar at Granny Williams' house right now. I'm 
 French and Irish myself, too, Ma'am." 
 
 "How odd! I say, Grandma, what's your name — 
 since we're getting acquainted now?" 
 
 "My name's Joslin, Ma'am. That thar young man 
 I meant was Davy, my grandson, the same thet built 
 the*school buildin' up yander on the hill — biggest build- 
 ing ever was in these mountings. Now, I've heerd 
 Davy talk of ye afore now, Ma'am. But I reckon ye've 
 come in here fer another sort of man than Davy." 
 
 286 
 
WITHIN THE GATES 
 
 "Rather !" said Polly, a smile suddenly coming upon 
 her troubled face in spite of all. "But Joslin — David 
 Joslin — why, of course — I've seen him, yes. You're 
 right — we didn't come in here after him." 
 
 The look of genuine perturbation upon the faces of 
 the two young women proved to the ancient dame that 
 the news they had heard was serious enough for them, 
 whatever cause there might be. Polly Pendleton's 
 dark eyes were a trifle dimmed as she turned once 
 more. 
 
 "We're sorry — we're as sorry as we can be, Grand- 
 ma," said she. "We hadn't any idea he was even 
 sick. I don't know what to do. But I think we'll 
 have to go back as soon as we can." 
 
 "Ye kain't git back afore to-morrer," said Granny. 
 "But the fustest thing to do is to come in an' git some- 
 thing to eat. We'll go over to Granny Williams'. Ye 
 must be tired, the both of ye. The roads is awful." 
 
 The shrug of Polly's shoulder was endorsement 
 enough for this general statement, and Nina, usually 
 the more silent, employed likewise now an eloquent ex- 
 clamation. 
 
 "I don't believe the furrin womern has come 1 
 from up in the hills \ 1 Granny Joslin. 
 
 She did not note the sudden relief which came upon 
 the face of at least one of her auditors. 'But that 
 don't make no difference," she resumed. "Thar 11 be 
 plenty of room fer ye. If ye was up in my country 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 now, I'd have ye come home with me, bat it's ten mile 
 up the creek. I jest walked dc Mb mornin' along 
 of my i akin' sick a few days back." 
 
 "You walked— ten miles!" 
 
 "I sartinlv did. But like I said, ye kain't walk that 
 fer, bein' furriners. Why, chile, frail-like* as ye air, 
 ye'd l>e plumb beat out by that time, an' so would 
 yore sister here — ye said yore sister, didn't ye 
 
 "She's more than that," said Polly Pendleton. 
 "She's the only friend I've got now. We're both 
 awfully obliged to you, Mrs. Joslin. We certainly 
 are. We'd do as much for yor 
 
 "I believe ye would, myself," said Granny Joslin 
 simply. "Ye'll be welcome here, so fer as what we 
 got to give ye. We're all alike." 
 
 Polly Pendleton was pausing for a moment's 
 thought. "We hadn't the slightest idea in the world, 
 of course, or we'd never have come here. We — I don't 
 ik we want to bother Mrs. Haddon, you know. 
 She'd rather be alone, I'm sure." She held back, hesi- 
 tating. 
 
 "She's a fine womern, Ma'am, accordin' to Davy," 
 rejoined the old woman. "He says she's the finest he 
 ever seed, and he's been Outside and seed a power of 
 things in his time, Davy has." 
 
 "Well," broke in Polly Pendleton, now with a cer- 
 tain asperity, "one thing, she can't be any hungrier 
 than I am right now." 
 
 288 
 
WITHIN THE GATES 
 
 "So long as ye kin eat ye're a-goin* to survive your 
 sorrer, Ma'am, I always heerd," rejoined Granny Jos- 
 lin grimly. "Well, come along. We all got to die 
 some time, come to that." 
 
 She placed her pipe in her pocket now, after knock- 
 ing out the ashes, and started out forthwith in the 
 lead, her bent and bony body, shrunken and battered 
 under the weight of years and infirmity, scarce as tall 
 as Polly Pendleton by half a head. Her course was 
 across the street along which, further down, lay the 
 house of Granny Williams. 
 
 "Well, Nina, old dear," commented Polly, sotto 
 . as they followed, "things couldn't be much worse, 
 could they? Poor chap — isn't it a horrible thing? 
 And we never knew a word !" 
 
 Her uncommunicative comrade only nodded, her 
 face drawn into lines none too happy now, for 
 she it was, of the firm of Pendleton and Stanton, 
 usually was the more concerned with the bus- 
 iness affa 
 
 "And here's his wife in here, too — that makes it a 
 lot harder," she said at length. "I've a picture of 
 how much she loves you, Polly! There's plenty of 
 places I'd rather be in than right here now, my 
 dear!" 
 
 "Well, I'm hungry," resumed Polly once more, try- 
 ing to shake off care, as always. "Is this the place. 
 Grandma?" she added, hurrying up now and gi 
 
 289 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 a hand to the old dame's elbow, as she turned in at 
 the steep walk behind the gate. 
 
 "It's the place, Ma'am," said Granny Joslin. "Come 
 on in. Whether Granny Williams is home or not ye'Il 
 be welcome in her house. It hain't never locked." 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 THE UNCERTIFIED 
 
 GRANNY JOSLIN was accurate in one state- 
 ment regarding her neighbor's household, but 
 was not so accurate in other details. Had 
 Polly Pendleton known surely that Marcia Haddon 
 was in the house she now approached, she certainly 
 must have turned and gone the other way. And had 
 Marcia herself suspected the presence in town of these 
 visitors of all in the world, it is most likely that 
 she would have prolonged her visit in the hills indefi- 
 nitely, and not have returned earlier in the day, as had 
 been the case. 
 
 In her room, Marcia Haddon heard voices — voices 
 of the two old women, voices of two younger women 
 — one voice which caused her to stop and listen — all 
 her faculties arrested. 
 
 It was Granny Williams who after a time knocked 
 at her door and called her out to meet the newcomers. 
 Marcia, with sudden prescience of what was to come, 
 summoned all her fortitude for what seemed to her 
 the unkindest blow she ever had known of fate. This 
 woman — here — following her to the edge of the world 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 — to her husband's very grave-side — it was a thing 
 unspeakable in its unfitness! Her very soul rebelled 
 against it. 
 
 Her color was high as she stepped out into the 
 room, facing what she felt must be an encounter. 
 "You asked for me?" said she, looking directly into 
 the face of Polly Pendleton. "I think there must be 
 some mistake." Her eyes now passed calmly from 
 one to the other, her face cold. 
 
 Polly, quick of wit, did what she could. "Mrs. 
 Haddon," said she impulsively. '.idn't know you 
 were here when we came in. We didn't know you 
 were in town. It's all a mistake — everything's a mis- 
 take. We wanted to go away right now — but they 
 wouldn't let us — there's no other place for us. Won't 
 you let me talk to you now? May we " 
 
 Her gesture indicated the room from which Marcia 
 had but now emerged, which seemed to offer privacy 
 for what Polly Pendleton as well as herself knew was 
 to be a scene. 
 
 "As you like," said Marcia Haddon icily, and held 
 open the door, closing it as the other entered. 
 
 all a mistake, Mrs. Haddon," began Polly 
 once more as she found herself alone with the other. 
 
 "So it would seem," replied Marcia, still coldly. 
 "Not one of my own making." 
 
 "We didn't know a thing about it, Mrs. Haddon. 
 I'm sorry, awfully sorry — sorry as I can be." 
 
 292 
 
THE UNCERTIFIED 
 
 "You would seem to have cause for regret, perhaps? 
 I suppose you refer to my husband's death ?" 
 
 Polly nodded rapidly, her upper lip trembling a 
 little bit The situation was not in the least easy for 
 her. 
 
 "I can fancy it would mean something to you." 
 
 "A lot," said Polly frankly, "an awful lot. But 
 what's the use! He was backing us, of course, you 
 . that — had been for a long while. We wanted 
 help — we're on our uppers now. We heard he was in 
 here, and we came in ourselves to have a little talk 
 with him over things. We were over on the railroad, 
 don't you see? We've had bad business all along for 
 weeks. The war knocked us out. Oh, I tell you, we 
 knew nothing about this — we hadn't heard of any acci- 
 dent. And Jimmy was such a good chap!" 
 
 "I presume you refer to my husband when you say 
 Jimmy ? Yes ?" Marcia's voice was not only icy, but 
 worse. 
 
 "Well," resumed Polly uneasily, 'Tve known him 
 for a long time, you see." 
 
 "I know all about the length — and the nature — of 
 your acquaintance with my husband, Miss Pendleton." 
 
 ly real name is Amanda Brown," said 1' 
 calmly. 
 
 Miss Brown? I don't know whether or not 
 my husband has made any provision for you in his 
 will. I haven't been made fully acquainted with the 
 
 9N 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 nature of his will. My lawyers have asked me to 
 come back at once, but I have been stopping on here. 
 It was hard — I was not quite ready to go away from 
 him. He needed some one to watch him, don't you 
 think? 
 
 "Now," she went on, "I have been obliged to meet 
 you " 
 
 "Well/' said Polly, with a shrug, "we wouldn't have 
 been so apt to meet back in the city." 
 
 "Hardly, I fear' 
 
 Polly reddened a little at this. "You don't like me, 
 Mrs. Haddon, do you ?" said she directly. 
 
 "Why should ir 
 
 "That's right — why should you, when it comes to 
 that? I'm not sure that I should if it were the other 
 way about. But one thing is sure " 
 
 "Need we discuss these matters at all ? I don't see 
 why. This whole situation is not in the least of my 
 making, or my liking." 
 
 "Oh, now, listen, Mrs. Haddon! I know a lot of 
 things. I'm not what you are — I never had your 
 chance. I've done the best I could with what I had, 
 the same as you, maybe. If I had married him you'd 
 never have taken him away from me!" 
 
 "Indeed?" Her auditor did not even smile. 
 
 .men like you," broke out Polly, waxing some- 
 what tremulous herself — "women like you don't know 
 anything about women like me. I didn't run after 
 
 294 
 
THE UNCERTIFIED 
 
 Jimmy 1 1 addon — he ran after me. Why did he? 
 What made him? Didn't you have every chance in 
 the world to keep him ? Who's to blame — me or you 
 or him — or all of us? I wasn't running after him 
 so much even now. Of course I didn't know any- 
 thing about what has happened, or I wouldn't have 
 come." 
 
 Marcia's hands were intertwining nervously now. 
 "Do you think I ought to talk to you at all now — 
 coming here as you do — following him absolutely into 
 his grave ?" 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't," said Polly, coloring hotly 
 now. "Maybe I'm not as bad as you think — or any- 
 way, different. If men drift to my sort, how can my 
 sort help it? I'm only a rag and a bone and a hank 
 my own self, I suppose. If it hadn't been him it would 
 have been someone else, maybe. If it hadn't been me, 
 maybe it would have been someone else for him too — 
 that's the way it goes." 
 
 Marcia H addon was looking at the young woman 
 before her whh a new and strange feeling of curiosity, 
 trying after her own ancient creed to be fair, to be 
 just. She was trying now to understand, to find as 
 much good as possible in the careless self -accusation 
 of the young person who spoke thus artlessly and 
 directly. But that young person went on now some- 
 what bitterly. 
 
 "We're a good ways apart, Mrs. Haddon, I expect 
 295 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 I hadn't a thing to start with but my laugh and my 
 looks — they would have left me comfortable if I'd 
 never met your husband. If he's gone now, all the 
 better for me now, like enough, and all the better for 
 him — and maybe for you too. You don't know about 
 my sort. Well, I don't ask that of you. There's milk, 
 and fresh milk, and bottled milk, and certified bottled 
 milk. You're strictly respectable — you're certified — 
 you're the sort that's been taken care of all their lives. 
 Me — I'm uncertified, I guess. It doesn't make much 
 difference to anybody now, does it? I told — him — an- 
 other man — I was going over with the Red Cross." 
 
 Still striving to be just in spite of all, Marcia Had- 
 don held her speech, looking gravely at the other, who 
 now went on, unsparing alike of herself and her 
 hearer. 
 
 "It's late to give you a tip about how to handle a 
 husband — but I could have " 
 
 "I'm afraid not," said Marcia Haddon. "I'm afraid 
 there's nothing you can do for me. I'm afraid — well, 
 I suppose I ought to try to be fair, even now." She 
 could not refer directly in speech to the relations be- 
 tween the dead yonder and the living here. 
 
 "That never gets anybody very much," said Polly 
 Pendleton. "You remind me of that chap that came 
 into my place in New York — Joslin, his name was — 
 he's the grandson of this old lady that brought us in 
 here!" 
 
 296 
 
THE UNCERTIFIED 
 
 Now for the first time the slow red of anger rose 
 to Marcia Haddon's face. 
 
 "I think you've said quite sufficient about that and 
 many other matters," said she. "You certainly can't 
 discuss Mr. Joslin with me — I'll not have it. In fact, 
 I'm not sure that you can discuss anything with me 
 any longer. 
 
 "I've asked no odds of you," she flared out, at last 
 ou took my husband from me, you took my leav- 
 ings — there was nothing about him that I cared for 
 any more. Anything worth trying for — anything 
 worth fighting for — why, yes — I don't know that I'd 
 need fear you so much. You came into my life not 
 by my invitation, but I'm not so sure you need ask 
 me so much for forgiveness. What have I to for- 
 give — or you ? He's dead now — he's gone from both 
 of us. You're welcome to what you ha 
 
 Her gaze unconsciously passed beyond the window, 
 up to the hillside where lay a little mound, a rude stone 
 at the head. 
 
 "We'll not say anything evil about him now — more 
 than we have. He's found the way out, even if we 
 haven't as yet for ourselves. Our ways must part, 
 of course. But you can't advise me and you can't 
 glory over me. You've had my leavings. Is that 
 quite plain ? 
 
 "And now the way is plain for all of us — at last." 
 Her voice was trembling. 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 It was like Marcia Haddnn to stand erect, her fea- 
 tures controlled, though tears dropped from her eyes. 
 And it was like Polly Pendleton to grasp both her 
 hands and K:ss her, when, sobbing, she fumbled for her 
 small bek .«^ngs as she turned to go. 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 THE SEEKING 
 
 THE unusual sounds of the street still came to 
 the ears of all in the little village, but Marcia 
 Haddon, agitated, held to her own room and 
 tried to rest, to forget. She was aroused by the sud- 
 den advent of Granny Williams herself. 
 
 "Come on out here, Ma'am," said that worthy. "I 
 want ye to meet Davy's granny — old Granny Joslin. 
 She's come down to talk things over today. Them two 
 young wimmern has went away. They said they 
 couldn't stay, so I sont 'em over to the blacksmith's 
 to stop. So set down an' talk to Davy's granny, 
 Ma'am." 
 
 Marcia was not prepared for the vision that met 
 her gaze. Old Granny Joslin was old, very much older 
 even than Granny Williams, more bent, less active, 
 more afflicted by the blows of life and fate. Indeed, 
 of late, Granny Joslin had seemed to all scarce so 
 savage as of old, a trifle more bent than she had 
 been in all her life before. Her eye was less fierce, as 
 now she took the young woman's hand in her own 
 iv. horny palm and looked into her eyes as straight 
 as a hawk might. 
 
 299 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 "So ye air the furrin womern that Davy tolt me 
 about," said she. "Well, ve're right purty, that's 
 shop 
 
 "Hain't she, though!" affirmed Granny Williams. 
 "Hain't she, though' — an' gittin' purtier right along. 
 If only she'd taken a few doses of camomile an' sage, 
 I'd 'a' had her ready by now so's she could do a day's 
 work. She's powerful trifiin', Granny." Even old 
 women called Granny Joslin "Granny," for she was 
 older than the oldest of them. 
 
 But Granny Joslin for some reason seemed softened 
 quite beyond her wont. "I'm glad to see ye, Ma'am," 
 said she. "I'm sorry ye lost yore man down at the 
 Narrers. Hit's a powerful mean place fer a man to 
 git in — thar's a heap of graves around thar — men 
 lost from the rafts at the Narrers. Davy's tolt me, 
 many's the time." 
 
 Marcia Haddon did not make any response. 
 
 "Davy tolt me all about ye, too," continued the 
 old woman. "I know ye must be moughty lonesome 
 in here. When air ye goin' back, Ma'am?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Marcia Haddon. "I've been 
 here longer than I had planned — I ought to go any 
 time — I must go now." 
 
 "Did ye hear the playin' in the street right now?" 
 asked the old woman suddenly. "Has the war came 
 up North as well as here?" 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Joslin. It's an awful, awful thing." 
 
 300 
 
THE SEEKING 
 
 ''Well, I don't know," rejoined that worthy dame. 
 "Men jest has to do a sartin amount of fightin' ary- 
 ways, an* now they kin git plenty. They'd orter. 
 Davy was the head man of our fam'ly ontel he went 
 away, an' then Chan Bullock, he taken it on — an* now 
 not even Chan seems to hev ary bit of sand left. 
 Ma'am, he's been livin' right along here, they tell me, 
 sleepin' right alongside of old Absalom Gannt, an* he 
 nuvver got him yit ! 
 
 "I jest sort of wandered in town today to see what 
 I could do my own self. An' now what do I see? 
 Why, old Absalom Gannt an' David Joslin an* Chan 
 Bullock a-marchin' down the street arm in arm, ye 
 mought say, follerin' the music! What kin I do? I 
 say, the war it's a massy — jest so old Absalom gits 
 killed somewhar, I don't keer how it happens!" 
 
 " They're brave men," said Marcia Haddon, her 
 eyes suddenly kindling. "Why, look what he did — 
 your grandson — down there at the Narrows." 
 
 "Well, he anyways saved the corp," assented Granny 
 Joslin, nodding. "Like enough couldn't no man of 
 done much more'n that." 
 
 "Davy's a-goin 'out, I reckon," said Granny Wil- 
 liams now, reaching for a coal for her pipe, and offer- 
 ing it in turn to the other old dame, still held between 
 the tips of her horny fingers. 
 
 "Of course he'll go," grumbled his granddam. 
 "Joslins kain't stay out'n ary war. I reckon that'll 
 
 301 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 put a stop to his colledge up on the hill, huh? We got 
 to wait now till we lick them Dutch a-plenty — they 
 tell me it's the Dutch we're a-goin' to fight." 
 
 "If thar ever was any talk that Davy was a-skeered," 
 commented Granny Williams presently, "I reckon it'll 
 .be stopped nov, 
 
 "Nobody but a fool would ever say a Joslin was 
 eered of arything!" broke out the other old dame 
 fiercely. "If he was a-skeered, would he of done called 
 them people together down at the mill house a purpose 
 to taken a shot at him if they wanted ter? If he 
 a-skeered, would he of went up to the door of the 
 stillhouse, come two year back, an* called old Absalom 
 out? Only pity is he didn't kill Absalom then — well, 
 as I -aid. jest so Absalom gits killed some way, I hain't 
 no wise pertic'lar." 
 
 "That's right, Granny," nodded Granny Williams 
 with approval, shifting her cob pipe to her hand. 
 "That's the proper sperrit of a Christian. An' I like 
 to hear ye say it thataway." 
 
 "Well," she went on, sighing, "our own fam'ly 
 hain't got skercely a quarl left no more, sence my son 
 Andy kilt the last Purrin over on Newfound a few 
 year back. If I was sitiwated like ye air, Granny, 
 I'd feel jest the same as ye do. I kin forgive all them 
 Purrin > now jest as easy as not — sence they're all daid. 
 Forgiveness is what they preach in the church house 
 
 "But now, Granny" — as the older woman sat star- 
 302 
 
THE SEEKING 
 
 ing moodily into the fire — "how come hit that yore 
 Davy hain't nuvver had no speakin' yit down to the 
 church house at the Creek? We're jest perishin' in 
 here fer some right good preachin'. Onct in a while 
 Preacher Bonnell he opens a meetin' fer three or four 
 days, an* sometimes Old Man Parkins from up Red- 
 bird, he comes round here in his circuit. An' thar's 
 a young man over in Leslie that they say is right prom-, 
 isin', an' he mought come over afore long. But thar 
 hain't been to say no religious awakcniri in here, so 
 to speak, fer a long time. An* Davy — ye know he 
 started out fer to be a preacher, him with his education 
 an' all. Why don't he preach?" 
 
 "Yes, why don't he?" demanded Granny Joslin sav- 
 agely. "I taken that all up with Davy, an* I kain't do 
 a damn thing with him. He says — well, what do you- 
 all think he says to me?" 
 
 "I kain't guess," said Granny Williams. "He's al- 
 ways been odd." 
 
 "He says he ain't good enough to preach!" ex- 
 claimed the fierce old woman who turned towards her. 
 "lie says, 'I hain't got my edication yit/ says he to 
 
 OT.A " 
 
 me. 
 
 "Men is natural cantankerous," said Granny Wil- 
 liams, nodding her head sagely. "Why the Lord made 
 'em that way, the Lord only knows." 
 
 "Davy won't have no chance to preach anyhow if 
 he goes to the war," resumed Granny Joslin. "I 
 
 BOi 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 reckon the school'll all go to hell now. Has he said 
 ary thing to ye about the school, Ma'am ?" She turned 
 suddenly now to Marcia Haddon. 
 
 "No," rejoined that indi v i d ual, somewhat startled; 
 "nothing at all. I've not seen him for several days." 
 
 "He tolt me ye was the wife of the man that owned 
 the Company — an* the Company owns all this land in 
 here. Well, like I said, I reckon that school'll have 
 to go to hell now — an* yit we certainly did need it — 
 that school. Hit was — our school, the fustest in the 
 Cumberlands." 
 
 Marcia Haddon vouchsafed no comment, and pres- 
 ently old Granny Joslin rose. 
 
 "Well, I got to be gittin' on, Sarah Alice," said she 
 to her friend. "I want to find Davy somewhar — I've 
 brung him down some caraway cookies. He always 
 liked 'em. An' I brung him a clean handkerchief — 
 he's got to have a heap of things if he's a-goin' off 
 ter the war. I don't know who them Dutch air — fer's 
 I know thar hain't no Dutch in these mountings no- 
 ways — but if we've got to lick 'em, I reckon we'd just 
 as well be about it. Damn 'em anyways, whoever they 
 air!" With which candid comment she hobbled on 
 out the door, and never gave a parting glance as she 
 faced up the street and started for her cabin home. 
 
 Granny Williams looked through the window after 
 her departing guest. "Ho hum!" said she. "Thar 
 goes the last of the Joslins — of the real Joslins. She 
 
 304 
 
THE SEEKING 
 
 was the fightin'est one of 'em all, but she alius was a 
 good Christian womern." 
 
 "Why hain't Davy come down here no more lately, 
 Ma'am?" she asked suddenly of her silent guest. 
 
 • i don't know in the least," replied Marcia Haddon. 
 "Does it matter?" Then, relenting: "I wish he 
 would come ! I ought to see him before he goes away, 
 or before I go." 
 
 "Why?" asked Granny Williams directly. 
 
 "I've got to be going. I'm a widow, you see, now, 
 Granny — I'm alone! I've been thinking a good deal." 
 
 'What ye been tninkin', child?" 
 
 Marcia Haddon, with a strange humility, laid one of 
 her soft white hands upon the wrinkled one reposing 
 in the old dame's lap. "I'll tell you — I've been think- 
 ing about that little child we met up there in the cave." 
 
 The old woman nodded. 
 
 "What will that child and all the others do if the 
 school stops?" 
 
 "Oh, Davy'll come back," said Granny Williams — 
 "he's got to come back." 
 
 "If we had buildings, and teachers, and everything," 
 mused her guest, "we could take care of any number." 
 
 "Ilit'd be a powerful fine thing for everybody." 
 said Granny Williams after a time of silence. "Now, 
 Davy — he's so odd, Ma'am. I've seen Davy Joslin 
 set like he was in a dream. If only men wasn't so 
 cantankerous !" 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 THE EDUCATION OF DAVID JOSLIN 
 
 THE hours dragged leaden for the women, 
 cooped up, silent, as in the old block-house 
 days, but for the men the great adventure of 
 going out to war, born in their ancient Highland blood, 
 sped the time rapidly enough. It cost a certain reso- 
 lution on the part of David Joslin to call upon the 
 "furrin woman," but now he must say good-by. 
 Therefore in time he knocked at the door of Granny 
 Williams' log house. 
 
 Marcia Haddon herself met him, as though she had 
 sent for him. "Come," said she. But she led him 
 not into the house itself. 
 
 He walked at her side, silent, as she directed her 
 footsteps toward the little steps cut into the foot of 
 the hill. They sat here, both looking out now across 
 the valley to the hills beyond. 
 
 The woman's gray eyes were wistful and sad. The 
 eyes of the man, resting everywhere but upon her face, 
 were also sad. He did not turn to look at her at all — 
 apparently did not note the increasing goodliness of 
 her figure and her rounder contours, the browner col- 
 
 306 
 
THE EDUCATION OF DAVID 
 
 oring of her cheek. She was a very comely woman, 
 Marcia Haddon, young, but wiser than she once had 
 been — more impulsive also, less cold, less reserved. It 
 was as though she entered a new stage of womanhood, 
 as yet denied her in her chill years of self -repression. 
 Never until now had she really known the awakening 
 of woman. Virginal, warming, fluttering, she was not 
 married woman or widow now ; she was a girl, a girl 
 at the brink of life. Oh! how vast and sweet the 
 revealing Plan seemed now to her. 
 
 "Well, you're going out," said she at last, the first 
 to break the silence. 
 
 "Yes, I'm going out." His voice was low and deep. 
 It seemed to her that she now for the first time real- 
 ized its even vibrancy. 
 
 At last : "What will become of the work here?" she 
 began. 
 
 "I can't tell as to that, Mrs. Haddon," said he. "It 
 must wait." She made no reply, and he went on : 
 
 "You see, all my life has been pretty much the same 
 thing. I've always had to look ahead and did not dare 
 look at things between. Once this school up here on 
 the hill was all I looked at — and there wasn't any- 
 thing between. There's other work afoot that's even 
 bigger, now. Maybe after that I'll be fit for this." 
 
 "You've done wonderfully well. It's scarce less 
 than a miracle — how you've got on." 
 
 "At least I've told you all about myself," said he 
 307 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 after a time. "I've nothing more to say — now or at 
 any other time." 
 
 "You need say nothing," she rejoined. "Life goes 
 hard for all of us sometimes." She was conscious of 
 her banality, but found herself, as so often, dumb in 
 her largest emotions. 
 
 "It was a hard enough start," he assented. "It's 
 hard enough for all of us in here. I'm not so old." 
 
 "No. You only seem old to me. I suppose that's 
 because you have had to do so much in so short a time. 
 But I'm older, too. It's a sad country — did you ever 
 stop to think how few people smile, down here in these 
 mountains ?" 
 
 "Yes, I know; and you know, now. Well, I sup- 
 pose you'll go away and forget us. We've been for- 
 gotten, more than a hundred years. That's hard — to 
 be forgotten." 
 
 "Do you think that of me?" she said, still staring 
 straight down the valley. 
 
 "I hardly know what to think of you," said he, de- 
 liberately. "You are not like any woman I ever 
 knew." He flushed, suddenly remembering he had told 
 her he never had known but three women in his life. 
 
 "Well, be fair, at least. Be sure you know my 
 point of view. This work ought not to stop." She 
 was trying to look at him from the corner of her eye. 
 
 "The Lord has built that building up on the hill, 
 Mrs. Haddon," answered David Joslin. "I suppose the 
 
 308 
 
THE EDUCATION OF DAVID 
 
 Lord will continue it or destroy it. Blessed be the 
 name of the Lord." 
 
 She half turned her face toward him now as she 
 replied. 
 
 "I've told you IVe been a useless woman all my 
 
 life. Well, just the other day I saw a child — a little 
 
 child, out in the hills — it lived wild, in a cave. I held. 
 
 and right in mine, this way — don't you see? And 
 
 , I thought, there were hundreds of them — hun- 
 
 . all through these hills." She was flushing. 
 
 <f Yes," said he ; "many hundreds." 
 
 "Then I thought of the money that's mine that 
 maybe oughtn't all to be mine. You see, I've counsel 
 — lawyers — that sort of thing — men who would help 
 me in anything I asked. Suppose we had some more 
 buildings, and plenty of teachers after a time?" 
 
 He did not make any answer at all, and she was 
 obliged to go on unaided. 
 
 "In this awful time of the world, Mr. Joslin," said 
 she, "everyone ought to be useful. We'll need more 
 good citizens in America. All of us women oug. 
 work in some way. The country must go on, until 
 c won. Where could I be more useful than here? 
 Don't you think I could keep the work going some 
 way until — until you came back, David Joslin?" 
 
 Still he did not answer, and still she went on, 
 struggling somewhat desperately with his native reti- 
 cence and her own. 
 
 309 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 "Why, they say this is a war for democracy, don't 
 you know? And where could we fight better for 
 democracy? Wasn't that your ambition — wasn't that 
 your dream 
 
 "Yes!" suddenly he exclaimed, hoarsely. "That 
 was my dream ! You know how it ended — you know 
 why. I killed my own school, you know h< 
 
 "Yes — you've spoken very freely. It's just as well. 
 These are days when there's no time to be lost. And 
 I'd like you to know, at least how much I've mar- 
 veled at what you've done." 
 
 "Marveled!" said he. "It's I who have marveled. 
 But what you say — if you could keep the school going 
 — why, that's a miracle 
 
 "Well," said Marcia Haddon quietly, "you've always 
 spoken of miracles as matter of course." 
 
 "Maybe we'd better not talk much more," said he 
 after a time, long silences seeming natural now. "I 
 told you I wasn't through. I've sinned, and I'll re- 
 pent. I'm ignorant — but I'm going out now to get the 
 rest of my education. If I am spared . . . some time 
 . . . I've told you about the other woman up there," 
 he finished, anguished. "As you know — she's dead." 
 
 "Is she dead forever, David Joslin?" asked Marcia 
 Haddon quietly. The color in her own cheek was 
 warm. 
 
 "Yes, forever. And I'll not speak any ill of her 
 memory." 
 
 310 
 
THE EDUCATION OF UAVlD 
 
 "Nor I of the memory of the man that's dead," 
 jaid she slowly. "It's life, I suppose." 
 
 that's life! And I want it — all, every bit of 
 it. all that any man ever coveted or had — all of a man's 
 dues in life. Yes, I want it — all!" 
 
 He spoke now with a sudden fierceness, his gray 
 eyes aflame in a way she had not seen, that indom- 
 itableness of the inner man now showing through 
 as never yet she had seen him, so that she felt a thrill, 
 a shock, as of some vast, measureless dynamo of 
 power suddenly awaking. "All life is the same thing. 
 It's all an education, all a growing — God! Give me 
 chance to grow! Let me get ready, so I can 
 deserve. I've been hungry all my life — hungry for the 
 world — hungry for my education — hungry for all a 
 man's life — love, happiness, content, power, useful- 
 ness. I'm hungry for this war, even, because I know 
 it will teach me something or leave me at last at peace. 
 I've not known peace. I've lived in torment — I'm in 
 torment now. But I'll come back bigger and better 
 if I ever come back at all. Life — why, life " 
 
 He halted, his drawn brows turned away. 
 
 "That little child that came up to me," began Marcia 
 Haddon hastily, as though irrelevantly — "if I could 
 do something in the meantime — while you were out 
 there — why, I'd be the happiest woman in all the 
 world Yes, I! And I'd said good-by to happiness, 
 the same as you.*' Her eyes were soft now. 
 
 811 
 
THE WAY OUT 
 
 "If I thought that could be," he answered slowly, 
 Td know the end even of this war — I'd know the 
 end of my own fight — I'd know that justice and good 
 do triumph over all and through all. Oh, what a 
 dream! And for my people — the forgotten, the 
 mocked, the helpless ones. If I — if you and I " 
 
 "I'm going now," he concluded, long later. "These 
 are things in which I can't give you counsel. You're 
 the one real woman I ever knew in all my narrow 
 life — the one real woman. I reckon I've seen them all 
 now. I wanted to tell you that, before I went away — 
 I had to tell you! If only I had lived so that you 
 wouldn't think so ill of me. Oh, my God! Always 
 I do the evil thing when I would do the right. I'm so 
 impatient. It's so hard for me to be patient now." 
 
 He rose and stood facing straight ahead. The twi- 
 light now was falling softly upon the hills. Sounds 
 came from the street below — sounds unwelcome. 
 
 "Good-by," said he, suddenly. "I'll love you all my 
 life!" 
 
 "Going?" Her voice seemed not yet to accept it 
 after all. She half raised a hand. The blood of her 
 cheek surged back. 
 
 "Yes — to finish my education !" 
 
 He stalked away, never looking back. 
 
 She sat alone now, still gazing out across the hills, 
 it a new and wider world than any she had ever 
 known. 
 
 312 
 
THE EDUCATION OF DAVID 
 
 The sounds on the street below became more audi- 
 ble, wafted by a change in the evening air. She knew 
 that there was forming yonder a procession of men 
 who presently would pass out around the shoulder of 
 the hill at the end of the street. And then at last she 
 heard fully the throb of the drum, the keening of the 
 fife. The men of the Cumberlands were marching out 
 into the world. He was at their head — going out for 
 his ordeal, going out to grow, to get re^dy — to deserve, 
 as he had said. What a man he would be — what a 
 man he was! 
 
 Marcia Haddon suddenly reached out her arms, her 
 gesture following the marching men, as though some- 
 thing of her own had gone out with them. She sat, 
 until she knew not whether she heard the throb of a 
 passing drum or felt the pulse of a new heart, beating 
 high and strong. Her Work lay at hand — out there, 
 on the hills where the gaunt buildings grew. And on 
 ahead — was it Life, as sweet as it was earnest and 
 compelling, that rested yonder — on the heights ahead ? 
 
 (ft 
 
THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 STAMPED BELOW 
 
 AN INITIAL FINE OF 25 CENTS 
 
 WILL BE ASSESSED FOR FAILURE TO RETURN 
 THIS BOOK ON THE DATE DUE. THE PENALTY 
 WILL INCREASE TO 50 CENTS CN THE FOURTH 
 DAY AND TO fl.OO ON THE SEVENTH DAY 
 OVERDUE. 
 
 301 22 WM 
 
 LD 21-100m-8 *34 
 
 U *.!«-•   
 
IfT' 
 
 m 
 
 / *