Then the man pulled his horse to a stand at the foot of the store steps and swung off. He had been riding bareback; and he was in the garments which he was accustomed to wear when he went fishing along the brooks. They all knew him; for though he was a man of the cities he had been accustomed to come to Fraternity in June for a good many years. They knew him, but did not particularly like him. There was always something of patronage in his attitude, and they knew this and resented it.
Nevertheless, one or two of them answered his greeting. For the rest, they studied him with an acute and painful curiosity. There was some warrant for their curiosity. Semler, usually an immaculate man, was hot and dusty and disordered; his face was white; his eyes were red and shifting, and there was an agonized haste in his bearing which he was unable to hide.
He asked, almost as his foot touched ground, “Anyone here got a car?”
Two or three of the men had come in automobiles; and one, George Tower, answered, “Sure.”
Tower was a middle-aged man of the sort that remains perpetually young; and he had recently acquired a swift and powerful roadster of which he was mightily proud. It was pride in this car, more than a desire to help Dane Semler, that prompted his answer.
Semler took a step toward him and lowered his voice a little. “I’ve had bad news,” he said. “How long will it take you to get me to town?”
That was a drive of ten or a dozen miles, over roads none too good.
Tower answered promptly: “Land you there in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll give you a dollar for every minute you do it under half an hour,” said Semler swiftly; and Tower got to his feet.
“Where’s your grip?” he asked.