The real commencement of Paul Waffington’s life began when he turned away from the old man, went out and shut the door. Everyone knew that Waffington had not only won the college honors—a gold medal, but that he had won and was carrying away with him the heart of the grand old man of the college.
Since college days he had for a time pitched his tent with the “lumber jacks” of the north—there to learn the true worth of honest toil. Then followed a couple of years of “roughing it” among the sandhills of New Mexico, that taught him to look the world in the face with confidence and courage. Finally, he returns to a certain city in his own southland and there established himself—to work in the interest of the children of the Appalachian hills.
We see him now as he steps from his car with traveling-bag. Five feet nine; twenty-two years, straight, and walks a little fast for most men of his age.
Blood Camp had been but little in the mind of Paul Waffington of late. In fact, demands upon him in other directions had taxed his mind and body to their capacity. More than a year had elapsed since he was in Blood Camp, but, after all, the time had not seemed long to him. But now, as he turned in at his headquarters for a few days’ rest, Gena and the people of Blood Camp comes sharply up before him.
During the past few months he had had conversation with two or perhaps three commercial travelers who had passed through the village recently, but they could give him no information of little Gena or old Jase. He settled at his desk and began going through his mail. After dashing off his answer to the last letter of the stack of accumulated mail, he turned from the desk and settled back in his chair with a breath of relief. But no sooner done, a feeling of apparent fear or dread possessed him.
“It is a little strange, though, that Gena has never written one single word,” he at length said, as he studied the floor. “I gave her some postcards and merely asked her to drop a line now and then, that I might know that she does well. Yes, I asked Jase to write, too. How long has it been? November is twelve, and June is seventeen months and never a word! Then I sent her a little Christmas present, too. But who knows if she received it? Jase may have taken it from the post-office, torn the little silk scarf to shreds and put a match to it for all I know. Oh no, he didn’t. Jase Dillenburger is too old a man to treat a sweet girl like Gena Filson in such a manner. His own adopted daughter? Oh no, he took the package to her. She simply has been too busy with the work that her tender hands find there to write,” he finishes. Then for a full ten minutes he sat thinking it all over. “Don’t like this protracted silence, though. Something might be wrong at Blood Camp,” he murmured.
Walking to the door of his room he looked out into the street. Darkness was coming on. He sees the street-lamps flash out their first rays for the night, and watches the carbons jump and pop in the one nearest him, as the current burnt off the new tips. Lifting his eyes a little, he looked through the meshes of telephone and electric wires, and searches the stars for answer to the question that he was debating in his mind.
“Perhaps I ought to go. It’s a long way removed from Knoxville, though, is Blood Camp. A hundred and twenty by rail and forty horseback or foot.” Taking a hasty look into his pocketbook he looked up quickly and finished, “and afoot this time without a doubt.”
The telephone bell rang, and he went to the telephone with his question unsettled.
“Hello.”