“How is that?”
“Yes, sir; this is Paul Waffington.”
“I didn’t understand, Doctor.”
“Well, I am very sorry, Doctor, but I will be away.”
“Why—er—Blood Camp, Doctor.”
“Good-bye, Doctor.” He hung up the receiver, turned about and shoved both hands down deep into his trousers pockets and stared at the floor.
“Now it’s settled, I think. Doctor Gray wanted me for dinner tomorrow and I told him that I was going away—to Blood Camp, so now it’s settled. Well, my promise is out to Gena Filson anyway, so that settles it.”
On the following morning the hero of this narrative stepped from his train with an air of rest and satisfaction, with forty miles of rough mountain road lying between him and Blood Camp. The meridian rays of a July sun beat mercilessly down upon him, as the rocks threw him first to one side of the road and then to the other side. But never a faltering moment with Paul Waffington, for the inviting shadows of the Mighty Snake was his goal.
He had learned early and well that great lesson, preparation. Hence he began early in the afternoon to find lodging along the way. At first he drew up before a little brown cottage near the roadside. The little mother of the home was sick, hence our traveler must be denied. He trudged on through the dust and called at the large white house just at the forks of the road. Here, too, was sickness, coupled with the fact that the master of the house was away. Again he takes up his traveling-bag, wipes the wet dust from his brow and journeys on. It seemed to the traveler a long way to the next house. But just before turning into the gorge he saw a great farmhouse by the roadside. Fat, sleek cattle grazed in the clovers; the barns were bursting with the crops of the preceding year; the fields were waving with coming crops, and surely, thought our pilgrim, he would lodge here with ease.
“What did you say your bizness is?” asked the woman on the front porch.