The head of the house, a great, burly, red-haired farmer, came in with the oldest son, a perfect chip off the old block, and we sat down to a repast of fried salt pork, fried potatoes, fried onions, hot biscuits and coffee.
The meal concluded, the whole family went out to see us off. As I rounded the corner of the shed, I noticed the door which I had latched so carefully, standing open. Then what a sight met my eyes!
The wheel lay flat on the floor, groceries, bedding and equipment scattered all about, while a shoving, grunting, struggling mass of hogs rooted, trampled and fought over it. Chains were broken, tires torn from the wheels, spokes out, skirt guard bent and twisted, while through and over all was cocoa, sugar, coffee, plumbago, clothing, oil and pieces of the repair kit.
“Haw, haw,” roared the farmer, delighted with the novel sight. “Them hawgs sure have made a mash on that there bicycle.”
“Ya, hah. I fixed ’em, I fixed ’em,” shrieked my erstwhile patient, jumping about in glee. The little woman burst into tears.
Dan seized a heavy single-tree, which stood in a corner, and laid about him fiercely, sending the squealing drove pell-mell from the building. Before the farmer could stay his hand, he had laid low with a broken back a fine young boar. A few moments later a sow showed evidences of internal trouble, was taken with convulsions, and while we were gathering up the almost hopeless wreck, laid down and died, much to the grief of friend farmer, whose mirth was turned to mourning. Dan declared that the sow had swallowed his razor and wanted to hold an autopsy on the remains, but was forced to let the cause of death stand as acute indigestion.
The owner of the hogs cursed bitterly as we started to drag the poor old wheel back to our little camp, where Dan spent a day and a half endeavouring to repair it. But the case was hopeless. The good green tandem would never take the open road again.
The world seemed desolate that night as we sat beside our dying campfire discussing the situation. The mournful call of some night bird through the vast silence waked melancholy echoes in my lonely heart. The wind, moaning across the barren plains, spoke of darkness, inchoate, overwhelming. The stars seemed to stare coldly down upon the whirling mote to which we poor humans cling so doggedly. A gleam from a lighted window of the farmhouse only added to my feeling of isolation. I visioned the thousands of family groups gathered round the evening lamps, enjoying the cosy comforts of home, the sense of peace and security that springs from a recognised place in society, the feeling of love and protection, the intimate companionship, and opportunity for service,—the mother with her sewing, the father with magazine or paper, the children with school books or toys—all unwitting, unheeding, uncaring, utterly indifferent to the fate of the thousands who roam the highways even as we, having no place to lay their heads. These, outcast, abandoned, wretched, are exiles from a land of plenty through no fault of their own—their only roof, the threatening vault of heaven, their only couch, the bare cold ground, their evening lamp some solitary campfire. Their naked souls shudder in the relentless blast of endless ostracism.
Our little hoard of silver was running low. We knew by experience that no work was to be had in this inhospitable land. Our only hope lay in pressing forward.
Early next morning we cooked a meagre breakfast, packed such articles as were worth saving into two bundles, swung these on our shoulders and were off. We had covered perhaps eight miles and Dan was beginning to complain of his ankle when in the distance we sighted a little settlement strung out along the railroad track. As we approached, I took both bundles and turned toward the railroad station to wait while Dan searched for work.