CHAPTER IV
THE ROAD TO ROME
“Behold, one journeyed in the night.
He sang amid the wind and rain;
My wet sands gave his feet delight—
When will that traveler come again?”
—The Heart of the Road,
Anna Hempstead Branch.
A hypotenuse, as has been well said, is the longest side of a right-angled triangle. There is no need for details. That we are all familiar with the use of this handy little article is shown by the existence of shortcuts at every available opportunity, and by keep-off-o’-the-grass signs in parks.
Now, had Jeff Bransford desired to go to Arcadia—to that masquerade, for instance—his direct route from Jackson’s Ranch would have been cater-cornered across the desert, as has been amply demonstrated by Pythagoras and others.
That Jeff did not want to go to Arcadia—to the masked ball, for instance—is made apparent by the fact that the afternoon preceding said ball saw him jogging southward toward Baird’s, along the lonely base of that inveterate triangle whereof Jackson’s, Baird’s and Arcadia are the respective corners, leaving the fifty-five-mile hypotenuse far to his left. It was also obvious from the tenor of his occasional self-communings.
“I don’t want to make a bally fool of myself—do I, old Grasshopper? Anyhow, you’ll be too tired when we get to ’Gene’s.”
Grasshopper made no response, other than a plucky tossing of his bit and a quickening cadence in his rhythmical stride, by way of pardonable bravado.