“Gee whiz!” sighed Oliver October, for all the world seemed as bleak to him as Clay Street was at midnight.
Not since that night in June, over a year ago, had he taken the “short cut” swamp road on his way home from Jane’s. He avoided it after dark as if it were a graveyard—and he always hurried a little in passing a graveyard at night. He had never gotten over childhood’s fear of the ghosts that were supposed to come out and wander among the cold, white tombstones. There were no tombstones along the lonely swamp road, but he had a dread of it just the same.
He sat on his porch until long past one o’clock, lonelier than he ever had been in his life. The night was warm, somber; a light wind crossing the expanse of swamp land brought a whiff of comfort and with it the incessant chatter of frogs, the doleful hoot of owls and the squawk of nightbirds prowling in the air. The house was dark, still. He felt very sorry for himself, sitting there all alone. How different it was over at Mr. Sage’s house—the friendly lights, the cozy comfort of everything, the companionship—some one to talk to and laugh with, and some one to feel sorry for him, instead of the other way about. To-morrow night would be Lansing’s night—and soon, perhaps every night.
“I ought to get married,” he mused in his dejection. “It’s the only thing. Have a wife and a home and children. But, good Lord, where am I to find a girl I’d want to be tied to all my life? I’ve had it pretty bad two or three times, but, here I am, not caring a darn about any one of ’em. I might just as well never have known them. It wasn’t the real article—not by a long shot. There are mighty few girls like Jane in this world—mighty few. The man who gets her will get one in a million. And where would a chap find a father-in-law like Uncle Herbert? It makes me sick the way Lansing twists that beastly little mustache of his and looks bored every time Uncle Herbert speaks. Funny Jane doesn’t see it and call him down for it. And why the devil doesn’t Uncle Herbert see it and tell Jane she’ll never be happy with a fellow like Lansing? Good Lord, is everybody blind but me?”
The next morning he was down at the swamp bright and early, inspecting the work of the ditchers and tile layers. The task of reclaiming the land had been under way for several months and was slowly nearing completion.
“I wish you’d change your mind about not going out any farther, Oliver,” said old John Phillips, who was superintending the work. “We could go out a quarter of a mile farther without a bit of risk, and you’d add about twenty acres of good land to—”
“We’ll have enough, John,” interrupted the young man. “We’ll stick to the original survey. Don’t go a rod beyond the stakes I set up out yonder. It may be safe but it isn’t worth while.”
“Well, you’re the boss,” grumbled old John, and added somewhat peevishly: “I’ll bet your father wouldn’t throw away twenty acres or more just because—but, as I was saying, Oliver, you’re the boss. If you say I’m not to go beyond them stakes, that settles it. But I can’t help saying I think you’re making a mistake. There’s some mighty good land there, ’spite of them mudholes a little further out.”
“I’m not denying that,” said Oliver patiently. “But we’ll stop where the stakes are, just the same.”
A few minutes later old John confided to one of the ditchers that young Baxter was considerable of a darned fool. Either that, or else he had some thundering good reason of his own for not wanting to go out beyond the stakes.