"Why do you give him the liquor?" Harding inquired.
"I don't," said Gardner drily. "He's a pretty regular customer, but he never gets too much at this hotel."
"And there isn't another."
"That's so," Gardner agreed, but he offered no explanation and Blake changed the subject.
"Unless you're fond of farming, life in these remote districts is trying," he remarked. "The loneliness and monotony are apt to break down men who are not used to it."
"Turns some of them crazy and kills off a few," agreed a farmer, who appeared to be well educated. "After all, worse things might happen to them."
"It's conceivable," said Blake. "But what particular things were you referring to?"
"I was thinking of men who go to the devil while they're alive. There's a fellow in this neighbourhood who's doing something of the kind."
"Rot!" exclaimed a thick voice, and a man's figure appeared against the light at the open window. "Devil'sh a myth; allegorolical gentleman, everybody knowsh. Hard word that—allegorolical. Bad word too, reminds you of things in the rivers down in Florida. Must be some in the creek here; seen them in my homestead."
"You go to bed," said Gardner sternly.