"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," said a farmer, who appeared to be well educated. "After all, worse things might happen to them."
"It's conceivable," agreed 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 neighborhood 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.
"Nosh a bit," replied Benson. "Who you talking to?" He leaned forward, in danger of falling through the window. "Lemme out!"
"It's not all drink," Gardner explained. "He has something like shakes and ague now and then. Says he got it in India."
Benson disappeared, and a few moments afterward reeled out of the door and held himself upright by one of the veranda posts.
"Now I'm here, don't let me interrupt, gentlemen," he said. "Nice place if this post would keep still."