Then, somehow, Allston found the conversation back in the personal channel--this time sweeping his own life into the current. He felt a certain obligation here. So as briefly as possible he filled in enough of his past to give them some slight understanding of who he was and why he was here. He found them both eager listeners and when he had done, the dusk was well upon them. Howe rose and extended his hand as though to welcome a new guest. “I feel honored more than ever,” he said a little pompously but sincerely, “to entertain a man who fought for democracy.” CHAPTER III Bud Childers sat before the open fire in his log shack on Big Laurel Cove. He sat alone. It is not good for a man to be alone unless he is either poet or philosopher. Bud was neither. And yet, on the board table which, with a few rough chairs, was the only article in the way of furniture the room contained, stood a bottle and in the bottle a withered branch from a laurel bush, plucked just beyond the ford where he had first seen Roxie Kester. It would have been foolhardy of any one to accuse Bud of expressing here a poetic idea. The chances are that he would have accepted this as a challenge. He knew nothing about poets or poetry or poetic ideas, he was not that kind. Maybe a squirrel brought in the branch, and if any one cared to dispute that statement Bud was ready. But no one did dispute it. He was alone. Being alone will play strange tricks with a man--with any man. It will bring to light, like digging in the ground, many curious things, both good and bad. Two weeks had passed since Bud first met Roxie--a disappointing two weeks. Four times within that period he had waylaid her on the road before the Howe house and walked by her side as far as her home. He had spoken her fair and spoken her foul--losing his temper once and making a threat. Maddened by her stubbornness he had rested a heavy hand upon her arm. “Y’are comin’,” he had said. “Y’are comin’ if I hev to carry yuh.” And she, pulling herself free, had clenched her two little fists. “If we had us men-folks home, you’d be slow sayin’ that, Bud Childers.”