"Shank’s mare," said Henrietta. "At the nearest farm, we can get a team and drive to some town where we can telegraph." Bartlett and Billy agreed. The general said nothing. There was nothing to say. The dream of his heart, the occupation of his days, was gone. What was there to say? The Watermelon also was silent. He felt that he could not leave them, now that they were again in trouble. When they reached the town and had telegraphed, he would go—back to the road. He was chewing a straw, hands in his pockets, gazing with the others in dull apathy at the remains of the car, and he raised his head instinctively to read the sky for approaching storms. There would be a moon that night and a good breeze, which would make walking easy. "Hungry?" asked Billy gaily, smiling at him, her eyes asking what the matter was. Had she done anything to offend him since the evening before when they had climbed the railroad cut together? "I’m always hungry, Billy," said he and joined the general on the way to the house. Billy stood a moment, hurt and flushed, then she followed the others in to breakfast. The farmer’s wife had made some hot coffee, strong and black, and fried some bacon, and with thick slices of bread and butter, they all ate ravenously at the bare deal table in the kitchen, with no pretense whatever of tablecloth or napkins. The Watermelon and the farmer’s wife stood alone in the kitchen after the others had left and he looked down kindly at her with the camaraderie felt only by one unfortunate in trouble for another in a like place. "It’s damn hard on you," he said. "And on him," said the woman. "All the hay was just in." "Lay not up for yourselves treasures—" murmured the Watermelon laconically, instinctively turning to the Bible on every occasion. "Pity you aren’t a man. Then you could chuck the whole show and hit the road with me. I’m stony broke, too." He patted her shoulder gently and tears leaped into the woman’s tired eyes. She cried a bit and he soothed her softly as one would soothe a tired child. "Those others," said she, wiping her eyes on her coarse apron, "they are kind, but they don’t understand." "They mean well," said the Watermelon, "but you have to go through the mill yourself, to _do_ well. I know what poverty means. Its ways ain’t ways of pleasantness by a dog-gone sight." "Beggars all, beggars all," cried Henrietta, as they started up the road, in the dewy freshness of early morning. It was still early and quite cool, with the breeze of the night following them, laden with the depressing odor of charred timbers and burning leather. The road wound around a hill, sloping now and again into the valley and rising again to the heights. The view swept fields and hills and woods, all of the deep green of mid-June, and over all bent the blue sky of a summer day.