Bob had dragged his blankets away from the empty huts, far out on the sand to get beyond the cries, but they were already in his soul--no getting away. Long afterward, lying out there, he heard the sound of a single shot from the direction of the blacksmith shop--the end of all cries. Welton was there before him, Mort Cotton appearing from the side. Palto’s troubles were over--Bart missing. It was not until daybreak that the father found a note pinned to his saddle--written by Bart before the shot had been fired. I guess I don’t belong here, Dad. I’ll take Palto with me, if I can get him loose. Otherwise--well, you’ll know. So long for good, BART. I THIRTY YEARS LATE ARRIVING when the present century was well started, Elbert Sartwell had now concluded that his was a most untimely birth. For instance, all that war amounted to in his case, was the matter of wearing puttees to school. The magic of his youth was moreover smothered in a houseful of sisters--imprisoned in a sorority-house, he found himself--all his aching and persistent dreams unexpressed. But the end had come. Elbert had reached decision; so had his father on the same point. They were at odds. It was a matter of grief to the son that for once there could be no compromise. Fall darkness had closed about him, as these things appeared before Elbert’s mind with finality. He left his room, followed the long wide hall to the door of his father’s dressing-room and knocked. It was the last quarter of an hour before dinner, and the tone of the ‘Come in’ was not encouraging, but it didn’t occur to Elbert to wait until dinner and tobacco had combed down his father’s tag-ends of the day. Mr. Sartwell was standing before his mirrors and did not turn, as the hall door opened. Elbert nodded at the reflection; also he observed in the glass a look of fresh vexation, which reminded him that his sister Nancy this very afternoon had smashed the fender and left front wheel of the new phaëton. His father had probably just heard about it. The present moment couldn’t be worse, but Elbert didn’t see how he could back out now with his ultimatum unreported. ‘I’ve been thinking it over,’ he said, ‘and I can’t start to work in the office, at least not now. You see, I’ve always wanted--’ ‘“Always wanted”--’ broke in Mr. Sartwell, ‘“always wanted” against my better judgment.... A houseful of “always wanteds”! How can a man be expected to stand in the midst of six people, always wanting in different directions?’ ‘I hate to be an added trouble to you,’ Elbert said in his unruffled way, ‘but there’s no use of my trying to go into the business, the way I feel.’ ‘What is it now?’