Produced by Louise Davies, Roger Taft, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net The Book of Gud By Dan Spain and Harold Hersey This etext was produced from Main Street, July 1929. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. _DIP INTO THIS NOVEL ANYWHERE.... It deals with a god in whom nobody believed, and of his adventures the day after eternity. For instance, try Chapter XVI._ Chapter I One Sunday afternoon I was driving through a sparsely settled region on the southwest slope of the Catskills. It was growing late and I was anxious to get back to New York, but I had lost my way. In an attempt to cut across to the Hudson River road I turned up a poorly traveled lane, which, after ten miles of going, petered out into a mere abandoned trail. I kept on this for perhaps three miles further without passing a house, and then came to a low rambling structure half hidden among a grove of ancient overhanging trees. It was near lamp-lighting time and I was puzzled to know whether the place was deserted or not. I turned my car in toward the house, bumped over loose rocks--and my engine died. A man appeared on the porch. He was lanky in build, a little stooped, apparently about forty years of age, and was dressed in a blue flannel shirt and a pair of corduroy trousers. "Can you tell me how far it is to New York?" I asked. "Yes." "How far is it?" "About a hundred miles as the crow flies." "But how far is it by automobile?" "I don't know," replied the man, who seemed to be better posted on crow flights than auto travel. He offered no further remarks, but stood there indifferently eyeing the car. Curbing my annoyance I inquired: "How do I get out to a good automobile road?" "The way you came in." Realizing that I could get no information from this uncivil being, I pushed the starter--not a sound. I got out and cranked the engine--not a kick. I looked into my gas tank--not a drop! "Where is the nearest gas station?" I demanded. "I don't know--I burn kerosene," was the terse reply; and the man turned and entered the house. I tried to recall the last gas station I had passed, and realized it must have been all of fifteen miles behind. It was now growing dark. I climbed into the car to think of a way out of my awkward situation, but all I could think of was that there were sound reasons for abandoned farms. Then I got to wondering who this queer character was and why he was living here. As I had slept but little the night before, I must have dozed off, for the next thing I knew, a voice was saying: "Supper is ready."