The one-room shack was lined with tar-paper, on which were pinned lithographs of Robert G. Ingersoll, Karl Marx, and Napoleon. Under a gun-rack made of deer antlers was a cupboard half filled with dingy books, shotgun shells, and fishing tackle. Bone was reading by a pine table still littered with supper-dishes. Before him lay a clean-limbed English setter. The dog was asleep. In the shack was absolute stillness and loneliness intimidating. While Carl watched, Bone dropped his book and said, "Here, Bob, what d'you think of single-tax, heh?" Carl gazed apprehensively.... No one but Bone was in the shack.... It was said that the devil himself sometimes visited here.... On Carl was the chill of a nightmare. The dog raised his head, stirred, blinked, pounded his tail on the floor, and rose, a gentlemanly, affable chap, to lay his muzzle on Bone's knee while the solitary droned: "This fellow says in this book here that the city 's the natural place to live--aboriginal tribes prove man 's naturally gregarious. What d'you think about it, heh, Bob?... Bum country, this is. No thinking. What in the name of the seven saintly sisters did I ever want to be a farmer for, heh? "Let's skedaddle, Bob. "I ain't an atheist. I'm an agnostic. "Lonely, Bob? Go over and talk to his whiskers, Karl Marx. He's liberal. He don't care what you say. He---- Oh, shut up! You're damn poor company. Say something!" Carl, still motionless, was the more agonized because there was no sound from Gertie, not even a sobbing call. Anything might have happened to her. While he was coaxing himself to knock on the pane, Stillman puttered about the shack, petting the dog, filling his pipe. He passed out of Carl's range of vision toward the side of the room in which was the window. A huge hand jerked the window open and caught Carl by the hair. Two wild faces stared at each other, six inches apart. "I saw you. Came here to plague me!" roared Bone Stillman. "Oh, mister, oh please, mister, I wasn't. Me and Gertie is lost in the woods--we----Ouch! Oh, _please_ lemme go!" "Why, you're just a brat! Come here." The lean arm of Bone Stillman dragged Carl through the window by the slack of his gingham waist. "Lost, heh? Where's t'other one--Gertie, was it?" "She's over in the woods." "Poor little tyke! Wait 'll I light my lantern." The swinging lantern made friendly ever-changing circles of light, and Carl no longer feared the dangerous territory of the yard. Riding pick-a-back on Bone Stillman, he looked down contentedly on the dog's deferential tail beside them. They found Gertie asleep by the fire. She scarcely awoke as Stillman picked her up and carried her back to his shack. She nestled her downy hair beneath his chin and closed her eyes. Stillman said, cheerily, as he ushered them into his mansion: "I'll hitch up and take you back to town. You young tropical tramps! First you better have a bite to eat, though. What do kids eat, bub?"