“Well,” said Polly Pendleton, at length having herself in hand, “you’ve got none the best of me at that—I’ve seen a considerable many fools in my time, but you’re the human limit, son! The best thing I can do is to tie a can to you and get you started West as soon as possible. You’ll spoil over _night_. You ain’t strictly human. You’re the worst Rube that ever hit this island from any place on earth. Get out now—you’re liable to be arrested any minute! “And yet,” she added—still laughing kindly, and all the half-virginal softness of her original nature coming into the wistfulness of her tone—“I’m so glad you came! You’re a good sort.” She held out her hand. “Listen, friend—when you think of me I hope you’ll say I was a good sort too.” He reached out his arms, his hands trembling. “Ma’am,” said he, “I’m a married man. I had two children, onct. My father was a preacher. Ye was right, I’m startin’ out to be a preacher myself. I was startin’ out to do something in the world to hep the rest of them. But if ye hadn’t said what ye said jest now to me, I’d be willin’ to throw it all away for jest—for jest—for jest——” How, he knew not, nor she, he caught her arms, soft and white, in the grip of his great hands, and stood looking down at her fiercely, she as helpless as a child in his grasp. She was struggling to escape him now. “It’s not right!” said she. “I’m alone here—Oh, are you any kind of a man after all?” At this he dropped her arms, his own falling lax. “Why, of course I’m a man,” said he quietly. “Of course I am. That’s all I am. I’m a lost man, a damned one.” “Go!” she whispered to him hoarsely. “I’m not worth that. Go on away, and leave me something decent to remember.” She heard the door close softly. Within half an hour after Joslin had left, Polly Pendleton, unfinished cigarette in hand, turned in her cushioned armchair as she heard the strident call of the telephone. “Yes?” she replied. “Who is it, please?... You, Jimmy?... No, don’t come up. I’m awfully busy to-day.... I’ve got to work. “Who?—the wild man?... Keep him?... Ask him to stay here this winter? I should say _not_! I told him to get out of town! “Oh, come now, Jimmy,” she went on in rejoinder to what she evidently heard. “There’s no use talking that way.... Oh, you’re sore? Well, I can’t help it. I wouldn’t have done any different even if you had told me what you wanted.... You don’t care if I never come back? Oh, very well—same to you, and many of ‘em!... So long, Jimmy, and when you get decent come up. I may let you in, and then again maybe not.” CHAPTER XII THE STRAIGHT AND NARROW WAY WHEN next Haddon and his wife met at the breakfast table Haddon was more than ordinarily out of sorts, his wife rather more than ordinarily grave and silent. At length he flung back from the table. “Well, don’t it beat the devil,” said he, “how ungrateful some people are! Here our hill-billy turns up missing this morning. Where do you suppose he is?”