"Aw, cut that stuff! Call the con and cash in. Might as well be now as later." The words were uttered wearily, as if the speaker's strength were at a low ebb. "I'm sick o' chasin' round an' starvin'. At least I'll get my belly full in stir. Nothin' to this game. I been on the jump ever since I ... left. I knew one o' you dicks 'd get me some time. Go on--make the pinch." "You think I'm a dick?" "Well--ain't ye?" "Hardly." "Hell--I thought you was." There was no particular regret in the man's voice. He seemed to have lost any very keen interest in what fate might do with him further. "Out of work?" asked Good, after a pause. "Most o' the time. Can't stay in one place long." "Where you bound for now?" "Country. Got a chance on a farm." "That's the safest place. Got any money?" "Two bits. I'm flush to-day." "Here's two more. Four's luck." The man eyed his benefactor narrowly. "Say," he ventured, "you look's if you was kind o' up against it yerself." "More or less," said Good shortly. A moment later Braeburn was reached, and he rose. "Here's luck, bo," said the deserter. "Got a job?" Good's only reply was a faint smile. But it was such a curious smile that the other man thought about it for a long time afterward. He concluded that its owner had no job. He almost regretted that he had accepted the quarter. It was well on in November, though summer seemed to have returned for a fleeting visit. But in spite of the warmth Good's heart was heavy as he trudged up the winding road, where death had almost overtaken him, and where the happiest chapter of his life had begun. He almost wished he were going again to interview the rich Miss Wynrod for _The Workman's World_. But although, for the most part, his gaze was introspective, he was not wholly blind to the splendour of the world about him. Beside the road the oaks and maples seemed to bow and scrape to one another, garbed, like the Assyrian, in purple and gold, with here and there a flash of poignant scarlet. The distant hills, glowing warmly in the soft haze, were great strips of Scotch tweed. Now and again, borne on the breeze, came the pungent odour of burning leaves. He halted, more than once, to draw a long breath and marvel at the glories of the scene. It was peaceful but not quiet. The fallen leaves rustled incessantly, and the squirrels, not at all deceived by this pretence of summer, went busily on with their preparations for what was coming, chattering volubly the while. The sound of a whistle drifted faintly from the distant railroad, that man and his works should not be forgotten, even here. Good's clouded brow cleared, and the heaviness dropped from his heart. He had come from the clamorous city, with its strife, its falsities, its bitter disappointments; and presently he would return. But now, for one brief moment, in the midst of sweet, mysterious odours, and sweeter memories, he was very happy.