Produced by David Garcia and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Kentuckiana Digital Library) [Illustration: _Where the Souls of Men are Calling_] WHERE THE SOULS OF MEN ARE CALLING BY CREDO HARRIS _Frontispiece by_ JOHN R. NEILL NEW YORK BRITTON PUBLISHING COMPANY Copyright, 1918 By BRITTON PUBLISHING COMPANY All Rights Reserved Made in U. S. A. * * * * * TO MAUD BLANC HARRIS * * * * * WHERE THE SOULS OF MEN ARE CALLING CHAPTER I Hillsdale is "somewhere in the United States of America"--but there are hundreds of Hillsdales! This particular Hillsdale is no less, no more, than the others. It contains the usual center of business activity clustering about a rather modern hotel. One of its livery stables has been remodelled into a moving-picture house, the other into a garage; one of its newspapers has become a daily, the other still holds to a Friday issue. In its outlying districts will be found hitching racks before the stores. Altogether, Hillsdale might be said to be "on the fence," with one leg toward progressiveness, the other still lingering in the past. Its residences have not grown beyond the rambling, mellow kind, that drowse in poetic languor amidst flowering vines and trees. These trees, that also line the streets, meeting in cathedral arches overhead, might be stately elms of New England, poplars of the middle-west, or live-oaks of the south; for it must be strictly borne in mind that Hillsdale is "somewhere in the United States." One mild day in early April, 1917, in the side yard of a corner house well away from traffic noises, two trim little women, Miss Sallie and Miss Veemie Tumpson, were delicately uncovering their tulip beds when Colonel Hampton, passing on his way down town, stopped and raised his hat. An imperceptible agitation rustled their conventional exteriors, since it was an occasion of pleasure when Colonel Hampton paused at anyone's fence. They noticed, however, that his usual geniality was lacking; that the kindly seams in his face were set into lines of sternness. "Well, m'em," he thundered, "their damned outrages continue!" Miss Sallie gasped and stared at him, while her more timid sister was too much taken aback to move. In the forty-odd years of their acquaintance with this agreeable product of the mid-Victorian era, this was the first time they had heard an oath pass his lips--without an immediate apology; and the apology had not been forthcoming. "Yes, m'em," he cried, striking the ferrule of his cane on the sidewalk, "their damned outrages continue!" "Why, Colonel," Miss Veemie faltered, "whatever can have happened?" She was a trifle deaf, but she had no difficulty whatever in understanding the irate gentleman before her.