The man who called himself Walker Farr plodded down the dusty stretches of a country road.
He moved leisurely. He neither slouched like a vagabond nor did he swing with a stride which indicated that he had aim in life or destination in mind. When he came under arching elms he plucked his worn cap from his head and stuffed it into a coat pocket which already bulged bulkily against his flank. He gazed to right and left upon the glories of a sun-bathed June morning and strolled bareheaded along the aisle of a temple of the great Out-of-Doors.
He was young and stalwart and sunburnt.
A big, gray automobile squawked curt warning behind him and then swept past and on its way, kicking dust upon him from its whirring wheels.
He gave the car only an indifferent glance, but, as he walked on, he was conscious that out of the blur of impressions the memory of a girl's profile lingered.
A farmer-man who had come to the end of a row in a field near the highway fence leaned on his hoe-handle and squinted against the sun at the face of the passer-by. Then the farmer shifted his gaze to the stranger's clothing and scowled. The face was the countenance of a man who was somebody; the clothing was the road-worn garb of a vagrant.
“Here, you!” called the farmer.
“I hear you,” said the man who called himself Walker Farr, smiling and putting subtle insolence into the smile.
“Do you want a job?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you got a job?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What is it?”
“Chopping down well-holes that have been turned inside out by a cyclone.”
The man in the highway flashed a wonderful smile at the farmer and passed on. The farmer blinked and then he scowled more savagely. He climbed the fence and followed, carrying his hoe.
“Look here, you! There ain't no such business.”
“Send for me next time you have a well turned wrong side out and I'll prove it.”
“You're a tramp.”
Farr sauntered on.
“You're a tramp, and here's what we are doing to tramps in this county right now!”
Beyond them in the highway men were delving with shovels and hacking with mattocks. The men wore blue drilling overalls, obtrusively new, and their faces were pasty pale.
“We have taken 'em out of jail and put 'em doing honest work,” said the farmer. He pointed to guards who were marching to and fro with rifles in the hook of their arms. “Here's where you belong. I'm a constable of this town. I arrest you.”
The young man halted. His smile became provokingly compassionate as he stared down at the nickel badge the farmer was tapping.
“So you represent the law, do you?” inquired Farr.
“I do.”
“It's too bad you don't know more about the law, then. I have neither solicited alms, trespassed on private property, begged food, nor committed crime in your little kingdom, my good and great three-tailed bashaw. Here is a coin to clear the law.” He exhibited a silver piece. “I am sorry I cannot remain here and help you mend your ways—they seem to need it!”
He went on past the sullen gang of pick and shovel, treading the middle of the broad turnpike.
“Ain't that a tramp?” asked one of the guards.
“I don't know what he is,” confessed the farmer.
The man who called himself Farr turned a corner and came upon the same automobile which had overtaken and passed him, contemptuously kicking its dust over him, a few minutes before he arrived at the farmer's fence.
A rear tire was flat and a young man who was smartly attired in gray was smacking gloved hands together and cursing the lumps of a jail-bird-built road and the guilty negligence of a garage-man who had forgotten to put a lift-jack back into the kit. Two women stood beside the car and looked upon the young man's helplessness.
“Enter tortoise, second scene of the ancient drama, 'The Tortoise and the Hare,'” Walter Farr informed himself.
His amused brown eyes noted the young man was obviously flabby.
“Here, you! Help me prop up this axle,” commanded the charioteer.
“You do not need help,” suggested Farr. “You need somebody who can do the whole job.”
The glance he gave the young man, up and down, conveyed his full meaning.
“Well, I must say that's saucy talk from a hobo,” declared one of the women.
“Mother!” warned the third member of the party.
Farr turned his cynical gaze from the older woman to the younger—from the bleached hair and rouged lips to a fresh, pure, and vivid loveliness. He saw her profile once more.
“No one has remembered to say 'please' yet,” the girl informed him, meeting his gaze. “I say it, sir!”
He bowed and went straight to the roadside and picked up a bit of plank on which his searching eyes rested.
He gave it into the gloved hands of the car's owner, he slipped off his own sun-faded coat and rolled the sleeves of his flannel shirt above his elbows, and then, with shoulder thrusting up; and arms straining, he heaved the car high enough so that the flabby gentleman could set the prop under the axle. And when the gentleman began to dust his gloves and to search for spots on his gray immaculateness, Farr dug tools from the box and proceeded to the work of replacing the tire.
The girl stood near him and regarded him with interest. He looked up when he had the opportunity and found her eyes studying him. She was entirely frank in her gaze. There was nothing in her eyes except the earnestness of a scrutiny which was satisfying curiosity.
When the work was done the owner offered money.
Farr refused with curt decisiveness.
“Well, have a drink?” invited the debtor.
“I do not use liquor.”
The autoist emptied his cigar-case into his hand and offered the cigars to Farr, who had just tugged on his coat.
“I do not smoke, sir.”
It was not declination with humility; the manner of the man of the road contained a hint that anybody who drank or smoked was no better than he should be. The girl studied him with renewed interest.
“Don't stand there and try to put anything over on me,” advised the man in gray, showing resentment. “What can I do for you?”
“You might thank the man, Richard,” declared the girl, tartly. She turned to Farr.
“He seems to have forgotten 'thank you' as he forgot 'please.' May I make amends? We thank you!”
“And now I am in your debt,” said the rover. He bowed and walked on.
When the car passed him the girl turned and gave him a long look. He waved his hand. The dust-cloud closed in between them.
“Kat Kilgour! That's a tramp! I'm amazed!” said the elder woman, observing the look and the salute.
“Yes, this world is full of surprises,” agreed the girl, sweetly.
“But your own eyes told you that he was a tramp.”
“There isn't any doubt of it, is there, if you used your eyes?” demanded their escort.
“We'll consider that the eyes have it—and let the matter drop,” said the girl—and her tone was not sweet.
The man of the keen brown eyes and the faded garb fared on.
He plucked a rose from a wayside bush and carried the flower in his hand.
“Your sister just passed this way,” he informed the rose in whimsical fashion. “I don't suppose you and I will ever catch up with her. I go very slowly, but you may journey along with me.”
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