he, too, had once been young and fired with high
ideals. It would be worth trying. And the things could be returned after
a brief studio session with Lowell Hardy. He saw himself cast in such a
part, the handsome young clergyman, exponent of a muscular Christianity.
He comes to the toughest cattle town in all the great Southwest,
determined to make honest men and good women of its sinning derelicts.
He wins the hearts of these rugged but misguided souls. Though at first
they treat him rough, they learn to respect him, and they call him the
fighting parson. Eventually he wins the hand in marriage of the youngest
of the dance-hall denizens, a sweet young girl who despite her evil
surroundings has remained as pure and good as she is beautiful.

Anyway, if he had those clothes for an hour or two while the artist made
a few studies of him he would have something else to show directors in
search of fresh talent.

After church he ate a lonely meal served by Metta Judson at the
Gashwiler residence. The Gashwilers were on their accustomed Sabbath
visit to the distant farm of Mrs. Gashwiler's father. But as he ate he
became conscious that the Gashwiler influence was not wholly withdrawn.
From above the mantel he was sternly regarded by a tinted enlargement of
his employer's face entitled Photographic Study by Lowell Hardy. Lowell
never took photographs merely. He made photographic studies, and the
specimen at hand was one of his most daring efforts. Merton glared at it
in free hostility--a clod, with ideals as false as the artist's pink on
his leathery cheeks! He hurried his meal, glad to be relieved from the
inimical scrutiny.

He was glad to be free from this and from the determined recital by
Metta Judson of small-town happenings. What cared he that Gus Giddings
had been fined ten dollars and costs by Squire Belcher for his low
escapade, or that Gus's father had sworn to lick him within an inch of
his life if he ever ketched him touching stimmilints again?

He went to the barn, climbed to the hayloft, and undid the bundle
containing his Buck Benson outfit. This was fresh from the mail-order
house in Chicago. He took out almost reverently a pair of high-heeled
boots with purple tops, a pair of spurs, a gay shirt, a gayer
neckerchief, a broad-brimmed hat, a leather holster, and--most
impressive of all--a pair of goatskin chaps dyed a violent maroon. All
these he excitedly donned, the spurs last. Then he clambered down the
l