th a tree. On the next evening
the operator and George Willard walked out together.
Down the railroad they went and sat on a pile of
decaying railroad ties beside the tracks. It was then
that the operator told the young reporter his story of
hate.

Perhaps a dozen times George Willard and the strange,
shapeless man who lived at his father's hotel had been
on the point of talking. The young man looked at the
hideous, leering face staring about the hotel dining
room and was consumed with curiosity. Something he saw
lurking in the staring eyes told him that the man who
had nothing to say to others had nevertheless something
to say to him. On the pile of railroad ties on the
summer evening, he waited expectantly. When the
operator remained silent and seemed to have changed his
mind about talking, he tried to make conversation.
"Were you ever married, Mr. Williams?" he began. "I
suppose you were and your wife is dead, is that it?"

Wash Williams spat forth a succession of vile oaths.
"Yes, she is dead," he agreed. "She is dead as all
women are dead. She is a living-dead thing, walking in
the sight of men and making the earth foul by her
presence." Staring into the boy's eyes, the man became
purple with rage. "Don't have fool notions in your
head," he commanded. "My wife, she is dead; yes,
surely. I tell you, all women are dead, my mother, your
mother, that tall dark woman who works in the millinery
store and with whom I saw you walking about
yesterday--all of them, they are all dead. I tell you
there is something rotten about them. I was married,
sure. My wife was dead before she married me, she was a
foul thing come out a woman more foul. She was a thing
sent to make life unbearable to me. I was a fool, do
you see, as you are now, and so I married this woman. I
would like to see men a little begin to understand
women. They are sent to prevent men making the world
worth while. It is a trick in Nature. Ugh! They are
creeping, crawling, squirming things, they with their
soft hands and their blue eyes. The sight of a woman
sickens me. Why I don't kill every woman I see I don't
know."

Half frightened and yet fascinated by the light burning
in the eyes of the hideous old man, George Willard
listened, afire with curiosity. Darkness came on and he
leaned forward trying to see the face of the man who
talked. When, in the gathering darkness, he could no
longer see the purple, bloated face and the burning
eyes, a curiou