the window, which he called his
loop-hole of freedom, for through it no Colossus could be seen. He
turned slowly and looked toward the door. The girl was gone.

CHAPTER XXIX.

A DAY OF REST.

Early the next morning Henry and Richmond were on a train, speeding
away from the roar, the clang, the turmoil, the smoke, the atmospheric
streams of stench, the trouble of the city. They saw a funeral
procession, and Richmond remarked: "They have killed a drone and are
dragging him out of the hive, and as they have set out so early they
must be going to pay him the compliment of a long haul." They passed
stations where men who had spent a quiet night at home paced up and
down impatiently waiting for a train to whirl them back to their daily
strife. "They play cards going in and coming out," said Richmond, "but
at noon they are eager to cut one another's throats."

They ran through a forest, dense and wild-looking, but in the wildness
there was a touch of man's deceiving art. They crossed a small river
and caught sight of a barefooted boy trying to steal a boat. They sped
over the prairie and flew past an old Dutch windmill. It was an odd
sight, an un-American glimpse--a wink at a strange land. They
commented on everything that whirled within sight--a bend in the road,
a crooked Line, a tumble-down fence. They were boys. They talked about
names that they held a prejudice against, and occasionally one of them
would say, "No, I don't like a man of that name."

"There," Richmond spoke up, "I never knew a man of that name that
wasn't a wolf. But sometimes one good fellow offsets a whole
generation of bad names. I never liked the name Witherspoon until I
met you."

"How do you like DeGolyer?" Henry asked.

"That's not so had, but it isn't free from political scandal. I rather
like it--strikes me that there might be a pretty good fellow of that
name. Let me see. We'll get off about three miles this side of Lake
Villa and go over to Fourth Lake. The woods over there are beautiful."

"We should have insisted on McGlenn's coming," said Henry.

"No," Richmond replied, "the country is a bore to John. Once he came
out with me and found fault with what he termed the loose methods of
nature. I pointed out a hill, and he said that it wasn't so graceful
as a mound in the park. I waved my hand toward a pastoral stretch of
valley, and he said, 'Yes, but it isn't Drexel Boulevard.' Art is the
mistress of John's mind. His emotions a