goin' to do about it?" The question was put more with
resignation than defiance.

Good raised his eyebrows. "Do about it? Why--what is there to do?"

"There's a bounty up," muttered the deserter savagely.

"Of course--but what of it?"

"Aw, cut that stuff! Call the con and cash in. Might as well be now as
later." The words were uttered wearily, as if the speaker's strength
were at a low ebb. "I'm sick o' chasin' round an' starvin'. At least
I'll get my belly full in stir. Nothin' to this game. I been on the jump
ever since I ... left. I knew one o' you dicks 'd get me some time. Go
on--make the pinch."

"You think I'm a dick?"

"Well--ain't ye?"

"Hardly."

"Hell--I thought you was." There was no particular regret in the man's
voice. He seemed to have lost any very keen interest in what fate might
do with him further.

"Out of work?" asked Good, after a pause.

"Most o' the time. Can't stay in one place long."

"Where you bound for now?"

"Country. Got a chance on a farm."

"That's the safest place. Got any money?"

"Two bits. I'm flush to-day."

"Here's two more. Four's luck."

The man eyed his benefactor narrowly. "Say," he ventured, "you look's if
you was kind o' up against it yerself."

"More or less," said Good shortly. A moment later Braeburn was reached,
and he rose.

"Here's luck, bo," said the deserter. "Got a job?"

Good's only reply was a faint smile. But it was such a curious smile
that the other man thought about it for a long time afterward. He
concluded that its owner had no job. He almost regretted that he had
accepted the quarter.

It was well on in November, though summer seemed to have returned for a
fleeting visit. But in spite of the warmth Good's heart was heavy as he
trudged up the winding road, where death had almost overtaken him, and
where the happiest chapter of his life had begun. He almost wished he
were going again to interview the rich Miss Wynrod for _The Workman's
World_.

But although, for the most part, his gaze was introspective, he was not
wholly blind to the splendour of the world about him. Beside the road
the oaks and maples seemed to bow and scrape to one another, garbed,
like the Assyrian, in purple and gold, with here and there a flash of
poignant scarlet. The distant hills, glowing warmly in the soft haze,
were great strips of Scotch tweed. Now and again, borne on the breeze,
came the pungent odour of burning leaves.

He halted, more than once, t