male
squall whose timbre is more hideous than the death-cry of swine.

Then came a man running from the valley under the hill.

"It's your husband, Mrs. Jose," he panted, turning in at the house where
the fat tramp ate with his back against the clothes-reel. "You better
go! I'll telephone for a doctor."

She ran, white-faced, gasping cries. Other women ran. The spirit of
helpfulness and curiosity to know what had happened set wings on the
heels of the little community. The messenger telephoned and followed
them.

The fat tramp set down his plate and glanced to right and left and all
about. Then he shuffled into the deserted house and after a brief stay
hastened out with his pockets crammed and bearing garments in his arms;
he scuttled away with sagging trot across the fields.

Farr saw him go and did not pursue.

"Yonder goes the spirit of the age," he told himself, with sardonic
twisting of his lips. "When Opportunity knocks, knock Opportunity
down. Embrace Opportunity, but be sure it's with the strangle hold. The
directors of a robbed railroad make a more dignified getaway than
that porcine pedestrian is making--but it's the same as far as the
stockholders are concerned."

He went on slowly toward the hollow under the hill.

The procession met him--a limp man, moaning, borne in the arms of his
sweating mates, women trotting alongside and crossing the road, to and
fro, like frightened hens--clucking sympathy.

Farr found a half-finished stone bridge under the hill. A paunchy boss
with underset jaw and overhanging upper lip was profanely urging his
helpers back to their jobs.

"Fifteen minutes before knock-off time--fifteen minutes! You can't help
that man by standing around and doing his grunting for him. Get busy!"

The men lifted their tools slowly and sullenly.

"It's hell what can happen when you're fifteen days behind on a
contract, with county commissioners waiting and anxious to grab off a
penalty," declared the boss, to nobody in particular. "One man bunged,
and four to lug him home, and the rest of the crew taking a sympathetic
vacation!"

Farr, sauntering, swung off the highway down the lane leading to the
temporary bridge.

"Here, you long-horned steer, want a job?" called the contractor from
his rostrum on the granite block.

"No, my Sussex shote, I do not!"

"Damnation! You dare to call me names, you hobo?"

"Yes," returned Farr, quite simply.

"Well, quit it. I need men here. You'r