omobile
road?"

"The way you came in."

Realizing that I could get no information from this uncivil being, I
pushed the starter--not a sound. I got out and cranked the engine--not a
kick. I looked into my gas tank--not a drop!

"Where is the nearest gas station?" I demanded.

"I don't know--I burn kerosene," was the terse reply; and the man turned
and entered the house.

I tried to recall the last gas station I had passed, and realized it
must have been all of fifteen miles behind. It was now growing dark. I
climbed into the car to think of a way out of my awkward situation, but
all I could think of was that there were sound reasons for abandoned
farms. Then I got to wondering who this queer character was and why he
was living here.

As I had slept but little the night before, I must have dozed off, for
the next thing I knew, a voice was saying: "Supper is ready."

I got out of the car and followed the man through a dark hall into a
large, low room, at one end of which a fire was burning briskly in a
huge stone fireplace. In the center of the room was a table where we sat
down to a dinner of delicious hot biscuits and a great pot of honey.

"These biscuits are fine," I said.

"They are."

I ate another in silence. "And the honey is exquisite."

"It is."

"Do you keep bees?"

"Yes, millions of them."

"Do you keep any other stock?" I asked, thinking a glass of milk would
taste fine.

"Yes, a blind cat."

"Do you find the bees profitable?"

"No, I keep them for company."

"Why do you live in this lonesome place?"

"To avoid automobilists."

I ate three more biscuits, drowned in honey, then the silence became
unbearable. "Do you do anything else besides keep bees?"

"I read."

"That is interesting. What do you read?"

"Books."

"Ah!" I said, "perhaps you write also."

"I do."

"What do you write?"

"Books."

We finished the meal in silence, then my host arose and cleared the
table. Meanwhile I wandered about the big room and glanced at the titles
on the bookshelves. I was amazed at the catholicity of his taste. Side
by side, with Godesius was "In His Steps"; leaning against
Schopenhauer's "_Die Welt Als Wille Und Vorstellung_," was a popular
novel of the day.

Thus made to realize that my host was a person of some caliber, and
aspiring to pursue his acquaintance upon an intellectual plane, I
stepped forward, as he came through the door, and extended my hand,
saying: "My name is H