hts on the
matter were not very clear. She was young and her thoughts were indefinite.
She had, however, been shocked into an acceptance of life and she was made
of the kind of stuff that survives the blows life gives.

In the wood with the young school teacher, Clara began an experiment.
Evening came on and it grew dark. She knew her father would be furious that
she did not come home but she did not care. She led the school teacher
to talk of love and the relationships of men and women. She pretended an
innocence that was not hers. School girls know many things that they do not
apply to themselves until something happens to them such as had happened to
Clara. The farmer's daughter became conscious. She knew a thousand things
she had not known a month before and began to take her revenge upon men for
their betrayal of her. In the darkness as they walked home together, she
tempted the young man into kissing her, and later lay in his arms for two
hours, entirely sure of herself, striving to find out, without risk to
herself, the things she wanted to know about life.

That night she again quarreled with her father. He tried to scold her for
remaining out late with a man, and she shut the door in his face. On
another evening she walked boldly out of the house with the school teacher.
The two walked along a road to where a bridge went over a small stream.
John May, who was still determined that the farmer's daughter was in
love with him, had on that evening followed the school teacher to the
Butterworth house and had been waiting outside intending to frighten his
rival with his fists. On the bridge something happened that drove the
school teacher away. John May came up to the two people and began to make
threats. The bridge had just been repaired and a pile of small, sharp-edged
stones lay close at hand. Clara picked one of them up and handed it to the
school teacher. "Hit him," she said. "Don't be afraid. He's only a coward.
Hit him on the head with the stone."

The three people stood in silence waiting for something to happen. John May
was disconcerted by Clara's words. He had thought she wanted him to pursue
her. He stepped toward the school teacher, who dropped the stone that had
been put into his hand and ran away. Clara went back along the road toward
her own house followed by the muttering farm hand who, after her speech at
the bridge, did not dare approach. "Maybe she was making a bluff. Maybe
she didn't want that young fellow to get on to what is between us," he
muttered, as he stumbled along in the darkness.

In the house Clara sat for a half hour at a table in the lighted living
room beside her father, pretending to read a book. She half hoped he would
say something that would permit her to attack him. When nothing happened
she went upstairs and to bed, only again to spend the night awake and white
with anger at the thought of the cruel and unexplainable things life seemed
trying to do to her.

In September Clara left the farm to attend the State University at
Columbus. She was sent there because Tom Butterworth had a sister who was
married to a manufacturer of plows and lived at the State Capital. After
the incident with the farm hand and the misunderstanding that had sprung
up between himself and his daughter, he was uncomfortable with her in the
house and was glad to have her away. He did not want to frighten his sister
by telling of what had happened, and when he wrote, tried to be diplomatic.
"Clara has been too much among the rough men who work on my farms and had
become a little rough," he wrote. "Take her in hand. I want her to become
more of a lady. Get her acquainted with the right kind of people." In
secret he hoped she would meet and marry some young man while she was away.
Two of his sisters had gone away to school and it had turned out that way.

During the month before his daughter left home the farmer tried to be
somewhat more human and gentle in his attitude toward her, but did not
succeed in dispelling the dislike of himself that had taken deep root
in her nature. At table he made jokes at which the farm hands laughed
boisterously. Then he looked at his daughter who did not appear to have
been listening. Clara ate quickly and hurried out of the room. She did not
go to visit her girl friends in town and the young school teacher came
no more to see her. During the long summer afternoons she walked in the
orchard among the beehives or climbed over fences and went into a wood,
where she sat for hours on a fallen log staring at the trees and the sky.
Tom Butterworth also hurried out of his house. He pretended to be busy and
every day drove far and wide over the country. Sometimes he thought he had
been brutal and crude in his treatment of his daughter, and decided he
would speak to her regarding the matter and ask her to forgive him. Then
his suspicion returned. He struck the horse with the whip and drove
furiously along the lonely roads. "Well, there's something wrong," he
muttered aloud. "Men don't just look at women and approach them boldly, as
that young fellow did with Clara. He did it before my very eyes. He's been
given some encouragement." An old suspicion awoke in him. "There was
something wrong with her mother, and there's something wrong with her. I'll
be glad when the time comes for her to marry and settle down, so I can get
her off my hands," he thought bitterly.

On the evening when Clara left the farm to go to the train that was to
take her away, her father said he had a headache, a thing he had never
been known to complain of before, and told Jim Priest to drive her to the
station. Jim took the girl to the station, saw to the checking of her
baggage, and waited about until her train came in. Then he boldly kissed
her on the cheek. "Good-by, little girl," he said gruffly. Clara was so
grateful she could not reply. On the train she spent an hour weeping
softly. The rough gentleness of the old farm hand had done much to take the
growing bitterness out of her heart. She felt that she was ready to begin
life anew, and wished she had not left the farm without coming to a better
understanding with her father.




CHAPTER IX


The Woodburns of Columbus were wealthy by the standards of their day. They
lived in a large house and kept two carriages and four servants, but had
no children. Henderson Woodburn was small of stature, wore a gray beard,
and was neat and precise about his person. He was treasurer of the plow
manufacturing company and was also treasurer of the church he and his
wife attended. In his youth he had been called "Hen" Woodburn and had
been bullied by larger boys, and when he grew to be a man and after his
persistent shrewdness and patience had carried him into a position of some
power in the business life of his native city he in turn became something
of a bully to the men beneath him. He thought his wife Priscilla had come
from a better family than his own and was a little afraid of her. When they
did not agree on any subject, she expressed her opinion gently but firmly,
while he blustered for a time and then gave in. After a misunderstanding
his wife put her arms about his neck and kissed the bald spot on the top of
his head. Then the subject was forgotten.

Life in the Woodburn house was lived without words. After the stir and
bustle of the farm, the silence of the house for a long time frightened
Clara. Even when she was alone in her own room she walked about on tiptoe.
Henderson Woodburn was absorbed in his work, and when he came home in the
evening, ate his dinner in silence and then worked again. He brought home
account books and papers from the office and spread them out on a table in
the living room. His wife Priscilla sat in a large chair under a lamp and
knitted children's stockings. They were, she told Clara, for the children
of the poor. As a matter of fact the stockings never left her house. In a
large trunk in her room upstairs lay hundreds of pairs knitted during the
twenty-five years of her family life.

Clara was not very happy in the Woodburn household, but on the other hand,
was not very unhappy. She attended to her studies at the University
passably well and in the late afternoons took a walk with a girl classmate,
attended a matinee at the theater, or read a book. In the evening she sat
with her aunt and uncle until she could no longer bear the silence, and
then went to her own room, where she studied until it was time to go to
bed. Now and then she went with the two older people to a social affair at
the church, of which Henderson Woodburn was treasurer, or accompanied them
to dinners at the homes of other well-to-do and respectable business men.
On several occasions young men, sons of the people with whom the Woodburns
dined, or students at the university, came in the evening to call. On such
an occasion Clara and the young man sat in the parlor of the house and
talked. After a time they grew silent and embarrassed in each other's
presence. From the next room Clara could hear the rustling of the papers
containing the columns of figures over which her uncle was at work. Her
aunt's knitting needles clicked loudly. The young man told a tale of some
football game, or if he had already gone out into the world, talked of his
experiences as a traveler selling the wares manufactured or merchandized by
his father. Such visits all began at the same hour, eight o'clock, and the
young man left the house promptly at ten. Clara grew to feel that she was
being merchandized and that they had come to look at the goods. One evening
one of the men, a fellow with laughing blue eyes and kinky yellow hair,
unconsciously disturbed her profoundly. All the evening he talked just as
the others had talked and got out of his chair to go away at the prescribed
hour. Clara walked with him to the door. She put out her hand, which he
shook cordially. Then he looked at her and his eyes twinkled. "I've had
a good time," he said. Clara had a sudden and almost overpowering desire
to embrace him. She wanted to disturb his assurance, to startle him by
kissing him on the lips or holding him tightly in her arms. Shutting the
door quickly, she stood with her hand on the door-knob, her whole body
trembling. The trivial by-products of her age's industrial madness went
on in the next room. The sheets of paper rustled and the knitting needles
clicked. Clara thought she would like to call the young man back into the
house, lead him to the room where the meaningless industry went endlessly
on and there do something that would shock them and him as they had never
been shocked before. She ran quickly upstairs. "What is getting to be the
matter with me?" she asked herself anxiously.

       *       *       *       *       *

One evening in the month of May, during her third year at the University,
Clara sat on the bank of a tiny stream by a grove of trees, far out on the
edge of a suburban village north of Columbus. Beside her sat a young man
named Frank Metcalf whom she had known for a year and who had once been a
student in the same classes with herself. He was the son of the president
of the plow manufacturing company of which her uncle was treasurer. As they
sat together by the stream the afternoon light began to fade and darkness
came on. Before them across an open field stood a factory, and Clara
remembered that the whistle had long since blown and the men from the
factory had gone home. She grew restless and sprang to her feet. Young
Metcalf who had been talking very earnestly arose and stood beside her.
"I can't marry for two years, but we can be engaged and that will be all
the same thing as far as the right and wrong of what I want and need is
concerned. It isn't my fault I can't ask you to marry me now," he declared.
"In two years now, I'll inherit eleven thousand dollars. My aunt left it to
me and the old fool went and fixed it so I don't get it if I marry before
I'm twenty-four. I want that money. I've got to have it, but I got to have
you too."

Clara looked away into the evening darkness and waited for him to finish
his speech. All afternoon he had been making practically the same speech,
over and over. "Well, I can't help it, I'm a man," he said doggedly. "I
can't help it, I want you. I can't help it, my aunt was an old fool." He
began to explain the necessity of remaining unmarried in order that he
could receive the eleven thousand dollars. "If I don't get that money I'll
be just the same as I am now," he declared. "I won't be any good." He grew
angry and, thrusting his hands into his pockets, stared also across the
field into the darkness. "Nothing keeps me satisfied," he said. "I hate
being in my father's business and I hate going to school. In only two years
I'll get the money. Father can't keep it from me. I'll take it and light
out. I don't know just what I'll do. I'm going maybe to Europe, that's what
I'm going to do. Father wants me to stay here and work in his office. To
hell with that. I want to travel. I'll be a soldier or something. Anyway
I'll get out of here and go somewhere and do something exciting, something
alive. You can go with me. We'll cut out together. Haven't you got the
nerve? Why don't you be my woman?"

Young Metcalf took hold of Clara's shoulder and tried to take her into his
arms. For a moment they struggled and then, in disgust, he stepped away
from her and again began to scold.

Clara walked away across two or three vacant lots and got into a street of
workingmen's houses, the man following at her heels. Night had come and the
people in the street facing the factory had already disposed of the evening
meal. Children and dogs played in the road and a strong smell of food hung
in the air. To the west across the fields, a passenger train ran past going
toward the city. Its light made wavering yellow patches against the bluish
black sky. Clara wondered why she had come to the out of the way place with
Frank Metcalf. She did not like him, but there was a restlessness in him
that was like the restless thing in herself. He did not want stupidly to
accept life, and that fact made him brother to herself. Although he was but
twenty-two years old, he had already achieved an evil reputation. A servant
in his father's house had given birth to a child by him, and it had cost a
good deal of money to get her to take the child and go away without making
an open scandal. During the year before he had been expelled from the
University for throwing another young man down a flight of stairs, and it
was whispered about among the girl students that he often got violently
drunk. For a year he had been trying to ingratiate himself with Clara, had
written her letters, sent flowers to her house, and when he met her on the
street had stopped to urge that she accept his friendship. On the day in
May she had met him on the street and he had begged that she give him one
chance to talk things out with her. They had met at a street crossing where
cars went past into the suburban villages that lay about the city. "Come
on," he had urged, "let's take a street car ride, let's get out of the
crowds, I want to talk to you." He had taken hold of her arm and fairly
dragged her to a car. "Come and hear what I have to say," he had urged,
"then if you don't want to have anything to do with me, all right. You
can say so and I'll let you alone." After she had accompanied him to the
suburb of workingmen's houses, in the vicinity of which they had spent the
afternoon in the fields, Clara had found he had nothing to urge upon her
except the needs of his body. Still she felt there was something he wanted
to say that had not been said. He was restless and dissatisfied with his
life, and at bottom she felt that way about her own life. During the last
three years she had often wondered why she had come to the school and what
she was to gain by learning things out of books. The days and months went
past and she knew certain rather uninteresting facts she had not known
before. How the facts were to help her to live, she couldn't make out.
They had nothing to do with such problems as her attitude toward men like
John May the farm hand, the school teacher who had taught her something by
holding her in his arms and kissing her, and the dark sullen young man who
now walked beside her and talked of the needs of his body. It seemed to
Clara that every additional year spent at the University but served to
emphasize its inadequacy. It was so also with the books she read and the
thoughts and actions of the older people about her. Her aunt and uncle
did not talk much, but seemed to take it for granted she wanted to live
such another life as they were living. She thought with horror of the
probability of marrying a maker of plows or of some other dull necessity
of life and then spending her days in the making of stockings for babies
that did not come, or in some other equally futile manifestation of her
dissatisfaction. She realized with a shudder that men like her uncle, who
spent their lives in adding up rows of figures or doing over and over some
tremendously trivial thing, had no conception of any outlook for their
women beyond living in a house, serving them physically, wearing perhaps
good enough clothes to help them make a show of prosperity and success, and
drifting finally into a stupid acceptance of dullness--an acceptance that
both she and the passionate, twisted man beside her were fighting against.

In a class in the University Clara had met, during that her third year
there, a woman named Kate Chanceller, who had come to Columbus with her
brother from a town in Missouri, and it was this woman who had given her
thoughts form, who had indeed started her thinking of the inadequacy of
her life. The brother, a studious, quiet man, worked as a chemist in a
manufacturing plant somewhere at the edge of town. He was a musician and
wanted to become a composer. One evening during the winter his sister Kate
had brought Clara to the apartment where the two lived, and the three had
become friends. Clara had learned something there that she did not yet
understand and never did get clearly into her consciousness. The truth was
that the brother was like a woman and Kate Chanceller, who wore skirts and
had the body of a woman, was in her nature a man. Kate and Clara spent many
evenings together later and talked of many things not usually touched on by
girl students. Kate was a bold, vigorous thinker and was striving to grope
her way through her own problem in life and many times, as they walked
along the street or sat together in the evening, she forgot her companion
and talked of herself and the difficulties of her position in life. "It's
absurd the way things are arranged," she said. "Because my body is made
in a certain way I'm supposed to accept certain rules for living. The
rules were not made for me. Men manufactured them as they manufacture
can-openers, on the wholesale plan." She looked at Clara and laughed. "Try
to imagine me in a little lace cap, such as your aunt wears about the
house, and spending my days knitting baby stockings," she said.

The two women had spent hours talking of their lives and in speculating
on the differences in their natures. The experience had been tremendously
educational for Clara. As Kate was a socialist and Columbus was rapidly
becoming an industrial city, she talked of the meaning of capital and labor
and the effect of changing conditions on the lives of men and women. To
Kate, Clara could talk as to a man, but the antagonism that so often exists
between men and women did not come into and spoil their companionship. In
the evening when Clara went to Kate's house her aunt sent a carriage to
bring her home at nine. Kate rode home with her. They got to the Woodburn
house and went in. Kate was bold and free with the Woodburns, as with her
brother and Clara. "Come," she said laughing, "put away your figures and
your knitting. Let's talk." She sat in a large chair with her legs crossed
and talked with Henderson Woodburn of the affairs of the plow company. The
two got into a discussion of the relative merits of the free trade and
protection ideas. Then the two older people went to bed and Kate talked to
Clara. "Your uncle is an old duffer," she said. "He knows nothing about the
meaning of what he's doing in life." When she started home afoot across the
city, Clara was alarmed for her safety. "You must get a cab or let me wake
up uncle's man; something may happen," she said. Kate laughed and went off,
striding along the street like a man. Sometimes she thrust her hands into
her skirt pockets, that were like the trouser pockets of a man, and it was
difficult for Clara to remember that she was a woman. In Kate's presence
she became bolder than she had ever been with any one. One evening she told
the story of the thing that had happened to her that afternoon long before
on the farm, the afternoon when, her mind having been inflamed by the words
of Jim Priest regarding the sap that goes up the tree and by the warm
sensuous beauty of the day, she had wanted so keenly to draw close to some
one. She explained to Kate how she had been so brutally jarred out of the
feeling in herself that she felt was at bottom all right. "It was like a
blow in the face at the hand of God," she said.

Kate Chanceller was excited as Clara told the tale and listened with a
fiery light burning in her eyes. Something in her manner encouraged Clara
to tell also of her experiments with the school teacher and for the first
time she got a sense of justice toward men by talking to the woman who was
half a man. "I know that wasn't square," she said. "I know now, when I talk
to you, but I didn't know then. With the school teacher I was as unfair as
John May and my father were with me. Why do men and women have to fight
each other? Why does the battle between them have to go on?"

Kate walked up and down before Clara and swore like a man. "Oh, hell," she
exclaimed, "men are such fools and I suppose women are as bad. They are
both too much one thing. I fall in between. I've got my problem too, but
I'm not going to talk about it. I know what I'm going to do. I'm going to
find some kind of work and do it." She began to talk of the stupidity of
men in their approach to women. "Men hate such women as myself," she said.
"They can't use us, they think. What fools! They should watch and study us.
Many of us spend our lives loving other women, but we have skill. Being
part women, we know how to approach women. We are not blundering and crude.
Men want a certain thing from you. It is delicate and easy to kill. Love
is the most sensitive thing in the world. It's like an orchid. Men try to
pluck orchids with ice tongs, the fools."

Walking to where Clara stood by a table, and taking her by the shoulder,
the excited woman stood for a long time looking at her. Then she picked up
her hat, put it on her head, and with a flourish of her hand started for
the door. "You can depend on my friendship," she said. "I'll do nothing to
confuse you. You'll be in luck if you can get that kind of love or
friendship from a man."

Clara kept thinking of the words of Kate Chanceller on the evening when she
walked through the streets of the suburban village with Frank Metcalf, and
later as the two sat on the car that took them back to the city. With the
exception of another student named Phillip Grimes, who had come to see her
a dozen times during her second year in the University, young Metcalf was
the only one of perhaps a dozen men she had met since leaving the farm who
had been attracted to her. Phillip Grimes was a slender young fellow with
blue eyes, yellow hair and a not very vigorous mustache. He was from a
small town in the northern end of the State, where his father published a
weekly newspaper. When he came to see Clara he sat on the edge of his chair
and talked rapidly. Some person he had seen in the street had interested
him. "I saw an old woman on the car," he began. "She had a basket on her
arm. It was filled with groceries. She sat beside me and talked aloud to
herself." Clara's visitor repeated the words of the old woman on the car.
He speculated about her, wondered what her life was like. When he had
talked of the old woman for ten or fifteen minutes, he dropped the subject
and began telling of another experience, this time with a man who sold
fruit at a street crossing. It was impossible to be personal with Phillip
Grimes. Nothing but his eyes were personal. Sometimes he looked at Clara in
a way that I made her feel that her clothes were being stripped from her
body, and that she was being made to stand naked in the room before her
visitor. The experience, when it came, was not entirely a physical one. It
was only in part that. When the thing happened Clara saw her whole life
being stripped bare. "Don't look at me like that," she once said somewhat
sharply, when his eyes had made her so uncomfortable she could no longer
remain silent. Her remark had frightened Phillip Grimes away. He got up at
once, blushed, stammered something about having another engagement, and
hurried away.

In the street car, homeward bound beside Frank Metcalf, Clara thought of
Phillip Grimes and wondered whether or not he would have stood the test of
Kate Chanceller's speech regarding love and friendship. He had confused
her, but that was perhaps her own fault. He had not insisted on himself
at all. Frank Metcalf had done nothing else. "One should be able," she
thought, "to find somewhere a man who respects himself and his own desires
but can understand also the desires and fears of a woman." The street car
went bouncing along over railroad crossings and along residence streets.
Clara looked at her companion, who stared straight ahead, and then turned
to look out of the car window. The window was open and she could see the
interiors of the laborers' houses along the streets. In the evening with
the lamps lighted they seemed cosy and comfortable. Her mind ran back to
the life in her father's house and its loneliness. For two summers she had
escaped going home. At the end of her first year in school she had made an
illness of her uncle's an excuse for spending the summer in Columbus, and
at the end of the second year she had found another excuse for not going.
This year she felt she would have to go home. She would have to sit day
after day at the farm table with the farm hands. Nothing would happen. Her
father would remain silent in her presence. She would become bored and
weary of the endless small talk of the town girls. If one of the town boys
began to pay her special attention, her father would become suspicious and
that would lead to resentment in herself. She would do something she did
not want to do. In the houses along the streets through which the car
passed, she saw women moving about. Babies cried and men came out of the
doors and stood talking to one another on the sidewalks. She decided
suddenly that she was taking the problem of her own life too seriously.
"The thing to do is to get married and then work things out afterward," she
told herself. She made up her mind that the puzzling, insistent antagonism
that existed between men and women was altogether due to the fact that they
were not married and had not the married people's way of solving such
problems as Frank Metcalf had been talking about all afternoon. She wished
she were with Kate Chancellor so that she could discuss with her this new
viewpoint. When she and Frank Metcalf got off the car she was no longer in
a hurry to go home to her uncle's house. Knowing she did not want to marry
him, she thought that in her turn she would talk, that she would try to
make him see her point of view as all the afternoon he had been trying to
make her see his.

For an hour the two people walked about and Clara talked. She forgot about
the passage of time and the fact that she had not dined. Not wishing to
talk of marriage, she talked instead of the possibility of friendship
between men and women. As she talked her own mind seemed to her to have
become clearer. "It's all foolishness your going on as you have," she
declared. "I know how dissatisfied and unhappy you sometimes are. I often
feel that way myself. Sometimes I think it's marriage I want. I really
think I want to draw close to some one. I believe every one is hungry for
that experience. We all want something we are not willing to pay for. We
want to steal it or have it given us. That's what's the matter with me, and
that's what's the matter with you."

They came to the Woodburn house, and turning in stood on a porch in the
darkness by the front door. At the back of the house Clara could see
a light burning. Her aunt and uncle were at the eternal figuring and
knitting. They were finding a substitute for living. It was the thing Frank
Metcalf was protesting against and was the real reason for her own constant
secret protest. She took hold of the lapel of his coat, intending to make a
plea, to urge upon him the idea of a friendship that would mean something
to them both. In the darkness she could not see his rather heavy, sullen
face. The maternal instinct became strong in her and she thought of him
as a wayward, dissatisfied boy, wanting love and understanding as she had
wanted to be loved and understood by her father when life in the moment of
the awakening of her womanhood seemed ugly and brutal. With her free hand
she stroked the sleeve of his coat. Her gesture was misunderstood by the
man who was not thinking of her words but of her body and of his hunger
to possess it. He took her into his arms and held her tightly against his
breast. She tried to struggle, to tear herself away but, although she was
strong and muscular, she found herself unable to move. As he held her
uncle, who had heard the two people come up the steps to the door, threw it
open. Both he and his wife had on several occasions warned Clara to have
nothing to do with young Metcalf. One day when he had sent flowers to the
house, her aunt had urged her to refuse to receive them. "He's a bad,
dissipated, wicked man," she had said. "Have nothing to do with him." When
he saw his niece in the arms of the man who had been the subject of so much
discussion in his own house and in every respectable house in Columbus,
Henderson Woodburn was furious. He forgot the fact that young Metcalf was
the son of the president of the company of which he was treasurer. It
seemed to him that some sort of a personal insult had been thrown at him by
a common ruffian. "Get out of here," he screamed. "What do you mean, you
nasty villain? Get out of here."

Frank Metcalf went off along the street laughing defiantly, and Clara went
into the house. The sliding doors that led into the living room had been
thrown open and the light from a hanging lamp streamed in upon her. Her
hair was disheveled and her hat twisted to one side. The man and woman
stared at her. The knitting needles and a sheet of paper held in their
hands suggested what they had been doing while Clara was getting another
lesson from life. Her aunt's hands trembled and the knitting needles
clicked together. Nothing was said and the confused and angry girl ran up a
stairway to her own room. She locked herself in and knelt on the floor by
the bed. She did not pray. Her association with Kate Chanceller had given
her another outlet for her feelings. Pounding with her fists on the bed
coverings, she swore. "Fools, damned fools, the world is filled with
nothing but a lot of damned fools."




CHAPTER X


Clara Butterworth left Bidwell, Ohio, in September of the year in which
Steve Hunter's plant-setting machine company went into the hands of a
receiver, and in January of the next year that enterprising young man,
together with Tom Butterworth, bought the plant. In March a new company was
organized and at once began making Hugh's corn-cutting machine, a success
from the beginning. The failure of the first company and the sale of the
plant had created a furor in the town. Both Steve and Tom Butterworth
could, however, point to the fact that they had held on to their stock and
lost their money in common with every one else. Tom had indeed sold his
stock because he needed ready money, as he explained, but had shown his
good faith by buying again just before the failure. "Do you suppose I would
have done that had I known what was up?" he asked the men assembled in the
stores. "Go look at the books of the company. Let's have an investigation
here. You will find that Steve and I stuck to the rest of the stockholders.
We lost our money with the rest. If any one was crooked and when they saw a
failure coming went and got out from under at the expense of some one else,
it wasn't Steve and me. The books of the company will show we were game. It
wasn't our fault the plant-setting machine wouldn't work."

In the back room of the bank, John Clark and young Gordon Hart cursed Steve
and Tom, who, they declared, had sold them out. They had lost no money by
the failure, but on the other hand they had gained nothing. The four men
had sent in a bid for the plant when it was put up for sale, but as they
expected no competition, they had not bid very much. It had gone to a firm
of Cleveland lawyers who bid a little more, and later had been resold at
private sale to Steve and Tom. An investigation was started and it was
found that Steve and Tom held large blocks of stock in the defunct company,
while the bankers held practically none. Steve openly said that he had
known of the possibility of failure for some time and had warned the larger
stock-holders and asked them not to sell their stock. "While I was working
my head off trying to save the company, what were they up to?" he asked
sharply, and his question was repeated in the stores and in the homes of
the people.

The truth of the matter, and the thing the town never found out, was that
from the beginning Steve had intended to get the plant for himself, but at
the last had decided it would be better to take some one in with him. He
was afraid of John Clark. For two or three days he thought about the matter
and decided that the banker was not to be trusted. "He's too good a friend
to Tom Butterworth," he told himself. "If I tell him my scheme, he'll tell
Tom. I'll go to Tom myself. He's a money maker and a man who knows the
difference between a bicycle and a wheelbarrow when you put one of them
into bed with him."

Steve drove out to Tom's house late one evening in September. He hated to
go but was convinced it would be better to do so. "I don't want to burn
all my bridges behind me," he told himself. "I've got to have at least one
friend among the solid men here in town. I've got to do business with these
rubes, maybe all my life. I can't shut myself off too much, at least not
yet a while."

When Steve got to the farm he asked Tom to get into his buggy, and the two
men went for a long drive. The horse, a gray gelding with one blind eye
hired for the occasion from liveryman Neighbors, went slowly along through
the hill country south of Bidwell. He had hauled hundreds of young men with
their sweethearts. Ambling slowly along, thinking perhaps of his own youth
and of the tyranny of man that had made him a gelding, he knew that as long
as the moon shone and the intense voiceless quiet continued to reign over
the two people in the buggy, the whip would not come out of its socket and
he would not be expected to hurry.

On the September evening, however, the gray gelding had behind him such a
load as he had never carried before. The two people in the buggy on that
evening were not foolish, meandering sweethearts, thinking only of love,
and allowing themselves to be influenced in their mood by the beauty of the
night, the softness of the black shadows in the road, and the gentle night
winds that crept down over the crests of hills. They were solid business
men, mentors of the new age, the kind of men who, in the future of America
and perhaps of the whole world, were to be the makers of governments, the
molders of public opinion, the owners of the press, the publishers of
books, buyers of pictures, and in the goodness of their hearts, the feeders
of an occasional starving and improvident poet, lost on other roads. In any
event the two men sat in the buggy and the gray gelding meandered along
through the hills. Great splashes of moonlight lay in the road. By chance
it was on the same evening that Clara Butterworth left home to become a
student in the State University. Remembering the kindness and tenderness of
the rough old farm hand, Jim Priest, who had brought her to the station,
she lay in her berth in the sleeping car and looked out at the roads,
washed with moonlight, that slid away into the distance like ghosts. She
thought of her father on that night and of the misunderstanding that had
grown up between them. For the moment she was tender with regrets. "After
all, Jim Priest and my father must be a good deal alike," she thought.
"They have lived on the same farm, eaten the same food; they both love
horses. There can't be any great difference between them." All night she
thought of the matter. An obsession, that the whole world was aboard the
moving train and that, as it ran swiftly along, it was carrying the people
of the world into some strange maze of misunderstanding, took possession
of her. So strong was it that it affected her deeply buried unconscious
self and made her terribly afraid. It seemed to her that the walls of the
sleeping-car berth were like the walls of a prison that had shut her away
from the beauty of life. The walls seemed to close in upon her. The walls,
like life itself, were shutting in upon her youth and her youthful desire
to reach a hand out of the beauty in herself to the buried beauty in
others. She sat up in the berth and forced down a desire in herself to
break the car window and leap out of the swiftly moving train into the
quiet night bathed with moonlight. With girlish generosity she took upon
her own shoulders the responsibility for the misunderstanding that had
grown up between herself and her father. Later she lost the impulse that
led her to come to that decision, but during that night it persisted. It
was, in spite of the terror caused by the hallucination regarding the
moving walls of the berth that seemed about to crush her and that came back
time after time, the most beautiful night she had ever lived through, and
it remained in her memory throughout her life. She in fact came to think
later of that night as the time when, most of all, it would have been
beautiful and right for her to have been able to give herself to a lover.
Although she did not know it, the kiss on the cheek from the bewhiskered
lips of Jim Priest had no doubt something to do with that thought when it
came.

And while the girl fought her battle with the strangeness of life and tried
to break through the imaginary walls that shut her off from the opportunity
to live, her father also rode through the night. With a shrewd eye he
watched the face of Steve Hunter. It had already begun to get a little fat,
but Tom realized suddenly that it was the face of a man of ability. There
was something about the jowls that made Tom, who had dealt much in live
stock, think of the face of a pig. "The man goes after what he wants. He's
greedy," the farmer thought. "Now he's up to something. To get what he
wants he'll give me a chance to get something I want. He's going to make
some kind of proposal to me in connection with the factory. He's hatched up
a scheme to shut Gordon Hart and John Clark out because he doesn't want too
many partners. All right, I'll go in with him. Either one of them would
have done the same thing had they had the chance."

Steve smoked a black cigar and talked. As he grew more sure of himself and
the affairs that absorbed him, he also became more smooth and persuasive in
the matter of words. He talked for a time of the necessity of certain men's
surviving and growing constantly stronger and stronger in the industrial
world. "It's necessary for the good of the community," he said. "A few
fairly strong men are a good thing for a town, but if they are fewer
and relatively stronger it's better." He turned to look sharply at his
companion. "Well," he exclaimed, "we talked there in the bank of what we
would do when things went to pieces down at the factory, but there were too
many men in the scheme. I didn't realize it at the time, but I do now." He
knocked the ashes off his cigar and laughed. "You know what they did, don't
you?" he asked. "I asked you all not to sell any of your stock. I didn't
want to get the whole town bitter. They wouldn't have lost anything. I
promised to see them through, to get the plant for them at a low price,
to put them in the way to make some real money. They played the game in a
small-town way. Some men can think of thousands of dollar