The Argosy, Vol. 82 No. 2 — page 75: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

GETTING AWAY FROM THOMPSON. stopped them and once a dog, and once a load of turnips. He caught his tongue just as it was about to dwell upon these things. He shut his teeth and started the car; and, in a matter of ten seconds, he cried: “Three times and out, Jane! past: it!” At that daring remark, he felt instantly, the car should stand on end and refuse to budge another inch. It did not. Humming happily as it gathered speed, the big six rushed on through the keen morning air, and after a little a sensation of profound satisfaction came to its driver; he had been right, after all, and the hoodoo was broken! As scenery, the country presented noth- ing wonderful, unless one happened to be tremendously enthusiastic about millions of the trunks closely packed together. Miles they covered and more miles, while the sun climbed to its noonday altitude and Mr. Farnham’s keen eye watched for a cozy farmhouse with a curl of hospitable smoke rising from its chimney and a kindly-faced farmer’s wife to welcome into her spotless kitchen, where her simple, happy family, with their honest, next-to-nature expres- sions, would be grouped about a_ board which groaned with plain, delicious fare. But the woods were thinning out now and still there was no sign of human habi- tation. And here—why, here was a culti- vated field! ‘Well, unless they spend their days go- ing back and forth in automobiles, some- body das to live near this!” Mr. Farnham declared grimly. Onward the lonely road led them and still onward, past other fields, some planted in the season gone and some of sapling growth; but as they approached the sharp turn it grew plain that wide-open country lay just ahead. Mr. Farnham, suspecting a steep hill, slowed down cautiously—and the little remnant of Jane’s motoring party raised its joint voice in sudden admiration of the prospect that had been all but hurled at their senses. They overlooked a wide and apparently fertile valley. Farther along were other patches of woodland, but most of the coun- try seemed farm. One roof was in sight, We're far off to the right, and another far off to the left and they were good enough roofs in their way; but down at the bottom of this gentle grade lay the ideal roof. It was red and tidy and it covered a trim 5 A 207 little farmhouse that might have been taken from a water-color, with its prim picket fence out front and traces of the summer’s oid-fashioned garden at the side. “There is our hotel!” Mr. Farnham an- nounced. ‘“And there is a town—see the white steeple, Wilbur, miles and miles over that way?” Jane added. “YT wonder if that isn’t Batesford?” the driver muttered, with keenest interest. “It was only twenty-eight miles from the last crossroads sign, back there in the timber. However—Batesford will be there an hour from now. We can dare think of food again, Jane. Look at that little home! Can’t you see the inside of it now—plump, motherly woman, glorious dinner steaming on the old wood-burner—new cider, too, very likely. But remember: Jane Fen- wick!” First, Mr. Farnham felt instinctively, a big, shaggy, friendly dog would appear, wag his tail and bark the message of their com- ing to the family within. Next, two or three chubby children would come to light, stand- ing shyly in the doorway, their innocent eyes round and wondering at the great car and the surpassingly lovely lady it had brought to their humble gate. They would race away as the visitors ad- vanced upon the house and then would come their mother, peerless and immaculate feeder of hungry people. It was a picture as pleasant as any he had visualized for a long time, and Mr. Farnham smiled from ear to ear as he assisted Jane from the car. The dog, apparently, was absent that day; at any rate, he failed to put in an appearance as they started up the long, steep path to the house. And the children were somewhere else, too; or perhaps they had taken fright and were hiding behind their still invisible mother. Filled with a vast complacency, Mr. Farn- ham led his lovely hostess to the narrow porch and rapped smartly on the glass- paneled door. And in something less than one second the door opened with a swish and a puff of musty inner air floated out to them, while in the doorway a spare woman of sixty, hard-eyed and flat-chested, surveyed them angrily as she demanded: ‘Heh! Ye did come back t’pay for ’em!”’ ‘“Madam—” Mr. Farnham began. “T knew you wasn’t decent enough to come back, but I thought mebbe the woman connicbooks (C@