He struck out in the direction which promised him the quickest
opportunity to leave the town behind him. A good walker, he covered the
miles rapidly, and under the physical satisfaction of the tramp the brain
knots unraveled and smoothed themselves out. It was better so--better to
live his own life than the one into which he was being ground by the
inexorable facts of his environment. He was a young man and ambitious, but
his hopes were not selfish. At bottom he was an idealist, though a
practical one. He had had to shut his eyes to many things which he
deplored, had been driven to compromises which he despised. Essentially
clean-handed, the soul of him had begun to wither at the contact of that
which he saw about him and was so large a part of.
"I am not fit for it. That is the truth. Mott has no imagination, and
property rights are the most sacred thing on earth to him. He will do
better at it than I," he told himself, as he walked forward bareheaded into
the great sunset glow that filled the saddle between two purple hills in
front of him.
As he swung round a bend in the road a voice, clear and sweet.
Pages:
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197