"I'd like nothing better," said Barnes, with enthusiasm.

"Ever been shot at?"

"No."

"Well, you are likely to experience the novelty if you go with me.

Better think it over."

"Don't worry about me. I'll go."

"Will you agree to obey instructions? I can't have you muddling things up, you know."

Barnes thought for a moment. "Of course, if the opportunity offers for me to communicate with Miss Cameron, I don't see how I--"

Sprouse cut him off sharply. He made it quite plain to the would-be cavalier that it was not a sentimental enterprise they were to undertake, and that he would have to govern himself accordingly.

"The grounds are carefully guarded," said Barnes, after they had discussed the project for some time. "Miss Cameron is constantly under the watchful eye of one or more of the crowd."

"I know. I pa.s.sed a couple of them last night," said Sprouse calmly.

"By the way, don't you think it would be very polite of you to invite the Green Fancy party over here to have an old-fashioned country dinner with you to-night?"

"Good Lord! What are you talking about? They wouldn't dream of accepting. Besides, I thought you wanted me to go with you."

"You could offer them diversion in the shape of a theatrical entertainment. Your friends, the Thespians, would be only too happy to disport themselves in return for all your--"

"It would be useless, Mr. Sprouse. They will not come."

"I am perfectly aware of that, but it won't do any harm to ask them, will it?"

Barnes chuckled. "I see. Establishing myself as an innocent bystander, eh?"

"Get O'Dowd on the telephone and ask him if they can come," said Sprouse. "Incidentally, you might test his love for Miss Cameron while you are about it."

"How?" demanded Barnes.

"By asking him to call her to the telephone. Would you be sure to recognise her voice?"

"I'd know it in Babel," said the other with some fervour.

"Well, if she comes to the 'phone and speaks to you without restraint, we may be reasonably certain of two things: that O'Dowd is friendly and that he is able to fix it so that she can talk to you without being overheard or suspected by the others. It's worth trying, in any event."

"But there is Jones to consider. The telephone is in his office. What will he think--"

"Jones is all right," said Sprouse briefly. "Come along. You can call up from my room." He grinned slyly. "Such a thing as tapping the wire, you know."

Sprouse had installed a telephone in his room, carrying a wire upstairs from an attachment made in the cellar of the Tavern. He closed the door to his little room on the top floor.

"With the landlord's approval," he explained, pointing to the instrument, "but unknown to the telephone company, you may be sure.

Call him up about half-past ten. O'Dowd may be up at this unholy hour, but not she. Now, I must be off to discuss literature with Mrs. Jim Conley. I've been working on her for two weeks. The hardest part of my job is to keep her from subscribing for a set of d.i.c.kens. She has been on the point of signing the contract at least a half dozen times, and I've been fearfully hard put to head her off. Conley's house is not far from Green Fancy. Savvy?"

Barnes, left to his own devices, wandered from tap-room to porch, from porch to forge, from forge to tap-room, his brain far more active than his legs, his heart as heavy as lead and as light as air by turns. More than once he felt like resorting to a well-known expedient to determine whether he was awake or dreaming. Could all this be real?

The sky was overcast. A cold, damp wind blew out of the north. There was a feel of rain in the air, an ugly greyness in the road that stretched its sharply defined course through the green fields that stole timorously up to the barren forest and stopped short, as if afraid to venture farther.

The ring of the hammer on the anvil lent cheer to the otherwise harsh and unlovely mood that had fallen upon Nature over night. It sang a song of defiance that even the mournful chant of sheep on the distant slopes failed to subdue. The crowing of a belated and no doubt mortified rooster, the barking of faraway dogs, the sighing of journeying winds, the lugubrious whistle of Mr. Clarence Dillingford,--all of these added something to the dreariness of the morning.

Mr. Dillingford was engaged in l.u.s.tily beating a rug suspended on a clothes line in the area back of the stables. His tune was punctuated by stifled lapses followed almost immediately by dull, flat whacks upon the carpet. From the end of the porch he was visible to the abstracted Barnes.

"Hi!" he shouted, brandishing his flail at the New Yorker. "Want a job?"

Barnes looked at his watch. He still had an hour and a half to wait before he could call up O'Dowd. He strolled across the lot and joined the perspiring comedian.

"You seem to have a personal grudge against that carpet," he said, moving back a few yards as Dillingford laid on so manfully that the dust arose in clouds.

"Every time I land I say: 'Take that, darn you!' And it pleases me to imagine that with every crack Mr. Putnam Jones lets out a mighty 'Ouch!' Now listen! Didn't that sound a little like an ouch?" Mr.

Dillingford rubbed a spot clean on the handle of the flail and pressed his lips to it. "Good dog!" he murmured tenderly. "Bite him! (Whack!) Now, bite him again! (Whack!) Once more! (Whack!) Good dog! Now, go lie down awhile and rest." He tossed the flail to the ground and, mopping his brow, turned to Barnes. "If you want a real treat, go into the cellar and take a look at Bacon. He is churning for b.u.t.ter. Got a gingham ap.r.o.n on and thinks he's disguised. He can't cuss because old Miss Tilly is reading the first act of a play she wrote for Julia Marlowe seven or eight years ago. Oh, it's a great life!"

Barnes sat down on the edge of a watering-trough and began filling his pipe.

"You are not obliged to do this sort of work, Dillingford," he said.

"It would give me pleasure to stake--"

"Nix," said Mr. Dillingford cheerily. "Some other time I may need help more than I do now. I'm getting three square meals and plenty of fresh air to sleep in at present, and work doesn't hurt me physically. It DOES hurt my pride, but that's soon mended. Have you seen the old man this morning?"

"Rushcroft? No."

"Well, we're to be on our way next week, completely reorganised, rejuvenated and resplendent. Fixed it all up last night. Tommy Gray was down here with two weeks' salary as chauffeur and a little extra he picked up playing poker in the garage with the rubes. Thirty-seven dollars in real money. He has decided to buy a quarter interest in the company and act as manager. Everything looks rosy. You are to have a half interest and the old man the remaining quarter. He telegraphed last night for four top-notch people to join us at Crowndale on Tuesday the twenty-third. We open that night in 'The Duke's Revenge,' our best piece. It's the only play we've got that provides me with a part in which I have a chance to show what I can really do. As soon as I get through spanking this carpet I'll run upstairs and get a lot of clippings to show you how big a hit I've made in the part. In one town I got better notices than the star himself, and seldom did I--"

"Where is Crowndale?" interrupted Barnes, a slight frown appearing on his brow. He had a distinct feeling that there was handwriting on the wall and that it was put there purposely for him to read.

"About five hours' walk from Hornville," said Dillingford, grinning.

"Twenty-five cents by train. We merely resume a tour interrupted by the serious illness of Mr. Rushcroft. Rather than impose upon our audiences by inflicting them with an understudy, the popular star temporarily abandons his tour. We ought to sell out in Crowndale, top to bottom."

The amazing optimism of Mr. Dillingford had its effect on Barnes.

Somehow the day grew brighter, the skies less drear, a subtle warmth crept into the air.

"You may count on me, Dillingford, to put up my half interest in the show. I will have a fling at it a couple of weeks anyhow. If it doesn't pan out in that time,--well, we can always close, can't we?"

"We certainly can," said the other, with conviction. "It wouldn't surprise me in the least, however, to see you clean up a very tidy bit of money, Mr. Barnes. Our season ordinarily closes toward the end of June, but the chances are we'll stay out all summer if things go right.

Congratulations! Glad to see you in the profession." He shook hands with the new partner. "Keep your seat! Don't move. I'll shift a little so's the wind won't blow the dust in your eyes." He obligingly did so and fell upon the carpet with renewed vigour.

Barnes was restless. He chatted with the rug-beater for a few minutes and then sauntered away. Miss Thackeray was starting off for a walk as he came around to the front of the Tavern. She wore a rather shabby tailor-suit of blue serge, several seasons out of fashion, and a black sailor hat. Her smile was bright and friendly as she turned in response to his call. As he drew near he discovered that her lips were a vivid, startling red, her eyes elaborately made up, and her cheeks the colour of bis.m.u.th. She was returning to form, thought he, in some dismay.

"Where away?" he inquired.

"Seeking solitude," she replied. "I've got to learn a new part in an old play." She flourished the script airily. "I have just accepted an engagement as leading lady."

"Splendid! I am delighted. With John Drew, I hope."