"Very well, dear."

He regarded her keenly, but she appeared to be innocently completing her meal. He sighed to think that she did not make herself disagreeable, the anticipation of which had made him fear and dread the task that was before him. But now he was compelled to feel a little grateful because she was apparently very prudent in the matter.

He hurried quickly to the hall tree, slipped into a light overcoat, and left the house. As he walked down the street, he was in deep thought.

CHAPTER VI

MORE OF THE PREACHER'S WORK

Jean Baptiste was thoughtful for a long time after the other had left him. He had heard before he married Orlean that the Reverend was the father of two illegitimate children, but from Speed's story he had met the whole of it. Not only was he the father of two illegitimate children, but he had taken another man's wife to become so--and all this while he was one of the most influential men in the church!

This fact, however, did not cause Baptiste any wonderment. It was something he had become accustomed to. It seemed that the church contained so many of the same kind--from reports,--until it was a common expectation that a preacher was permitted to do the very worst things--things that nobody else would have the conscience to do. He arose presently and going to the bar, ordered another bottle of beer. He looked around the large room while he drank at the usual class who frequented the place. He knew that here and there among them were crooks, thieves, "con" men, gunmen, and gamblers. Many of these men had perhaps even committed murder--and that for money. Yet there was not one he was positive, that would deliberately separate a man and his wife for spite. And that was the crime this preacher father-in-law of his had committed.

Always in the mind of this man of the prairie this played. It followed him everywhere; it slept with him, arose with him, and retired with him.

And all through long sleepless nights it flitted about in his dreams like an eternal spectre, it gave him no peace. Gradually it had brought him to a feeling that the only justifiable action would be to follow the beast to his lair and kill him upon sight. Often this occurred to him, and at such times he allowed his mind to recall murder cases of various phases, and wondered if such a feeling as he was experiencing, was the kind men had before committing murder. Then if so, what a relief it must be to the mind to kill. He had a vision of this arch hypocrite writhing at his feet, with death in his sinful eyes, and his tongue protruding from his mouth.

He drank the beer and then ordered liquor. Somehow he wanted to still that mania that was growing within him. He had struggled for happiness in the world, for success and contentment, and he did not wish his mind to dwell on the subject of murder. But he was glad that this man had left the city. A man might be able to accept a great deal of rebuke, and endure much; but sometimes the sight of one who has wronged him might cause him for a moment to forget all his good intentions and manly resolutions. Yes, he was glad that Reverend McCarthy had left the city, and he shuddered a little when he recalled with a grimace that he had traveled these many miles to see and reckon with his wife.

"Well, you are here," he heard then, and turned to greet Glavis.

"Oh, hello, Glavis," he returned with a tired expression about his eyes from the effect of the strain under which he had been laboring. "Have a drink."

"An old-time cocktail," Glavis said to the bartender. He then turned to Baptiste.

"Well, how's everything over home?" said Baptiste, coming directly to the point.

"Your wife's sick," said Glavis a little awkwardly.

"And I, her husband, cannot call and see her. I'm compelled to hear it from others and say nothing." He paused and the expression on his face was unpleasant to behold. Glavis saw it and looked away. He could not make any answer, and then he heard the other again.

"This is certainly the limit. I married that girl in good faith, and I'll bet that she has not told you or anybody else that I mistreated her. But here we are, compelled to be apart, and by whom?" His face was still unpleasant, and Glavis only mumbled.

"That damn preacher!"

"Oh, Baptiste," cried Glavis, frowningly.

"Yes, I know--I understand your situation, Glavis. But you must appreciate what it is to be thrown into a mess like this. To have your home and happiness sacrificed to somebody's vanity. I'm compelled to stand for all this for the simple crime of not lauding the old man. All because I didn't tickle his vanity and become the hypocrite he is, for should I have said what he wanted me to say, then I would have surely lied. And I hate a liar!"

"But come, Baptiste," argued Glavis, "we want to figure out some way that you and your wife can get together without all this. Now let's have another drink and sit down."

"Well, alright," said the other disconsolately, "I feel as if it would do me good to get drunk tonight and kill somebody,--no, no, Glavis," he added quickly, "I'm not going to kill anybody. So you needn't think I am planning anything like that. I'm too busy to go to jail."

"Now, I'm willing to help you in any way I can, Baptiste," began Glavis, "as long as I can keep my wife out of it. I've got the darndest woman you ever saw. But she's my wife, and you know a man must try to live with the one he's married to, and that's why I am willing to help you."

They discussed plans at some length, and finally decided to settle matters on the morrow.

But when the morrow came, Ethel blocked all the plans. She refused to be sent away across town and let Baptiste come into the house and see his wife. She knew what that would mean, so she stood intrenched like the rock of Gibraltar. Other plans were resorted to, but with the same result. The days passed and Baptiste became obsessed with worry. He knew he should be back in the West and to his work; he began to lose patience with his wife for being so weak. If he could only see her he was certain that they would come to some agreement. Sunday came and went, and still he saw her not. Ethel took confidence; she smiled at the success with which she had blocked all efforts of communication. Baptiste wrote his wife notes, but these she intercepted and learned his plans. She convinced her sister that she was sick and should be under the care of a physician. This reached Baptiste, and he secured one, a brilliant young man who was making a reputation. He had known him while the other was attending the Northwestern Medical College, and admired him; but this too was blocked. For when he knocked at the door with the doctor at his side, they were forbade admittance. Thereupon Baptiste was embarrassed and greatly humiliated at the same time.

Ethel had a good laugh over it when they had left and cried: "He had his nerve, anyhow. Walking up here with a nigger doctor, the idea! I wish papa had been home, he'd have fixed him proper! Papa has never had one of those in his house, indeed not. No nigger doctor has ever attended any of us, and never will as long as papa has anything to do with it!"

Glavis finally succeeded in getting a hearing. By pleading and begging, he finally secured Ethel's consent to allow him to bring Baptiste to the house and sit near his wife for just thirty minutes--but no more. He did not apprise Baptiste of this fact nor of the time limit, but caught him by the arm and led him to the house as though he were a privileged character. He took notice of the clock when he entered, because he knew that Ethel, who was upstairs had done so. And he was very careful during the time to keep his eyes upon the clock. He knew that Ethel would appear at the expiration of thirty minutes and start her disagreeableness, so at the end of that time he quietly led Baptiste away after he had been allowed only to look at his wife, who was like a Sphinx from the careful dressing down she had had before and preparatory to his coming.

So, having carried out what he considered a bit of diplomacy, Glavis was relieved. Baptiste could expect no more of him, and so it ended.

Ethel wrote her father a cheerful letter and stated that that "hardheaded rascal" had been there from the West; but that Orlean had declined to see him but once, and had refused to go back at all, whereupon her father smiled satisfactorily.

Jean Baptiste returned to the West, defeated and downcast. He had for the first time in his life, failed in an undertaking. He had never known such before, he could not understand. But he was defeated, that was sure. Perhaps it was because he was not trained to engage in that particular kind of combat. He had been accustomed to dealing with men in the open, and was not prepared to counter the cunning and finesse of his newly acquired adversaries.

Over him it cast a gloom; it cast great, dark shadows, and in the days that followed the real Jean Baptiste died and another came to live in his place. And that one was a hollow-cheeked, unhappy, nervous, apprehensive creature. He regarded life and all that went with it dubiously; he looked into the elements above him, and said that the world had reached a time whence it would change. The air would change, the earth would become hot, and rain would not fall and that drought would cover all the land, and the settlers would suffer. And so feeling, it did so become, and in the following chapter our story will deal with the elements, and with how the world did change, and how drought came, and what followed.

CHAPTER VII

A GREAT ASTRONOMER

Not long ago a man died who had made astronomy a specific study for sixty years. He knew the planets, Mars and Jupiter, and Saturn and all the others. He knew the constellations and the zodiac--in fact he was familiar with the solar system and all the workings of the universe.

This man had predicted with considerable accuracy what seasons would be wet, and what seasons would be dry. He also foretold the seasons of warmth and those of cold. And he had said that about every twenty years, the world over would be gripped with drought. This drought would begin in the far north, and would cover the extreme northern portion of the country the first year. The second year it would reach further south, and extend over the great central valleys and be most severe near the northern tier of states. Following, it would go a bit further south the next year, and so on until it would finally disappear altogether.

So according to this man's prediction, the country of our story would experience a severe drought soon, preceded by a slight one as a forerunner. For two years the crops would be inferior but the following year would see it normal again.

So be it.

It had been dry the year before, and had been just a little bit so the year before that. We know by the shortage of crops Jean Baptiste had raised that such had been so. So, with hundreds of acres, and the sun shining hot, and the wind blowing from the south, it was no surprise when he became now, an altogether different person. (For you see the life--that life that makes men strong and fearless and cheerful had gone from the body of Jean Baptiste.) Then he began to grow uneasy. It is, perhaps, somewhat difficult to portray a drought and its subsequent disasters. We beg of you, however, that you go back to the early years in the peaceful, hopeful, vigorous country of our story: In the years that had been before when everything had pointed to success. Rainfall had been abundant; frost had waited until October before it showed his white coat upon the window sill. Land values had climbed and climbed, and had gone so high until only the moneyed could even reckon to own land. And Jean Baptiste controlled a thousand acres.

Over all the country, the pounding of steam and gasoline tractors filled the air with an incessant drumming; the black streaks everywhere told the story of conquest. The prairie was giving place to the inevitable settler, and hope was high in the hearts of all. So the wind had blown hot many days before the settlers became apprehensive of anything really serious.

Never since they had come to this country had they experienced such intense heat; such regular heat; such continued heat. A week passed and the heat continued. It blew a gale, and then a blast; but always it was hot, hot, hot!

Two weeks passed, and still it blew. Before this it had at least subsided at night, although it did begin afresh in the morning. But now it blew all night and all day, and each day it became hotter, the soil became dryer, and presently the crops began to fire.

"Oh, for a rain!" every settler cried. "For a rain, a rain, a rain!" But no rain came.

So every day there was the continual firing of the crops.

The corn had been too small in the beginning to require much moisture, and the dry weather had enabled the farmer to kill the weeds, so it stood the gaft quite well, for a time, and grew like gourd vines in the meantime. It was the wheat, the oats, the rye and the barley that were first to suffer. These were at their most critical stage, the time when tiny little heads must dare seek the light. And as they did so, the cruel heat met and burned them until thereupon they cried and died from grief. And still the drought continued.

No showers fell. The crops needed water. After the third week of such intense heat, the people groaned and said "'93" had returned with all its attendant disaster. And still the wind kept blowing. The air grew hot, hotter; almost to stifling with the odor of the burning plants. The aroma mixed with the intense heat was suffocating. The grass upon the prairie gave up, turned its tiny blades to the sun and died to the roots, while all the grain of the land, slowly became shorter. It struggled, it bent, and at last turned what had pointed upward, downward, and also died of thirst.

And then the people awakened to the emergency. They began to take note of the fact that many had gone into debt so deeply until there were many who could never get out unless they sold their land! This had been so with poor managers, speculators, and others before. When they found that they were unable to make it, there had always remained the alternative of selling out. And this had been so easy, because the people at large wanted the land. So instead, heretofore, of retiring in defeat, the weakest had retired in apparent victory. "For my homestead, I received $8,000," or maybe it had been $10,000. So it had been. Great prices to all who wanted to sell. Only a small portion of them, however, had wanted to sell up to date.

But when the crops were surely a failure for the most part, hundreds and thousands and even more quarters were offered for sale. Then came the shock--the jolt that brought the people to a stern realization of what was before them. The buyers! There were no buyers! No, the buyers now when many wished to sell, stayed in Iowa, and Illinois and wherever they lived, and refused to come hither!