It was the beginning of the month of May, one year later. The two friends were still boon companions. They had joined the force of canvasmen of the circus and menagerie at Newark, gone with the organization to California, and were now in the mountains of Georgia, where the company was billed to exhibit and perform at the town of Carlin.

Their long train reached the place at three o'clock in the morning, drew up on a side-track near the circus-grounds, and the canvasmen were gruffly ordered out of their bunks to go to work. Charles and Mason slept opposite each other, and now stood dressing in their rough clothes in the dim light of a dusky oil-lantern at the end of the car.

"Dog's life, eh?" Mason said, recalling a remark Charles had made the night before.

"That and nothing else," Charles muttered; "I've had enough, for my part."

"Well, I have, too," Mason admitted, "and I'm ready to call it off. But I think I ought to stick till we get back to New York."

"I'm not sure that I ought to go back there," Charles said, in a more guarded tone, as they went down the narrow aisle to the door.

"Oh, I see what you mean," Mason said, "and after all, you may be dead right about it. But what would you do if you called it off right here to-day, as I know you are thinking of doing?"

But, somewhat to his surprise, Charles made no response. It was as if he had not heard the question, so deeply was he absorbed in thought. There was no time for further conversation. The foreman drove them like sheep to the work of unloading the canvas, ropes, and stakes, and the hasty erection of the tents. Seat-building, ring-digging, stake-driving with heavy sledge-hammers, kept them busy till after sunup. Then it was all over. They were permitted to go to the dining-tent set aside for the "razor-backs," as the canvasmen were called, to get their breakfast; and then they were free to sleep or amuse themselves till ten o'clock, when they were expected to get ready for the street procession. An event was due to-day which occurred only once a month, and that was the payment of wages, so, after breakfast, they joined the string of men waiting their turn at the windowed wagon of the paymaster to get their money. Mason got his first, and Charles found him waiting for him after he had been paid.

"What's up now—sleep?" Mason inquired.

"I thought I'd look around the town," Charles replied. "I'm tired, of course, but I don't feel sleepy."

"I'll go with you," Mason smiled. "I'm trying to get on to your curves. You mystify me to-day. I've never seen you look like you do now. What has happened?"

They were now entering the main street of the town, at the foot of which the circus-grounds were situated. Green hills encircled the place and beyond rose the mountain ranges and towering peaks. The spring air was quite invigorating; the scene in the early sunlight appeared very beautiful and seductive.

"I was going to mention it to you," Charles said. "I ought to have done so sooner. You see, in a way, it concerns my old trouble, and I've been trying to forget that."

"Oh, well, don't mention it, then," Mason said, sympathetically. "I know how you feel about it."

"But I must tell you this and be done with it," Charles went on. "Last night as we were loading I heard two of our gang talking on the quiet. It seems that some expert bank robbers are with us, using us as a shield. In fact, they are on the force itself. Telegrams have been sent out, and we may all have to stand an examination such as we went through in New Orleans. That was enough for me. It seemed to me that I got through that last ordeal by the very skin of my teeth. I can't answer all those questions again—I simply can't. It is different with you. You have a straight tale to tell, but I haven't!"

"Where did they think the examination would be made?" Mason wanted to know.

"Next stop—Chattanooga."

"Ah, I see," Mason mused, "and, as you have been paid off—"

"If I am going to quit, now's the time," Charles answered, gravely. "I don't want to part from you, but really we are not situated alike. You have been homesick for the last three months. You cannot hide it. You are always talking of your people."

Mason blushed visibly. "Well, so are you homesick. I wish I could see that fellow Mike you are always talking about. I know every story by heart that the Mick ever told, and the little girl and your brother and his wife—why, you think about them as often as I do about my folks."

Charles made no denial. They were passing one of the churches of the town. It was an old brick building with ivy growing on the walls, a beautiful sward about it. The front doors were open. They paused and looked in. A negro sexton was sweeping the floor near the pulpit. Mason was for moving on, but his friend seemed to linger.

As they left, Charles said, frankly: "I'm not a member of any church and I have no religious creed, but if I lived in this town I'd want to come here every Sunday morning and sit back somewhere in the rear and listen, and get into contact with the people, real people—not the sort we've been traveling with for nearly a year. O God! I'm weary of it—weary, weary! I want a home of some sort. You have one that you can go to. I haven't, but I want to make one. Strange idea, isn't it? But I want it."

Mason laid his hand on his friend's arm gently, tenderly. "Poor old chap!" he said. "I understand you better now. And you think you could make a permanent home for yourself in a place like this?"

"Something tells me to stop here—right here, old man. Something seems to say that it is to be my home for all the rest of my life. Ever since we turned northward I've felt uneasy. I've not slept so well. I've dreamed of disaster up there. I've not heard from home once since we left New York. I've seen no paper. I don't know what they think of me. Some of my people may be dead. I don't know. I don't dare to think of it. I want to blot it all out, for it no longer pertains to me."

"I see," Mason said, gloomily. "Well, you must be your own judge and I must be mine. Somehow I can't dig the homesick feeling out of myself. I thought I could stick to the gang till we got back to New York, but, as I have my pay, and some more besides, if you quit I'll follow suit and travel first-class, like a gentleman, back to New York, where I'll stop a while before going home. Have you made up your mind?"

"Yes, fully," Charles answered. "I'll find something to do. I'd like to work on a farm. Out in the country my life could be even more private and secluded than here in a town like this. See those hills? They seem made for me, old man. They seem to have fallen from the eternal blue overhead. They will shelter me. I'll work and sleep and forget. The inhabitants will never know who I am, but I'll like them. I'll serve them, and perhaps they will like me a little after a while. The manager can easily fill my place."

"Well, then, it is settled," said Mason, with a deep breath. "It seems strange to think of parting with a pal like you, and I guess it means for good and all. You don't intend ever to see your folks again?"

"My relatives, no," Charles said. "I've thought often of writing back to dear old Mike, but don't think it would be quite safe. If I had any way of communicating with him other than the mails I would let him know where I am. I could trust him with my life."

"How about letting me go to Boston? I could see him on the quiet and tell him about you."

"No, that would be out of your way," Charles protested. "Never mind. It is better as it is. I'd like to hear from Mike, but he belongs to the past with all the rest. Let's go to the car and pack."