At seven o'clock of Monday morning, Johnnie Adamson stood at the roadside at the front of his father's farmhouse. He held in his hands a wagon stake which he had found somewhere and with it smote aimlessly at anything which came in his way. His usual amiable smile was gone. A low scowl, like that of some angered anthropoid, had replaced it. His mother, seeing that some unusual turn had taken place in his affliction, stood at the window of the farmhouse looking out at him and wringing her hands. She long ago had ceased to weep—the fountain of tears had dried within her soul. There came to her now and then the sound of his hoarse defiance, hurled at all who passed by on the road.

"Son John!—Eejit!—Whip any man in Jackson County!"

Ephraim Adamson was at the time in the field at work. His wife at length crept out to the back porch and pulled the cord of the dinner bell. Its sound rang out across the fields. Her husband came running, more than half suspicious of the cause of the alarm. Long had their lives been lived in vague dread of this very thing—a violent turn in the son's affliction. The father's anxious face spoke the question.

"Yes, he's bad," said the wife to him. "I'm afraid of him—he's getting worse."

The father walked out into the front yard. The youth came toward him, grinning pleasantly. He fell into the position of a batsman, swinging his club back and forth as he must some time have seen ball players do.

"Now you—now you throw it at me—and I'll hit it," said the half-wit. "You—you throw it at me—and I'll hit—I'll hit it."

To humor him, his father pitched at him a broken apple that lay on the ground near by. Johnny struck at it and by chance caught it fair, crushing it to fragments. At this he laughed in glee.

"Now—now—another one," said he. "I'll hit—I'll hit them all."

His father walked up to him and reached out a hand, but for the first time the boy resented his control. He broke away, swinging his club menacingly, striking at everything in his way. Ephraim Adamson followed him; but still evading, the half-wit passed out through the gate which led into the garden patch at the rear of the house. With his club he cut at the tops of everything green that he passed. Especially, with many yells of glee, he fell upon the rows of cabbages, then beginning to head out. With heavy blows of his club he cut down one after another. The game seemed to excite him more and more. At last it seemed to enrage him more and more. He struck with greater viciousness.

"Eejit!" said he. "I'm out—they can't pick on me! I can hit them! I will, too, hit them! I'll hit him!"

His father, following him, saw the face of the club all stained now—stained dark—black or red—stained green. He caught at the stick, but for once found his own strength insufficient to cope with that of his son. The latter wrestled with him. In a direct grip, one against the other, in which both struggled for the club, the father was unable to wrest it from him; and continually he saw a new and savage light come into the eyes of his son. The boy threatened him, menaced him with the club. His father drew back, for the first time afraid. He went back into the house, to his wife, on whom he turned a gray, sad face.

"I'm afraid," said he slowly, "I'm afraid we'll have to send him away. He's awfully bad—he might do anything. I'd rather see him dead."

The nod of the sad-faced woman was full assent. She gazed out of the window blankly, barrenly. Ephraim Adamson went out again into the yard. He passed the boy, unseen, went out into the stable yard, and caught up his team, which soon he had harnessed to his light wagon. By this time Johnnie had gone to the woodpile and taken up the ax. He was endeavoring to split some cordwood, but he rarely could hit twice in the same place, all his correlations being bad. His father now threw open the gate and drove into the yard.

"Want a ride, Johnnie?" he asked; and the boy docilely came and climbed into the front seat beside him. Not even looking at his wife, Adamson started out at good speed for the eight-mile drive into Spring Valley. For the most part the boy was quiet now, but once in a while the return of a paroxysm would lead him to shout and fling up his hands, to grin or make faces at any who passed.

In town, at the corner of the public square, Johnnie became unruly. Some vague memory was in his mind. He pointed down the head of Mulberry Street.

"I want to go—I want to go there!" said he.

Before his father could stop him he had sprung out of the wagon and run on ahead. Adamson as quickly as possible hitched his team at the nearest rack and followed at full speed, sudden terror now renewed in his own soul. The boy had turned in at the gate of the little house of Aurora Lane—that little house now scarce longer to be called a home!

Aurora Lane was alive, within. She moved about dully, slowly, her mind numb at the horror of all she had gone through. The feeling possessed her that she was without help or hope in all the world, that her God himself had forsaken her. She heard the sound of running footsteps, and, gazing through the window, saw the idiot son of Ephraim Adamson standing just inside the gate. She heard him come up the steps, heard him begin to pound on the door.

"Quick! Miss Lane," called Adamson as he came following up on the run—he hoped that Aurora would hear him. "Don't let him in. Telephone—get the sher'f as soon as you can."

He walked up the steps now and took the boy by the arm as he hammered at the door with the head of the club.

"Come on, Johnnie," said he. "We'll go see the pictures. Come along."

It was not better than an animal, the creature who now turned facing him, growling. "Get out!" said Johnnie to him. "No one—no one can pick on me! I'll hit—I'll hit you. Whip any man in Jackson County. I'm out—I'll hit anybody touches me. I guess I know!"

His sweeping blows about him with the club forced his father back, and showed that any attempt to close with him would be dangerous. Adamson retired to the gate. Johnnie went on smashing everything about him, flower beds, chairs, a little table which stood on the front gallery—anything left undestroyed by the more intelligent but not less malignant visitors of the night before, who thus had set a pattern for him.

"I want in," he said pleasantly after a time, seating himself on the front steps. "Eejit—best man in Jackson County. She was good to me. She spoke to me kind. I won't hurt her."

Aurora Lane could see him as she gazed out from behind the window curtain. Her call on the telephone to the officer of the law had been loud, insistent, the appeal of a woman in terror. But now, as she looked out at Johnnie Adamson, something other than terror was in her wan face;—something like surprise—something like conviction! The thought brought with it no additional terror—rather it carried a swift ray of hope!

It was toward eight o'clock in the morning now. Few were abroad on the streets of Spring Valley, but now and then a passer-by turned to gaze at a man who was hurrying across from the court and turning into Mulberry Street. It was Dan Cowles, the sheriff, and they wondered where he was going now.

Ephraim Adamson heard the hurrying approach as Dan Cowles came down the street. The boy still was sitting on the steps. Suddenly he turned—and caught sight of the face of Aurora Lane at the window. He rose, removed his hat, and smirked.

"May I see you home?" said he. "Eejit—the best man in Jackson County. I can hit anybody! I'll show you."

He was mowing, smirking, talking to her through the glass of the window pane, jerking and twitching about, but he turned now when he heard the steps of his father and the sheriff on the brick walk back of him.

"He's gone bad, Dan," said Adamson in a low tone to the sheriff. "We'll have to lock him up. He'll have to go to the asylum. He's dangerous. Look out!"

Suddenly the half-wit turned upon them. His eyes seemed fixed on the star shining on the coat of Dan Cowles—identically the same star that City Marshal Tarbush had worn, Cowles having for the time taken on the deceased man's duties also. The sight enraged him. He brandished his club.

"There he is!" he cried. "I hit him once—I killed him—I'm going to kill him again! You can't pick on me. I'm out. I'll kill you again!"

"My God! what's he saying, Dan?" quavered the voice of the unhappy man, the father of this wild creature. "What's he saying?"

"Johnnie!" he himself called out aloud. "Johnnie, tell me—tell me who it was, and I'll take you to see the pictures right away."

"Him!" shrieked Johnnie. "Him—there's that shiny thing."

"When was it, Johnnie—what do you mean about this man?" The sheriff now spoke to him.

"I hit you—that night—I'll hit you again now! Nobody going to pick on Johnnie. Best man in Jackson County—eejit!"

"You're going to take me away to jail again," said he cunningly. "But you can't. I was just going to talk to her before, and you come and took me away. But I hit him. Now I'll kill you so you'll stay dead."

Slowly, cautiously creeping down the steps, club in hand, he followed the two men, who backed away from him—backed out through the gate on to the sidewalk, into the street.

From across the street Nels Jorgens in his wagon shop saw what was going on, and came running, a stout wagon spoke caught up in his own hand. He passed this to Ephraim Adamson.

"Look out, Sheriff!" he called out. "He's wild. He'll kill somebody yet."

Nels Jorgens and one or two others saw what then happened. The madman, now murderously excited, stopped in his deliberate advance. His eyes flamed green with hatred at all this before him. The lust of blood showed on his features, usually so mild. He saw his father standing now, this weapon in his hand; and forgetting every tie in the world, if ever he had felt one, sprang at him with a scream of rage. Ephraim Adamson stepped back, tripped, fell. He saw above him the face of his son, with murder in his eyes. He closed his own eyes.

And then Nels Jorgens and one or two others who came hurrying up saw a puff of smoke, heard the roar of a shot Dan Cowles had fired just in time....

There was no need to send poor Johnnie Adamson to the asylum. He had gone now to a farther country. He sank, a vast bulk, at his full length along the narrow strip of dusty grass between the curb and the walk. His shoulders heaved once or twice, his arms fell lax.

Dan Cowles, solemn-faced, his weapon still in his hand, turned to gaze at the haggard man who rose slowly, turning away from that which he now saw.

"It was the act of committing a felony," said Dan Cowles slowly. "It was to save human life. He resisted arrest, and he was armed. It was a felony."

But when old Ephraim Adamson turned his gray face to that of the officer of the law, in his sad eyes there was no resentment. He held out his hand.

"Dan," said he, "thank God you done it! Thank God it's over!"