Dates are a thing of the past along with newspapers, street cars, electric lights, the hope of a speedy arrival in California, and last, but not least, our faithful companion, the stout, green tandem. And it came about thus:

We had reached a country of great level stretches, with grazing cattle and raw looking farms, of infrequent water and distant ranges of bare, blue mountains. Following a barbed wire fence, our road turned at right angles to the north, whereas the way should have been open straight into the west where a more fertile region was blazoned forth in masses of green and long strips of yellow.

We stopped at a rude cabin which crouched, mouse-like, at the turn in the road, to fill the canteen. A woman, withered and sunbrowned and worn by pathetically futile efforts to maintain a home in an unfriendly land, answered my knock. She informed us that the fenced range that blocked our path was part of a great holding to the south, which projected a long tentacle to enfold a source of life-giving water far to the north. Thus, we needs must make a great detour to reach the point to the west of us where the highway again took up its march toward the setting sun. This strip, it appeared, was but a scant three miles in width, and we were at once filled with the idea of walking across instead of riding so far around. After some manoeuvring, we succeeded in crowding the wheel beneath the barbed strands and set off across the prairie, which was almost as hard and bare as the county road. We had not gone far when a group of cattle caught sight of us and moved up to inspect the strange intruders. These were followed by others, which seemed a signal to hundreds. Soon a dense mass was tagging at our heels and spreading out to right and left, while in the distance still more could be seen lumbering up to join the herd. A peculiar prickling sensation began to manifest itself in the region of my scalp.

“Dear me, I do wish your sweater was blue instead of red,” I observed nervously to Dan. “I believe it is making these cattle angry. Do you suppose they really would attack us?”

“No, of course not. They are perfectly harmless. They don’t know what to make of us, that’s all, and their curiosity urges them up to take a good look.”

“Nevertheless, I noticed that he was quickening his pace. As for myself, I scanned the distance to the boundary fence with anxious eyes. The cattle, which at first had maintained a respectful distance, now began to crowd closer.

“Please, Dan,” I urged, “take off that sweater and hide it till we get out of this pasture. I don’t like the sight of so many cows a little bit.”

“Rats, Ethel, don’t be a coward. Who’s afraid of a few cows?”

He turned to wave his hat at the advancing animals, stepped into a prairie dog burrow and came heavily to the ground. As he regained his feet, his features twisted in pain and he caught at the handle bars.

“Gee whiz,” he grunted, “I gave my ankle a beastly wrench. It hurts like the devil.”

Visions of dislocations, sprains, of incapacitation in this God-forsaken spot, flashed before my brain as I sank to my knees to learn the extent of the injury, the cattle for a moment forgotten. I unlaced the shoe, and after a careful examination was delighted to find that it was nothing worse than a sprain which would doubtless be well in a few days.

“I’ll take the wheel and you sit down while I unpack the emergency kit and get out the bandages,” I remarked, rising to my feet. “I’ll just put on a——” The words froze on my lips. We stood in a ring of cattle less than two hundred feet in diameter. They stood shoulder to shoulder, heads down, noses to the ground, blowing, snorting, pawing, while here and there some young bull would advance a step with tossing head, then pause while the herd moved in to join him. Dan broke in on my immobility.

“We can’t stop to bother with my ankle now,” he muttered. “We must make tracks out of here as fast as the Lord’ll let us.”

He hobbled on a few steps, leaning on the tandem. At once the animals in the rear moved forward, while those in front set up a peculiar moaning bellow, which seemed to enrage the whole herd. The air vibrated with their bawling. To my affrighted eyes the whole plain seemed a solid mass of reddish backs and tossing heads. Fragments of what I had read and heard of western cattle came to my mind. They would attack a man on foot—a person on horseback was safe——.

“Get into your saddle, quick,” I cried. “It’s our only chance.”

I steadied the bicycle with a firm hand. “Just get on. I’ll start it.”

Dan seated himself and grasped the handle bars, while with straining muscles I bent desperately to the task of getting the heavy load in motion. The tires seemed glued to the rough, uneven surface of the prairie, and when at last with sobbing breath I was able to leap into the front saddle, we were almost on the horns of a heavy animal that blocked the way. But to hesitate meant death, so with a blood curdling yell I headed full at his nose. He crowded aside, I swerved, and we passed between the rows of cattle with room so scant that we almost brushed the hairy flanks. I could hear the thunder of hoofs as the herd got into motion behind us. The protecting fence seemed very far away. Bushes slapped at us in passing. The difference between riding on even a poor road and pedalling over this unsurfaced plain, level as it was, became increasingly evident. And how to cross the fence to safety with a crippled man and a laden wheel, even though we survived that long, was a problem. The front wheel struck a sharp, projecting snag and air hissed from the flattening tire. An instant later the rear tire also gave way, but we pedalled desperately on, bumping along on the rims, which each moment threatened to let us down.

We were nearing the western boundary when I heard a shout and glancing to the right saw a man on horseback tearing down the road in our direction. He began swinging his hat and shooting in the air, and as the wheel struck the fence, almost throwing me to the ground, his horse reared to a stop directly before us. To help Dan through, slip under myself and drag the wheel to safety was the work of a moment and I was free to watch the herd as they swerved away to the south.

“Gosh all hemlock, that was a close shave,” gasped the cowboy. “How in Sam Hill did you all get into such a scrape?”

As I started to explain, he noticed that Dan was lame. He leaped from the saddle and in a trice had loaded Dan onto the horse. Then, giving me a hand with the wheel, started briskly in the direction of a thrifty-looking farm.

We halted at last beneath a tree at the edge of the road. Dan let himself down from his perch, and upon my firm assurance that we would be all right, our rescuer resumed his interrupted journey. I kindled a fire, brought water from a well, then sought the house, which stood well back from the road, to secure the loan of a deep bucket. A timid little woman accommodated me without demur; then followed curiously into camp. At once I treated Dan’s ankle with a prolonged hot bath, followed by a careful massage and the application of arnica-soaked bandages. The little woman followed every motion with the keenest interest, and discovering that I was a doctor, burst into a detailed account of an accident that had befallen her young son. He had fallen from a tree and sprained his wrist, which remained somewhat stiff. Would I be so kind as to examine it and see what was wrong? This I agreed to do before leaving, but for the present decided to make camp for the night, rest, and calm my quivering nerves.

Next morning Dan was able to get to work on the wheel, replacing the ruined tires with extras purchased in Kearney for some such emergency. Again we rested during the heat of the day, and resolved to resume the journey next morning.

The tandem was packed for the road when the farmer’s wife came hurrying out to remind me of my promise regarding her boy. We entered the farmyard, which swarmed with hogs of all sizes, and were led to an enclosed shed where I shut in the wheel for safe keeping while we entered the house.

But the lad was nowhere to be found. After an hour of searching, the mother, assisted by an older brother, dragged the patient, struggling and howling, from his hiding place in the attic; then held him while I discovered a slight displacement of one of the small bones of the wrist. This I reduced after considerable trouble, due to the boy’s unruly temper, and bandaged the arm as the clock struck eleven. The mother then insisted that we stay to dinner and as Dan was still rather in need of rest, we accepted gratefully.

The head of the house, a great, burly, red-haired farmer, came in with the oldest son, a perfect chip off the old block, and we sat down to a repast of fried salt pork, fried potatoes, fried onions, hot biscuits and coffee.

The meal concluded, the whole family went out to see us off. As I rounded the corner of the shed, I noticed the door which I had latched so carefully, standing open. Then what a sight met my eyes!

The wheel lay flat on the floor, groceries, bedding and equipment scattered all about, while a shoving, grunting, struggling mass of hogs rooted, trampled and fought over it. Chains were broken, tires torn from the wheels, spokes out, skirt guard bent and twisted, while through and over all was cocoa, sugar, coffee, plumbago, clothing, oil and pieces of the repair kit.

“Haw, haw,” roared the farmer, delighted with the novel sight. “Them hawgs sure have made a mash on that there bicycle.”

“Ya, hah. I fixed ’em, I fixed ’em,” shrieked my erstwhile patient, jumping about in glee. The little woman burst into tears.

Dan seized a heavy single-tree, which stood in a corner, and laid about him fiercely, sending the squealing drove pell-mell from the building. Before the farmer could stay his hand, he had laid low with a broken back a fine young boar. A few moments later a sow showed evidences of internal trouble, was taken with convulsions, and while we were gathering up the almost hopeless wreck, laid down and died, much to the grief of friend farmer, whose mirth was turned to mourning. Dan declared that the sow had swallowed his razor and wanted to hold an autopsy on the remains, but was forced to let the cause of death stand as acute indigestion.

The owner of the hogs cursed bitterly as we started to drag the poor old wheel back to our little camp, where Dan spent a day and a half endeavouring to repair it. But the case was hopeless. The good green tandem would never take the open road again.

The world seemed desolate that night as we sat beside our dying campfire discussing the situation. The mournful call of some night bird through the vast silence waked melancholy echoes in my lonely heart. The wind, moaning across the barren plains, spoke of darkness, inchoate, overwhelming. The stars seemed to stare coldly down upon the whirling mote to which we poor humans cling so doggedly. A gleam from a lighted window of the farmhouse only added to my feeling of isolation. I visioned the thousands of family groups gathered round the evening lamps, enjoying the cosy comforts of home, the sense of peace and security that springs from a recognised place in society, the feeling of love and protection, the intimate companionship, and opportunity for service,—the mother with her sewing, the father with magazine or paper, the children with school books or toys—all unwitting, unheeding, uncaring, utterly indifferent to the fate of the thousands who roam the highways even as we, having no place to lay their heads. These, outcast, abandoned, wretched, are exiles from a land of plenty through no fault of their own—their only roof, the threatening vault of heaven, their only couch, the bare cold ground, their evening lamp some solitary campfire. Their naked souls shudder in the relentless blast of endless ostracism.

Our little hoard of silver was running low. We knew by experience that no work was to be had in this inhospitable land. Our only hope lay in pressing forward.

Early next morning we cooked a meagre breakfast, packed such articles as were worth saving into two bundles, swung these on our shoulders and were off. We had covered perhaps eight miles and Dan was beginning to complain of his ankle when in the distance we sighted a little settlement strung out along the railroad track. As we approached, I took both bundles and turned toward the railroad station to wait while Dan searched for work.

As I crossed the right-of-way my attention was attracted by a man seated on the ground, his back against a telegraph pole. As I walked past, he raised his hat and spoke.

“I would advise you to stay away from the depot, madam. The station agent is having a little dispute with a couple of drunken cowboys. It is scarcely the place for a lady.”

“It is kind of you to warn me,” I replied. “It was my intention to wait there for my husband, but we can scarcely miss one another in this town.”

The stranger sprang to his feet. “Permit me to offer you my telegraph pole,” he exclaimed with a winning smile. Lifting one of the blanket rolls, he placed it for a seat, and as I settled myself, sank down on the other bundle and entered into conversation.

He was a man on the sunny side of forty, tall, slender, but possessed of evident strength. His mouth was at once humorous and stern, his nose, high-arched with sensitive nostrils, gave him a cold, patrician air, which one forgot when he spoke. Then white teeth flashed from his sunbrowned face, and his eyes, of a peculiarly intense reddish-brown, twinkled roguishly. Never had I listened to a more musical human voice. With the utmost tact he led me to tell of our experiences. Soon he was in possession of the salient features of our journey.

“I am a sort of Ishmaelite myself,” he declared. “I take my home with me. I pay no rent, no interest, no taxes. I do no worrying. I make no plans. I dream no dreams. I enjoy all in the way of good living that a human animal can hope for. When this civilisation is tottering to its fall, I shall be safe in a mountain resort known to me alone, prepared to round out my days in peace and comfort.”

“Too bad that such a nice appearing man should be so crazy,” I said to myself as he ceased speaking. As though in answer to my thought he burst out laughing.

“Oh, I’m not as crazy as I sound. At any rate, I’m mighty practical about it, as I shall soon demonstrate to you. My modern prairie schooner, a home on wheels, will be along presently, and then I hope to initiate you into a rational method of living in an insane world. Yonder the caravan approaches.”

Following his gaze, I saw a team of mules hitched to a long, broad, light spring wagon with a black cover like a heavy automobile top, driven by a large fair woman, dressed in a yellow duster. Close behind a young man followed with a team of horses attached to a smaller wagon or buckboard.

My acquaintance stepped to the side of the road and hailed the woman, who halted at the edge of the right-of-way. After a brief conversation, she turned the mules and moved off across the track. The man turned as Dan approached and introduced himself at once.

“My name is Adams—Frank Adams,” said he, “and I have been having a chat with your good wife. As a consequence, there is a matter of business, a little proposition that I would like to put up to you. But this is no place to talk. Besides, the hour grows late and we must make preparations for the night. I have directed my outfit to a camping place in a grove of trees that I located this morning and I should be very much pleased to have the two of you come over with me and enjoy a real open-air dinner. Afterwards we’ll make ourselves comfortable and go fully into my plan, which I have every reason to believe will result in pleasure and financial benefit to us all.”

Dan seemed favourably impressed by the stranger’s frank address. Besides, there was nothing to hope for in our present situation. So he picked up a bundle, our friend shouldered the other, and we were off for the camping ground.

As we entered the clump of trees, my eye was caught by a small chicken coop with slatted bottom, which was suspended beneath the rear end of the wagon bed. Our guide stepped forward and swung open the door. Three fine young Plymouth Rock hens, who had been eagerly awaiting this opportunity, fluttered out and began to peck and scratch vigorously.

“This simple arrangement insures a few fresh eggs for emergencies,” Mr. Adams informed me. “These hens are very tame and are quite accustomed to this mode of living. Now and then, as to-day, we get a couple of fryers, and sometimes a nice fat hen for roasting, which we confine in the rear compartment until wanted. Thus we are seldom at a loss for fresh meat. Just step around to the front and I’ll show you the cooking arrangements.”

At the front of the wagon we found the woman actively engaged in preparations for supper. Our acquaintance informed her of our situation in a few crisp sentences and without waiting for a formal introduction she took up the task of enlightening us in the art of scientific camping. She directed our attention to the dashboard which pivoted in the centre on a horizontal axis to form a support or worktable that could be used for dining purposes if necessary. A hood, which telescoped under the front edge of the wagon cover, could be pushed forward on such occasions, and by rolling down the curtains, perfect protection could be secured from wind and rain. As we gazed, the young man brought a pail of fresh water and set it in a metal ring which was clamped to a front upright. The back of the seat was made in two parts, and to the back of the left-hand one—formed of sheet metal—a gasoline stove with oven attachment was fastened. The upright back revolved in such a way that the stove faced the rear when the seat was occupied, but could be turned to the front for cooking purposes. The housewife—camp-wife would be the better term in this case—could sit in comfort in the right-hand seat and secure everything required from the racks or from the boxes on the bed of the wagon. With competent hands she opened the oven door and withdrew a pan of cookies which flooded the air with a rich, spicy odour. These she replaced with a pan of biscuits, then produced a large skillet of broiling chicken from beneath the spreading burner which heated the oven. A few deft touches and the savoury pieces went back for further browning.

“I generally make most of my preparations while travelling,” she informed me. “The mules are so gentle that they amble along without much driving and everything is so convenient that I can cook without stepping from the rig. Even the water is handy.” She pointed to a heavy canvas bag, beaded with moisture, which hung on the outside wall.

The side walls within were fitted with ingenious racks like a kitchen cabinet, and a little to the rear and close against the roof I discerned the wire springs of a suspended bed.

“Yes,” our host explained, in answer to my question. “The top framework is of metal, made extra strong with a block and tackle arrangement for hoisting the bed as soon as it is made each morning. The mattress and springs were made to order and are very light. By disposing of it in this fashion we gain free access to our stores which, as you see, fill the bottom of the wagon. The horse feed is in the rear, our clothing lies in the centre, and the food supplies occupy the front. We have lived entirely out of doors, summer and winter, for two years now, and have suffered practically no inconvenience from bad weather.”

“I wouldn’t move into a house again for anything,” his wife exclaimed. “You have no idea what a pleasant life this is. Housework is reduced to almost nothing, we get a chance to see the country and are as free as air.”

“Don’t you find it rather crowded at times?” I asked.

“Oh, no. Every few days we make a regular camp where we stay for a day or two. Then I get out the portable oven, make a wood fire, bake bread and cake, cook meat and vegetables, wash the clothes, and plan for the next jump.”

Our host went to the rear, lifted off the flat top of a fibre trunk, unfolded a set of legs and set it up as a table. Then he lifted out the seat from the second wagon, unloaded three folding camp chairs and proceeded to set the table with white enamel dishes.

Meanwhile, the young man, Peter Bates, had come in from caring for the livestock, and was introduced. We all sat down to broiled chicken, boiled potatoes warmed in gravy, hot biscuits and honey, stewed fruit, cookies and tea. The food was delicious.

“What do you think of the cooking?” enquired our host, serving us a second helping of chicken. “Not many places where you can get meals like this. We live on the fat of the land the whole year round, don’t we, honey-drips?”

“You’re quite right. That’s just what we do. And nothing to worry us, either,” responded his wife.

Mine host produced a bottle of port, while Bates brought out cigars. They greeted our pleasant refusal to indulge with uplifted brows, and when Dan passed by the perfectos as well Mr. Adams remarked: “And not even a cigarette? You are a Puritan, if I may be pardoned for saying so. Well, maybe we can do business in spite of handicaps.” He paused to light a cigar, then lounged back in the wagon seat.

“I’m a sort of sublimated pedler. I travel from town to town selling a couple of styles of window signs, which our young friend Pete here, puts up for me. Then, to insure continuous action, I take orders for a special lamp and for handy tools—combinations, you know—in the country districts. Thus I am never out of a job. The lamp orders are filled by a mail order house in Chicago, as are the ones for tools, so that I carry nothing but a sample. The signs consist of letters which are pasted on the inner side of the window glass.... You’ve seen them many times.

“Peter wants to quit us and push on to Cheyenne, and while I am perfectly competent to put up the orders, I dislike to do so. Why work, when I can profit from the labour of others? And that is where you come in. I’ll get the orders and pay you so much for each sign that you put up. In fact, I’ll even do better. If you are able to pick up an order here and there, I’ll sell you the supplies for ten per cent above cost to me. The work is easy. Any mechanical man with a true eye can manage with a little instruction and a day or two of experience.”

“Oh, yes,” young Bates broke in, “I’ve always been a clerk, but I had no difficulty in getting the hang of this thing. I wanted to go to Cheyenne, and this gave me a fine chance to see the country and make a little dough on the side.”

“A man with your experience and training should have no trouble at all in making two or three dollars a day,” the boss continued. “And it should be mostly velvet. Honey-drips has a little side line of her own. She carries a few toilet accessories to sell to the ladies. In the country districts the housewives are only too glad to have an opportunity to get such things in exchange for butter, eggs, poultry, vegetables, or even bread and canned fruit. We can always use the stuff some way and it cuts the living expenses to almost nothing. I get horse feed in exchange for tools and lamps, and often I can let the animals graze for a day at a time. Now your wife can get a supply of these female fixings for ten per cent above cost and make most of your living. After you have played the game for a month or two and find you like it, I’ll fix up that second wagon like this one here. We use it now for trips off the main line where we don’t want to take the heavy outfit.

“That’s the gist of the plan. Now, how does the scheme strike you?”

“I’d be glad enough to get a couple of dollars a day over our living,” replied Dan. “What do you think about it, Ethel?”

“I believe it would be an excellent thing for the present, at least. Of course, I won’t be satisfied till we get back to California, but we should be able to save money enough to make the trip comfortably in a few months if we manage carefully.”

“Well, so far as getting to California is concerned,” observed Mr. Adams, “we expect to arrive there about the middle of next December. We will work the territory between here and Cheyenne, then swing down across Colorado, pass through Arizona in November, and work California in the winter months. Then if you have not come to love this life, as I think you will, you can leave us and return to the old grubby existence.”

“Now, that will be splendid,” I cried enthusiastically. “We’ll not only reach home, but we’ll see the country and save some money for a fresh start—we’ll need all we can save before we get on our feet again, I’m afraid.”

“Very well, then, good people. We’ll consider the matter settled. You can camp here to-night and begin to learn the ropes the first thing in the morning.”

The conversation turned on the day’s work and I gathered a fair idea of the usual activities. Mr. Adams would take the light team and with Mr. Bates push ahead, leaving Mrs. Adams to pursue a leisurely course with the mules. The men struck the first little store they came to, or if the country was very sparsely settled, they stopped at a farm. If they secured a sign order from the store-keeper, Bates remained to place it, depending on Mrs. Adams to pick him up as she passed. Meanwhile, Mr. Adams drove on to solicit more orders, search out a suitable camping place, and otherwise prepare for the coming of his party. This particular morning Adams had left the light team with Bates, who was busy with a sign, and had caught a ride in a passing buggy to the little town where I had met him. Each day’s programme was the spontaneous result of immediate needs.

As we rose to say good-night, Mrs. Adams produced milk, eggs and whiskey, and they prepared a customary night cap. I was startled by the enormous draught of liquor poured out by our employer, who, noting my surprise, remarked apologetically, “I’ve been a frightful sufferer from insomnia for a number of years. That was one of the reasons which led me to adopt this mode of living, but even the open air has failed to relieve me. I’ve tried vigorous exercise, long walks, hot food and drink on retiring, medicines—everything—and I’ve found my only relief in these stiff jolts of whiskey. At times I am compelled to get up in the night and find the bottle. But I never become intoxicated.”

“I should think that sort of thing would ruin your digestion.”

“Well, I take certain precautions. I always take my evening dram in the form of an eggnog, and if I need a drink in the night, I take a large cup of milk first, which seems to prevent any untoward effects.”

We made camp at the far side of the grove and were up bright and early, ready for the day’s work with the “California outfit,” as we dubbed the new caravan. The three men set out with the buckboard, while Mrs. Adams and I broke camp. After everything was packed and the mules hitched to the wagon, my companion got out a few handfuls of chicken feed and soon had the hens nicely settled for the day’s journey. Once the mules were in the main road and headed in the right direction, she slipped the lines into a patent clutch and began to unpack her wares.

I was glad to find the goods of excellent quality and reasonable in price. She gave me a few talking points for each article, told me how much cash I should demand or about how much I could expect in trade. Trading, she observed, was an art in itself and worthy of much study. Stock was replenished by frequent orders to Chicago, the goods being consigned to the larger towns along the route. Thus she would find a fresh supply awaiting her at Sydney, Nebraska, and would there place an order to be shipped to Cheyenne, Wyoming.

I had familiarised myself with the most important details when we approached a good-sized farmhouse.

“Come in and watch me work this time, and at the next place you can try it yourself,” she remarked, swinging the mules into the driveway.

A weary-looking woman opened the door at our knock and brightened with interest when she learned of our errand. She led the way to the closely shut parlour, and flung open the old-fashioned blinds as Mrs. Adams prepared her goods for inspection. After long consideration she laid down the case with a sigh.

“I’d just love to buy some of these things, but I haven’t a cent in the house. My husband is working way over in the back lot and anyhow I’d hate to bother him.”

“Now, maybe you’d like to trade for what you want. I would be glad to get some good, smooth potatoes or nice fresh vegetables if you have any to spare.”

“Oh, could I do that?” Her voice was eager as a child’s. “Come right into the kitchen and see what you would like.”

Inside of half an hour we were back in the wagon with a fine assortment of vegetables. In fact, it seemed to me that we had much the best of the bargain. In answer to some such observation, Mrs. Adams chuckled.

“When I saw how that woman had been trained, I led her right along. She has no idea of the value of money or of produce either. How can she, when her husband never allows her a cent of spending money? The kind of women who must always beg for every calico dress and pair of shoes, go wild when they have a chance to trade for themselves. You should do as much business as possible with them—take anything they have—get flour or sugar if there is nothing else on hand. String ’em along and you can get a wagon load of groceries for a dollar’s worth of goods.”

Privately registering a determination to do nothing of the kind, I observed, “I should think their husbands would find out about that sort of thing and make trouble.”

“Don’t worry, we’d be well out of the way before they could find out anything about the business.”

“I wasn’t thinking about you and me, but about the farmer’s wife. Seems to me she has troubles enough without our adding to her burdens.”

“Now, you got to learn the first principles of this business, and the main thing is to look out for number one. Skin the other woman every chance you get. Lots of times they’ll stick you and by minding your own business, you’ll come out about even in the end. And you needn’t think there is anything new in a wife’s selling the groceries out of the house to get a few nickels to spend for herself. Why, when I lived in——” She stopped abruptly, then resumed. “Most grocerymen have cases of women who make a habit of padding the bills to get a few dollars returned on the sly. It’s all in the game, and you’ve got to play your end of it.”

“Well, I can’t say I like that kind of a game,” I declared decidedly. “I hope the day will come soon when men and women will develop a new psychology along those lines. The first thing that should be settled after a couple become engaged is the money question. They should have a definite understanding as to how the money is to be spent after marriage, and the girl should see to it that she never drifts into a position where she must plead with some man for what rightfully belongs to her.”

“That sounds very pretty, my dear, but most girls are glad enough to catch a man without taking chances by arguing over money matters—they’re too scared of being old maids.”

“That’s mostly the fault of their training or, I should say, lack of training. So long as they are led to consider marriage the whole end and aim of life, I suppose they’ll go on getting into situations where they are compelled to cheat and steal and lie to secure a few paltry nickels. If I had a daughter, I should see that she was fully equipped to become a self-supporting, self-respecting member of society, a woman who would not look upon marriage as the only possible solution of life’s problems.”

Mrs. Adams rolled her eyes in horror. “Good gracious, woman, you talk like one of these here suffragettes. If I had a girl that talked like that I’d disown her. Why, you want to break up the home!”

“If financial independence for women means breaking up the home, then let it be broken. Poverty and the economic dependence of woman on man is the curse of the whole sex relation. It extends from the society matron who caresses and fawns upon a husband whom she loathes in order to wheedle him into the gift of a diamond necklace, a new mansion or other extravagance, through all the middle class women who lie and cheat and steal the household goods to get spending money, on down to the daughters of the poor who are forced to sell their bodies in order to exist. We frown upon European marriages, but expect our own girls to make good matches, marry for a home, do anything to catch a man. Faugh, the thought makes me ill. If we support the American idea of matrimony, then we must admit that the only proper basis for marriage is love. If we are to have free men, we must have free women who refuse to sell themselves for a home, social position, or material gain in any form whatsoever. We must adopt a single standard of morals, and abolish prostitution, both within and without the marriage relation.”

“Why—why, you—I’m surprised at you,” stuttered my companion. “I never heard a woman speak such words before. Such talk is indecent, that’s what it is, indecent.”

“The truth is often considered indecent, I believe, especially the naked truth. Like the human body, it needs to be concealed by a peek-a-boo waist of prudery and licentiousness.”

“Stop, stop, not another word.... Such language is positively shocking... not fit for a decent woman to listen to.”

At this point in this most shocking conversation, the mules headed for a wretched two-room shack that stood a little away from the road. To me the place appeared too poverty-stricken for hope of business, but our driver let the mules have their way.

A frowsy woman was carrying two heavy pails of water from a well near which stood a cesspool, a ramshackle shed for stock and a great heap of refuse. The dooryard swarmed with dogs, hogs and children. A sallow girl, gathering corncobs for the fire, loosed her loaded petticoat and dashed forward to greet us. Mrs. Adams seized her sample case and leaving the mules to their own devices, scrambled from the wagon. I followed meekly.

The farmer’s wife set down her dripping burden, wiped her hands on her tattered apron and proffered us a brimming dipper. Thirsty as I was, I felt impelled to decline—the well’s environment did not appeal to my taste. No sooner were we within the house, than Mrs. Adams opened negotiations for a side of bacon.

“We’ve got some extry bacon, but I dunno about sparin’ none. My old man’s aiming to take some into town to trade in a day or two and I dunno what he’d say if I let go of a side.”

“Oh, Maw,” broke in the oldest girl, who had been examining our display with longing eyes, “never mind what Paw says. If he trades the side meat, he’ll just get drunk on the money. He always does.”

“You shut your mouth and don’t go talking about your Paw.” The mother gave the girl a sharp slap on the ear as she spoke.

The child’s face crimsoned. “I don’t care. It ain’t right. We don’t ever do anything but work, work, work, and Paw, he never works. Then everything goes for hateful old booze. It ain’t right.”

“Now, now, Mandy, you orta treat your Paw with respect. I can’t see what’s getting into the young ones these days, especially the girls. Mandy here, bellered her head off cause we let Jeffie, that’s our oldest, stop last winter with my brother Jed to go to school. She thought she orta gone too.”

“Jeff’s had two years more in school now than I’ve had, and still I’m ahead of him.”

“That’s all the more reason why you orta stay home and work. Jeffie’s a boy and needs schoolin’, while you’re a——”

“You’re quite right,” Mrs. Adams interrupted; “a girl don’t need much book learning. She wants to learn to cook and sew and take good care of her house so she can make some man a good wife.”

“Yes, so she can plough and harrow and husk corn and carry swill to the hogs while her man goes to town and gets drunk. I hate men. I hate men.” The girl’s eyes blazed.

“Get out that door, you ungrateful hussy, or I’ll give you a good lambasting.” The child burst into tears as her mother pursued her from the untidy living room. “I can’t see what’s got into the child. She’s always been such a comfort to me—worked since she was knee high to a duck. Seems like she’s dead set on going to school, but I can’t spare her. Why this spring, she and I put in eighty acres of corn with our own hands, besides milking seven cows and all the other work. I’ve only got the one boy; he’s the oldest in the family. I aim he should have an education, but Jeffie hates school. Mandy can learn as much in eight weeks scattered through the winter term as he can in a year, but the spite of it is she’s only a girl and don’t need schoolin’.”

“You’re very wise to keep her with you. A woman’s place is in the home. Now, don’t you think it would be a good idea to trade me that bacon? It’ll make the girl contented to get these things she wants and she’ll forget all about that fool notion of going to school. She needs stuff like this to attract the boys. You make the trade and then figure out some way of pulling the wool over the old man’s eyes.”

“Well, maybe I can manage some way. I orta get something for the poor child, I suppose. Paw’ll raise Cain, but he does that anyhow. Now, what’ll you let me have for a good fat side of bacon?”

Leaving the two women to conclude the bargain, I stepped outside and sought Mandy. The poor girl seemed only too glad to find a sympathetic soul to confide in.

She was sixteen years old, she said, and although her opportunities for study had been so limited, she had managed to keep up with her classes by studying every spare moment. For the past two years her teacher had taken a special interest in her and had advised and helped her in every possible way. She had a great ambition. It was to become a school teacher and thus be able to help her mother and younger sisters.

“Toots is past fourteen and strong for her age,” she concluded, “and May is twelve. They could help Maw out if I was gone. If I could only have Jeff’s chance—just have some place to live while I went to school. But Maw won’t hear of it. I just don’t know what to do. It’s not for me alone, it’s all the little ones. Paw gets worse all the time, and Jeff’s got no ambition. I got to succeed to save the family.” She squared her wiry little shoulders as though to support the world.

“Sometimes people are willing to take a good, strong girl and let her earn her board and keep while she goes to school by working mornings and nights and holidays. It’s a pretty hard way to live. A girl must be a servant and never gets any fun. Would you want to do that?”

Mandy stretched out her browned and calloused hands. “Do you see those paws? I’ve milked cows and curried mules and ploughed and suckered corn, to say nothing of washing dishes and packing wood and water and such like, all without any hope at all. Give me a chance to earn an education and I’ll work these fingers to the bone and be glad to do it.”

“Well, I can’t promise you anything definite, but I meet lots of people and I’ll see what I can do. If I do find a place, how’ll I let you know?”

“I’ll give you the address of Mrs. Cummings. That’s where my teacher boarded. You can send a letter there for me and she’ll see that I get it safely. Oh, if you’ll only get me a chance!”

“Are you sure you have the courage to leave your home in the face of the opposition of your father and mother and go away alone to work in some stranger’s kitchen? You’re under age, too, you know, and if your parents can find you, they can force you to return. You’ll have to cut yourself off from them for two whole years.”

“Yes, I can do it. I swear to you, I will do it—cross my heart and hope to die. I wouldn’t leave my mother, if I didn’t feel sure it’s for her own good. I can do so much for her when I get to be a teacher. You’ll try to get me a chance, won’t you?”

I promised to do my best.

As Mrs. Adams came out of the door with her side of bacon, Mandy dashed inside, and returned in a few moments with a piece of paper which she slipped into my hand.

“Here’s the address,” she whispered. “You won’t forget, will you? Please, please, don’t forget.”

With a few reassuring words I bade her good-bye and took my place in the wagon.

“That good-for-nothing hussy of a girl will come to a bad end, you mark my words,” Mrs. Adams said spitefully, as I turned to wave my hand to the plucky little figure standing in the dust of the roadside, “but I suppose you think she’s real cute, running down her poor old father.”

We jogged along in silence for some time, then, as we approached a prosperous-looking farm, my employer suggested that I try my hand at the game. With sinking heart I dragged my reluctant feet up the path, but was surprised and reassured by the warmth of my reception. Unlike the city dweller, the average country woman rather welcomes the call of a peddler. I was fortunate in more ways than one, for my customer had money and made a large selection, so that I was enabled to pay for my goods and retain sixty-five cents to jingle in my pocket.

For the rest of the day, we took turns at the farmhouses and by night I had quite a supply of food, which represented clear profit, as I had paid for the toilet articles in produce. Dan and I had determined to attend to our own culinary operations instead of boarding with Mrs. Adams, as had been suggested. We felt that we could save more money, and while our table was not elaborate, it satisfied our needs very nicely.

About five o’clock we overtook the men, and following their direction, soon arrived at the camping place.

The evening meal concluded, Dan and I were sitting beside our little fire, comparing the day’s experiences, when Mr. Adams strolled over and threw himself down beside us. After some desultory conversation, he plunged into a philosophical discussion.

“Have you ever made a study of Nietzsche?” he demanded.

“I’ve tried to read him, but with little success,” I replied. “His philosophy is so revolting to me, that I can scarcely pass an unbiassed judgment on him.”

“You surprise me. I consider Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche the greatest genius and the most profound philosopher that the world has yet produced. His work is so free from sentimental mush, his attitude is so clearly scientific, he shows none of the weakness that comes from....”

“Oh, Frankie, love, come quick. I need you.” It was the voice of our friend’s fair partner. He rose slowly to his feet and bade us good-night.

“I have a hunch that Honey-drips does not care for philosophy,” observed Dan, as we rose to turn in for the night.

The next few days were uneventful. Mr. Bates took a train for Cheyenne, leaving Dan to handle the sign orders alone. We had accumulated an abundant supply of farm produce of all kinds, in fact, we were overstocked in some lines, so that Mr. Adams suggested a change of programme. Instead of riding behind the mule team, I now go with the men in the buckboard, and while Mr. Adams solicits sign orders, and Dan puts them up, I canvass the towns where my goods sell for cash.

The drives seem but half as long as before, thanks to the superior speed of the horses and the pleasant banter of Mr. Adams, who is a most interesting conversationalist.

The man is a wonderful study. He often starts to speak of some personal experience and breaks off in the middle of the first sentence. He never has given me the least hint of his earlier life, but I feel sure that he is a college man. There must be some mystery in his life. I spoke of my beliefs to Dan.

He replied, “The only mystery that I see is that he is falling in love with you, and that’s not much of a mystery either. Honey-drips sees how the wind blows and loves you like a rattlesnake.”

I indignantly denied the allegation, for Mr. Adams’ conduct had been exemplary. But Dan refused to retract his unjust words, so I determined to keep my opinions to myself.