With a shrug which indicated that he had nothing else, he had exchanged

his overalls for a tan flannel shirt, black bow tie, thick pigskin

shoes, and the suit he had worn the evening before, his best suit of two

years ago--baggy blue serge coat and trousers. He could not know it, but

they were surprisingly graceful on his wiry, firm, white body.

In his pockets were a roll of bills and an unexpectedly good gold watch.

For warmth he had a winter ulster, an old-fashioned turtle-neck sweater,

and a raincoat heavy as tarpaulin. He plunged into the raincoat, ran

out, galloped to Rauskukle's store, bought the most vehement cap in the

place--a plaid of cerise, orange, emerald green, ultramarine, and five

other guaranteed fashionable colors. He stocked up with food for

roadside camping.

In the humping tin-covered tail of the bug was a good deal of room, and

this he filled with motor extras, a shotgun and shells, a pair of

skates, and all his camping kit as used on his annual duck-hunting trip

to Man Trap Lake.

"I'm a darned fool to take everything I own but---- Might be gone a

whole month," he reflected.

He had only one possession left--a check book, concealed from the

interested eye of his too maternal landlady by sticking it under the

stair carpet. This he retrieved. It showed a balance of two hundred

dollars. There was ten dollars in the cash register in the office, for

Ben Sittka. The garage would, with the mortgage deducted, be worth

nearly two thousand. This was his fortune.

He bolted into the kitchen and all in one shout he informed his

landlady, "Called out of town, li'l trip, b'lieve I don't owe you

an'thing, here's six dollars, two weeks' notice, dunno just when I be

back."

Before she could issue a questionnaire he was out in the bug. He ran

through town. At his friend McGolwey; now loose-lipped and wabbly,

sitting in the rain on a pile of ties behind the railroad station, he

yelled, "So long, Mac. Take care yourself, old hoss. Off on li'l trip."

He stopped in front of the "prof's," tooted till the heads of the

Joneses appeared at the window, waved and shouted, "G'-by, folks. Goin'

outa town."

Then, while freedom and the distant Pacific seemed to rush at him over

the hood, he whirled out of town. It was two minutes to one--forty-seven

minutes since Claire Boltwood had entered Schoenstrom.

He stopped only once. His friend Lady Vere de Vere was at the edge of

town, on a scientific exploring trip in the matter of ethnology and

field mice. She hailed him, "Mrwr? Me mrwr!"

"You don't say so!" Milt answered in surprise. "Well, if I promised to

take you, I'll keep my word." He vaulted out, tucked Vere de Vere into

the seat, protecting her from the rain with the tarpaulin winter

radiator-cover.




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