ouses, apple blossoms and winding roads, likening himself to Peredur who had gone in sea

f misgiving claimed him at all, it was merely a matter of shoes. They were the kind, built for walking, likely to be i

ind an augury, from the night of birds to the way of the wind, the curl of smoke or the color of a cloud. Thirsty he longed for the drinking horn of Bran Galed or better still of Finn, for Finn's horn held whatever you wanted.

rock became the portal to a fairy dwelling. At sunset he discovered a fairy battle in the clouds and when the moon ros

ered with longing that Oonagh's jovial fairy husband, King Fionvarra, went to his revels on the back of a night-black steed with nostrils afl

unds of the forest, a-crackle with mystery, became the woodland spirits of King Arthur's men, blowing their ghos

e!" cried Kenny drowsily,

ong the way. The drenched green of the meadows brought tragic thoughts of Erin and her fate. Never a maid peeped over an orchard fence. Kenny bol

many a hill an

in heat

wood, and man

d in shade, in

the of heart, a

nions now the

ting brooks' and

music of my

-lived thought th

isapp

he road. Now as the rainy twilight threatened with never an inn in si

l a right to indulge his passion for tramping and footsore penance when already word might have come to the sister with the ink-pool eyes? The runaway was young. His remorse would come the quicker. For every day he, Kenny, lingered

r otherwise, of eager affection? Surely not! He must not be selfish. Foot-sore or foot-f

nto the night, listening in doubt and despair to the drip of the rain on the roof. Nothing ever went quite right. He must read again in Brian's letter about the Tavern of Stars. Beldame Rain seeme

r him, Kenny went to sleep again. When he awoke the sun was laughing iridescently from meadow trails of rain. The fragrance of wet pine came in through the barn window. The lilac in the ga

ws deepened a meadow here and there to coolness. The air was tonic, deliriously wine

mantic fervor. Meantime he must think. Penance

ended fences. He had even dabbled in whitewash. No, by the powers that be! It was a thing for penance after all. Always at the farmhouse the trail would be waiting. What if he arrived there a

with profound discontent. Each tasted monotonously of the other. Instead of two articles of diet he appeared to have something heterogeneously one in flavor. The smell of cheese he hoped wouldn't

ys hated spiders, killed one with a shudder and pensively watched the sunset through the corncrib bars. It made him think of flamingoes in flight. One s

nded c

ller at the floor than it was at the top. It gave one a hopeless feeling of constriction. The feeling colored his dreams. Kenny found himself hazily adrift in an inqui

l gray. At the end of the corncrib a head was peering in. Kenny turned his searchlight on it and had a

. "Are you coming in, my good

you!" shouted the farmer with unexpec

ew instantly that he

said with cold disapproval,

Kenny was a hobo without future hope of heaven. He and the corncrib, it seemed, knew the genus well. Indeed,

riated statistics

of that!"

s at the farmer's head. An instant sputter of cobby profanit

ecause I haven't a fist to explain a gentleman's habits. It's of no earthly interest

empty basket. The farmer was gone. He lay down again in deep disgust, merely reaching a

he sat up

undered, "is t

who peered in through the bars and stated profanely

reat in a harrowing dawn with the marshal and Silas at his heels or a temporary so

full of bugs and ants and spiders and dust and passé corncobs and it's architecturally incorrect, but if

d to stare until his stupefied face became a source of

d lout! I sai

las to a point of safety. They conferred in a murmur. Kenny viciously killed a

arshal. The marshal was conservative. He dallied with the need of coming. Kenny took advantage of a dispute among the enemy to count out the bills in concessional disgust and shove them through the slats. Silas, turning, brushed th

llusion. His head ached. His back ached. There was a spider in his hat. He wanted water. He wanted a brook equipped with a shower-bath and he wanted the luxury of eating what he chose. Never, never would he eat cheese again unless the hand of famine gripped him. Perhaps not then. The sum of

ainment of Silas, who would likely get up again with the roosters and roar into it at "hoboes." Yes, the corncrib would revert to Silas, from whom he had merely rented it for one night at a most appalling price. The improvidence of it shocked

d softly with a defiant air of calm. The corncrib was his. He had a perfect right to burn it. He meant to tell Silas this in a quiet voice, but lost his temper and

h of folk lore, who tumbles around among the hills with a good deal of head and a lax body without much hint of bones. Well, Brian had thrashed s

b:" he wrote grimly.

ntaining their custom

ain obsessed by a mania for disturbing the peace of mind he craved. He might even be hunted by a village posse. And bloodhounds! The adventurous side of this rather pleased him. It simply narrowed down to th

village posse he fancied at his heels. The first romance of his flight from justice was waning rapidly. With a groan he plunged on, horribly full of aches and hunger. Always now he would understand the Gaelic legend of Far Goila, the gaunt Man of Hunger who goes touring up and down the land in

r desperation h

haggling, recklessly offered what he thought the mule was worth. It looked incredibly sturdy. His voice evoked a ragged h

a sparrow, realizing then with a shock that the negro had already untied the mule from the picket fence. The precipitancy of it all made h

" explained the darky fluently. "I's glad to see him

erely that he c

the negro as he climbed aboard, "and

re enough for any man. He remembered in the first moment of his uplift that Cuchullin, foremost

oving and lost himself in no time, pursuing elusive glints of greenness. He seemed always seeking food. It came over his rider with a sickening wave of apprehension and disgust that the unscrupulous negro, taking advantage of his plight, had

foreboding. But he dreaded the open highway and pictured himself John Gilpining through town and village, a thing of ridicule and

tantly from his back and grabbed his knapsack. He left Leath Macha in an attitude of hairtrigger contemplation, apparently about to begin something at once. When Kenny looked bac

ny of a cave-dweller. Then he found a railroad and rode. Not until he reached the town postmarked upon Brian's letter did he trouble himself with anything but the primitive needs of primitive man. Here, however, he permitted himself the luxury of a brief but wholly satisfactory interval of summary. The fortunes of the road had forced him into the prodigal acq

four days upon the road to last an ancient martyr a life