Success. Samuel Hopkins Adams

kind of a windfall?” she asked.

      “A real one. Pullman travelers sometimes prop their windows open with books. You can see the window-mark on the cover of this one. I found it two miles out, beside the right-of-way. There was no name in it, so I kept it. It’s the book I read most except one.”

      “What’s the one?”

      He laughed, holding up the still more corpulent Sears-Roebuck catalogue.

      “Ah,” said she gravely. “That accounts, I suppose, for the top shelf.”

      “Yes, mostly.”

      “Do you like them? The Conscientious Improvers, I mean?”

      “I think they’re bunk.”

      “Then why did you get them?”

      “Oh, I suppose I was looking for something,” he returned; and though his tone was careless, she noticed for the first time a tinge of self-consciousness.

      “Did you find it there?”

      “No. It isn’t there.”

      “Here?” She laid both hands on the “windfall.”

      His face lighted subtly.

      “It is there, isn’t it! If one has the sense to get it out.”

      “I wonder,” mused the girl. And again, “I wonder.” She rose, and taking out “March Hares” held it up. “I could hardly believe this when I saw it. Did it also drop out of a car window?”

      “No. I never heard of that until I wrote for it. I wrote to a Boston bookstore that I’d heard about and told ’em I wanted two books to cheer up a fool with the blues, and another to take him into a strange world—and keep the change out of five dollars. They sent me ‘The Bab Ballads’ and this, and ‘Lavengro.’ ”

      “Oh, how I’d like to see that letter! If the bookstore has an ounce of real bookitude about it, they’ve got it preserved in lavender! And what do you think of ‘March Hares’?”

      “Did you ever read any of the works of Harvey Wheelwright?” he questioned in turn.

      “Now,” thought Io, “he is going to compare Frederic to Wheelwright, and I shall abandon him to his fate forever. So here’s his chance … I have,” she replied aloud.

      “It’s funny,” ruminated Banneker. “Mr. Wheelwright writes about the kind of things that might happen any day, and probably do happen, and yet you don’t believe a word of it. ‘March Hares’—well, it just couldn’t happen; but what do you care while you’re in it! It seems realer than any of the dull things outside it. That’s the literary part of it, I suppose, isn’t it?”

      “That’s the magic of it,” returned Io, with a little, half-suppressed crow of delight. “Are you magic, too, Mr. Banneker?”

      “Me? I’m hungry,” said he.

      “Forgive the cook!” she cried. “But just one thing more. Will you lend me the poetry book?”

      “It’s all marked up,” he objected, flushing.

      “Are you afraid that I’ll surprise your inmost secrets?” she taunted. “They’d be safe. I can be close-mouthed, even though I’ve been chattering like a sparrow.”

      “Take it, of course,” he said. “I suppose I’ve marked all the wrong things.”

      “So far,” she laughed, “you’re batting one hundred per cent as a literary critic.” She poured coffee into a tin cup and handed it to him. “What do you think of my coffee?”

      He tasted it consideringly; then gave a serious verdict. “Pretty bad.”

      “Really! I suppose it isn’t according to the mail-order book recipe.”

      “It’s muddy and it’s weak.”

      “Are you always so frank in your expression of views?”

      “Well, you asked me.”

      “Would you answer as plainly whatever I asked you?”

      “Certainly. I’d have too much respect for you not to.”

      She opened wide eyes at this. Then provocatively: “What do you think of me, Mr. Banneker?”

      “I can’t answer that.”

      “Why not?” she teased.

      “I don’t know you well enough to give an opinion.”

      “You know me as well as you ever will.”

      “Very likely.”

      “Well, a snap judgment, for what it’s worth. … What are you doing there?”

      “Making more coffee.”

      Io stamped her foot. “You’re the most enraging man I ever met.”

      “It’s quite unintentional,” he replied patiently, but with no hint of compunction. “You may drink yours and I’ll drink mine.”

      “You’re only making it worse!”

      “Very well; then I’ll drink yours if you like.”

      “And say it’s good.”

      “But what’s the use?”

      “And say it’s good,” insisted Io.

      “It’s marvelous,” agreed her unsmiling host.

      Far from being satisfied with words and tone, which were correctness itself, Io was insensately exasperated.

      “You’re treating me like a child,” she charged.

      “How do you want me to treat you?”

      “As a woman,” she flashed, and was suddenly appalled to feel the blood flush incredibly to her cheeks.

      If he noted the phenomenon, he gave no sign, simply assenting with his customary equanimity. During the luncheon she chattered vaguely. She was in two minds about calling off the projected walk. As he set aside his half-emptied cup of coffee—not even tactful enough to finish it out of compliment to her brew—Banneker said:

      “Up beyond the turn yonder the right-of-way crosses an arroyo. I want to take a look at it. We can cut through the woods to get there. Are you good for three miles?”

      “For a hundred!” cried Io.

      The wine of life was potent in her veins.

CHAPTER VIII

       Table of Contents

      Before the walk was over, Io knew Banneker as she had never before, in her surrounded and restricted life, known any man; the character and evolution and essence of him. Yet with all his frankness, the rare, simple, and generous outgiving of a naturally rather silent nature yielding itself to an unrecognized but overmastering influence, he retained the charm of inner mystery. Her sudden understanding of him still did not enable her to place him in any category of life as she knew it to be arranged.

      The revelation had come about through her description of her encounter with the queer and attentive bird of the desert.

      “Oh,” said Banneker. “You’ve been interviewing a cactus owl.”

      “Did he unwind his neck carefully and privately after I had gone?”

      “No,” returned Banneker gravely. “He just jumped in the air and his body spun around until it got back to its original