Chapter XIII

In The Waste Places

Pat well knew that this new experience was
a strange thing. The trip with the hostler,
the unusual hour of day, the appearance of his
mistress's friend, the stranger out of the night,
the hurried departure from the hotel, all told him
that. But whether it was right or wrong, he did
not know. His mistress had quite sanctioned his
leaving the corral, and so all things developing
out of that must have her sanction also -- thus
worked his instincts. So not once had he rebelled.
Nor was he rebelling now. And yet -- and this
was his emotional conflict -- within him was
a vague feeling that he should rebel, should
kick, buck, toss, and pitch, and throw off this
stranger. It grew upon him, this feeling, until,
in a section of town unfamiliar to him, he decided
to give way to it, to take a chance, anyway, of
unseating this man and dashing back into that
part of town familiar to him. But he did not.
Suddenly a soothing voice restrained, the voice
of his rider, which swept away for a time all
thought of rebellion.
"So you're Pat!" the man said, and, though his

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v?