I-XXV

He made his way to where Greenstream village
lay somnolent beneath the refulgent
day. The chairs before the office of the
_Bugle_ were unoccupied, from within came the monotonous,
sliding rattle of the small footpress. Gordon
sat absently revolving the possibilities held out
by the near future. Hay, he knew was still being
made in the valley, but the prospect of long, arduous,
days in the open fields, in the hot, dry chaff of the
sere grass, was forbidding. He might take his gun
and a few personal necessities and disappear into
such wild as yet remained, contracting steadily before
the inexorable, smooth advance of civilization. He
was aware that he could manage a degree of comfort,
adequate food. But the thoughtless resiliency of
sheer youth had deserted him, the desire for mere,
picturesque adventure had fled during the past, comfortable
years. He dismissed contemptuously the
possibility of clerking in a local store. There was
that still in the Makimmon blood which balked at
measuring ribbands, selling calico to captious
women.

[[127]]

p126 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p127w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p128

v?