"'There!' says Ben Sutton. 'Now he's done it--broke his neck or
something. That's the way with some men--they'll try anything to get a
laugh.'

"They went and picked the poet up. He was all right, only dazed.

"'But that's one of the roads that ain't open,' says Ben. 'And besides,
you was going right toward the nasty old railroad that runs into the
cramped haunts of men. You must have got turned round. Here'--he pointed
out over the golf links--'it's off that way that Mother Nature awaits
her wayward child. Miles and miles of her--all open. Doesn't your gypsy
soul hear the call? This way for the hills and glens, thou star-eyed
woodling!' and he gently led Wilfred off over the links, the rest of the
men trailing after and making some word racket, believe me. They was all
good conversationalists at the moment. Doc Martingale was wanting the
poet to run into the tennis net again, just for fun, and Jeff Tuttle
says make him climb a tree like the monkeys do in their native glades,
but Ben says just keep him away from the railroad, that's all. Good
Mother Nature will attend to the rest.

"The wives by now was huddled round the side of the clubhouse, too
scared to talk much, just muttering incoherently and wringing their
hands, and Beryl Mae pipes up and says: 'Oh, perhaps I wronged him
after all; perhaps deep down in his heart he was sincere.'

"The moon had come up now and we could see the mob with its victim
starting off toward the Canadian Rockies. Then all at once they began to
run, and I knew Wilfred had made another dash for liberty. Pretty soon
they scattered out and seemed to be beating up the shrubbery down by the