in with a body of travelers who were going West--walking, and riding on
the trains when they had a chance. He joined them. Somehow, he had
ceased to consider what his doings might lead to, and as for misgivings
as to the company he was keeping, that did not trouble him. For many
days there was more walking than riding. Rupert was not expert at
swinging himself under the cars and hanging to the brakebeams, so he
traveled with the more easy-going element, who slept in the haylofts at
night and got what food they could from farmhouses, though Rupert
hoarded his little store of money and usually paid for what he got. Then
he lost all track of time. It must have been far into the summer when
Rupert separated from his companions, and found himself at the base of
the mountains. Here he spent his last cent for a loaf of bread.

That night Rupert felt a fever burning within him, and in the morning he
was too weak to travel. He, therefore, lay in the hay which had served
him for a bed until the sun shone in upon him; then he again tried to
get out, but he trembled so that he crawled back into the loft and there
lay the whole day. Towards evening he was driven out by the owner of the
barn. Rupert staggered along until he came to another hayloft, which he
succeeded in reaching without being seen. All that night he tossed in
fever and suffered from the pains which racked his body. The next day a
farmer found him, and seeing his condition, brought him some food. Then
on he went again. His mind was now in a daze. Sometimes the mountains,
the houses, and the fences became so jumbled together that he could not
distinguish one from the other. Was he losing his mind? Or was it but
the fever? Was the end coming?--and far from home, too--Home?--he had no
home. One place was as good as another to him. He had no distinct
recollection how he got to the usual hayloft, nor how long he lay there.
It was one confused mass of pains and dreams and fantastic shapes. Then
the fever must have burned out, for he awoke one night with a clear