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“Yeh, I’m probably a yahoo, but by gum I do keep my independence by doing odd jobs, and that’s more ’n these polite cusses like the clerks in the banks do. When I’m rude to some slob, it may be partly because I don’t know better (and God knows I’m not no authority on trick forks and what pants you wear with a Prince Albert), ‡ but mostly it’s because I mean something. I’m about the only man in Johnson County that remembers the joker in the Declaration of Independence about Americans being supposed to have the right to ‘life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.’

“I meet old Ezra Stowbody on the street. He looks at me like he wants me to remember he’s a highmuckamuck and worth two hundred thousand dollars, and he says, ‘Uh, Bjornquist—’

“‘Bjornstam’s my name, Ezra,’ I says. He knows my name, all rightee.

“ ‘Well, whatever your name is,’ he says, ‘I understand you have a gasoline saw. I want you to come around and saw up four cords of maple for me,’ he says.

“‘So you like my looks, eh?’ I says, kind of innocent.

“ ‘What difference does that make? Want you to saw that wood before Saturday,’ he says, real sharp. Common workman going and getting fresh with a fifth of a million dollars all walking around in a hand-me-down fur coat!

“ ‘Here’s the difference it makes,’ I says, just to devil him. ‘How do you know I like your looks?’ Maybe he didn’t look sore! ‘Nope,’ I says, ‘thinking it all over, I don’t like your application for a loan. Take it to another bank, only there ain’t any,’ I says, and I walks off on him.

“Sure. Probably I was surly—and foolish. But I figured there had to be one man in town independent enough to sass the banker!”

He hitched out of his chair, made coffee, gave Carol a cup, and talked on, half defiant and half apologetic, half wistful for friendliness and half amused by her surprise at the discovery that there was a proletarian philosophy.

At the door, she hinted:

“Mr. Bjornstam, if you were I, would you worry when people thought you were affected?”

“Huh? Kick ’em in the face! Say, if I were a sea-gull, and all over silver, think I’d care what a pack of dirty seals thought about my flying?”

It was not the wind at her back, it was the thrust of Bjornstam’s scorn which carried her through town. She faced Juanita Haydock, cocked her head at Maud Dyer’s brief nod, and came home to Bea radiant. She telephoned Vida Sherwin to “run over this evening.” She lustily played Tschaikowsky—the virile chords an echo of the red laughing philosopher of the tar-paper shack.

(When she hinted to Vida, “Isn’t there a man here who amuses himself by being irreverent to the village gods—Bjornstam, some such a name?” the reform-leader said “Bjornstam? Oh yes. Fixes things. He’s awfully impertinent.”)

IV

Kennicott had returned at midnight. At breakfast he said several times that he had missed her every moment.

On her way to market Sam Clark hailed her, “The top o’ the mornin’ to yez! Going to stop and pass the time of day mit Sam’l? Warmer, eh? What’d the doc’s thermometer say it was? Say, you folks better come round and visit with us, one of these evenings. Don’t be so dog-gone proud, staying by yourselves.”

Champ Perry the pioneer, wheat-buyer at the elevator, stopped her in the post-office, held her hand in his withered paws, peered at her with faded eyes, and chuckled, “You are so fresh and blooming, my dear. Mother was saying t’other day that a sight of you was better’ n a dose of medicine.”

In the Bon Ton Store she found Guy Pollock tentatively buying a modest gray scarf. “We haven’t seen you for so long,” she said. “Wouldn’t you like to come in and play cribbage, some evening?” As though he meant it, Pollock begged, “May I, really?”

While she was purchasing two yards of malines the vocal Raymie Wutherspoon tiptoed up to her, his long sallow face bobbing, and he besought, “You’ve just got to come back to my department and see a pair of patent leather slippers I set aside for you.”

In a manner of more than sacerdotal reverence he unlaced her boots, tucked her skirt about her ankles, slid