The conductor, abashed, made no reply whatever, but stood looking after him as he slowly strode up the station platform, his gaze this way and that.
The kindly advice of the railroad man proved useful Before mid-afternoon Joslin had once more engaged in day labor in one of the brickyards of this place, a city devoted to manufacturing interests. He was delighted to find that here his wages would be as much as a dollar and a half a day. The foreman showed him a row of little buildings where, among foreigners of all sorts, it might be possible to get quarters and food sufficient to keep soul and body together. Here, then, in a little room half lighted by flaring gas light, within the sound of profanity and continuous card-playing, David Joslin sat down for his first evening alone in the great world of the Outside.
He began his daily practice of copying the letters of the alphabet, using a piece of brown paper which he had found, and the stub of a broken pencil. Having completed a certain amount of this exercise, he turned to the pages of his book, laboriously to read, as best he could, the words of old John Calvin, written long ago, about Eve, and the Garden, and the Serpent and the first great Sin.
He read until he slept even as he sat. But as he slept he dreamed and started moaning. He felt on him all the weight of the original Sin.
IN THE two years that passed after David Joslin left his home, no word was received from him by any of his friends or his kin, even by his old grandma left alone in the hill cabin. Even had he written, few could have read. But no letter came to the little post-office. David Joslin had vanished as though swallowed up by the great Outside. His enemies sneeringly declared him dead or else “run out.” His friends had much to do to keep their faith in him, Afterward a report came up from Windsor that he had been seen there. None might know that David Joslin was biding his time.
It was two years before a vague stirring came into the life of the little settlement near which he had lived. Then, upon a certain day of the late summer time, there came winding down the rugged pathways of the Cumberland coves, along the rocky creek bottoms, and at length along the well-beaten trails of the larger streams, little groups of riders. For the most part they were tall and silent men, their eyes watchful as they rode. All of them were armed. In many cases a woman sat back of her husband on the family mule. It was a gathering of the clans, and it was well known that in case a man were hurt, his own women folks could nurse him better than anyone else. As for that, the women of the mountains were as grim and savage as their lords and masters.