Page:Weird Tales Volume 6 Number 6 (1925-12).djvu/65

open, a man appeared on the threshold, and a gentle courteous voice said, "Howdy."

I made a mental note that so far rumor was right, as I turned my eyes full on the hermit of Old Baldy. I realized instantly that there were potent possibilities in the man. He was of a most unusual type. You've seen his picture—but he's changed greatly. At that time he was thin, almost to emaciation. He combed his long white hair straight back as he does now. But it was from his face that I got my impression. I knew it for the face of a man with inhibitions and banked desires. A face that wore a mask of quiet dignity, challenging vandal eyes. And out of his own long, green-gray eyes the very spirit of the man seemed to look forth valiantly—almost defiantly.

I guess I'm getting muddled, but I find it hard to describe my exact impression. Above everything else I felt certain he had weathered some fiery ordeal which had burned away grossness, leaving the inner light shining clear. But there was something beyond even that, which I can find no words for. Oh, hang it!—when you get home dig out his picture and look—you'll see what I mean. It declared him for the man he was, warned me of the utter futility of dissembling. He had my number instantly. I knew it, and he knew that I knew it. So, having sensed that frankness was the only policy which would get me anywhere, I adopted it off the bat.

"My friend," I said, taking off my hat and leaning one hand against the door casing, "I hiked all the way up Larch Trail just to see if I couldn't persuade you to tell me your story. My name's Blondin. I'm an author—up against it for a plot. Every man's got a story, and I figured yours might be worth while."

Gad! It must have sounded cocky! I'd just landed in some of the biggest magazines and I was feeling my oats. But he saw past the sheer presumption of youth, and smiled.

Yet, even as he smiled, there was a queer flash in his strange eyes. What was it? Disappointment?—Delight?—Eagerness? For the life of me, I couldn't tell. I concluded it was a blend of all three with eagerness predominating. But it died out so quickly that I couldn't be sure.

Then he spoke, casually, courteously: "Cards on the table, eh? That is probably the first entirely truthful statement any of my visitors has ever made to me. Most of them had stopped to rest—tired—lost their way—one even had the trite idiocy to sprain his ankle. Any old alibi. Perhaps that is why your candor appeals to me. Won't you come in, Mr. Blondin?"

"Thanks, I was hoping you'd ask me," I answered. Sticking to my policy, you see.

But I tell you, the moment my eyes took in the big cabin's interior, I momentarily forgot the hermit and my interest was transferred to his dwelling place. It was a living room we had entered, lighted by two big shaded lamps, one on each hand. Although he had drawn the shades to keep out the half light of evening, the soft glow of the lamps gave the impression of the setting sun shining through the windows. The entire room was ceiled with myrtle wood of exquisite grain. On the wall facing me was a great colored reproduction of Sir Alfred East's Lonely Road. To the right was a myrtle-wood bookcase filled with volumes of poetry. Every man who ever sat on Olympus and communed with Calliope was there; from Homer to Kipling—from Omar to Masefield.

Oddly enough, the only coherent thought that penetrated my dum-