If she could see him in cowboy garb, rough-clad,
sunburnt, muscular, she would respect him then perhaps. There would be
no more flinging at him that he was a cotillion leader! How he hated the
term!
The day was fair and cold, the roads rather better than he had expected,
and by luncheon-time he had reached a large town, seventy miles away
from his own city, where he knew of an exceptionally good place to
obtain a refreshing meal. With this end in view, he was making more than
ordinary village speed when disaster befell him in the shape of a break
in his electric connections. Two blocks away from the hotel he sought,
the car suddenly went dead.
While he was investigating, fingers blue with cold, a voice he knew
hailed him. It came from a young man who advanced from the doorway of a
store, in front of which the car had chanced to stop. "Something wrong,
Rich?"
Richard stood up. He gripped his friend's hand cordially, glancing up at
the sign above the store as he did so.
"Mighty glad to see you, Benson," he responded. "I didn't realize I'd
stopped in front of your father's place of business."
Hugh Benson was a college classmate.
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