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The speaker finished and sat down wearily, and almost simultaneously the hairy faces left the windows. The shuffling of feet and the murmur of rough voices once more sounded through the room; again the odor of vile tobacco filled the air. Several of the older men gathered around the speaker, in turn holding his hand in a relentless grip while they struggled bravely for words to express the broadest of compliments. Young boys stood wide-eyed under their fathers’ arms and looked at the college man steadily, like young calves.

The reaction was on the slender young speaker, and though the experience was new, he shook hands wearily. In spite of himself a shade of disgust crept into his face. He was not bidding for these farmers’ votes, and the big sweaty men were foully odorous. He worked his way steadily out into the open air.

Landers, in response to a motive he made no attempt to explain even to himself, walked over and touched the chairman on the shoulder.

“‘Evening, Ross,” he greeted perfunctorily. “Pretty good talk, wasn’t it?” Without waiting for a reply he went on, “Suppose you’re not hankering for a drive back to town to-night? I’ll see that”–a swift nod toward the departing group–“he gets back home, if you wish.”

Ross looked up in pleased surprise. He was tired and sleepy and only too glad to accept the suggestion.

“Thank you, Guy,” he answered gratefully. “I’ll do as much for you some time.”

Landers waited silently until the last eulogist had lingeringly departed, leaving the bewildered speaker gazing about for the chairman.

“I’m to take you to town,” said Landers, simply, as he led the way toward his wagon. He then added, as an afterthought: “If you’re tired and prefer, you may stay with me to-night.”

The collegian, looking up to decline, met the countryman’s eye, and for the first time the two studied each other steadily.

“I will stay with you, if you please,” he said in sudden change of mind.

They drove out, slowly, into the frosty night, the sound of the other wagons rattling over frozen roads coming pleasantly to their ears. Overhead countless stars lit up the earth and sky, almost as brightly as moonlight.

“I suppose you are husking corn these days,” initiated the collegian, perfunctorily.

“Yes,” was the short answer.

They rode on again in silence, the other wagons rumbling slowly away into the distance until their sound came only as a low humming from the frozen earth.

“Prices pretty good this season?” questioned the college man, tentatively.

Landers flashed around on him almost fiercely.

“In Heaven’s name, man,” he protested, “give me credit for a thought outside my work–” He paused, and his voice became natural: “–a thought such as other people have,” he finished, sadly.

The two men looked steadily at each other, a multitude of conflicting emotions on the face of the collegian. He could not have been more surprised had a clothing dummy raised its voice and spoken. Landers turned away and looked out over the frosty prairie.

“I beg your pardon,”–wearily. “You’re not to blame for thinking–as everybody else thinks.” His companion started to interrupt but Landers raised his hand in silencing motion. “Let us be honest–with ourselves, at least,” he anticipated.

“I know we of the farm are dull, and crude, and vulgar, and our thoughts are of common things. You of the other world patronize us; you practise on us as you did to-night, thinking we do not know. But some of us do, and it hurts.”

The other man impulsively held out his hand; a swift apology came to his lips, but as he looked into the face before him, he felt it would be better left unsaid. Instead, he voiced the question that came uppermost to his mind.

“Why don’t you leave–this–and go to school?” he asked abruptly. “You have an equal chance with the rest. We’re each what we make ourselves.”

Landers broke in on him quickly.

“We all like to talk of equality, but in reality we know there is none. You say ‘leave’ without the slightest knowledge of what in my case it means.” He gave the collegian a quick look.