THE WINDY HILL
CHAPTER I
THE BEEMAN
THE road was a sunny, dusty one, leading upward through Medford Valley, with half-wooded hills on each side whose far outline quivered in the hot, breathless air of mid-June afternoon. Oliver Peyton seemed to have no regard for heat or dust, however, but trudged along with such a determined stride that people passing turned to look after him, and more than one swift motor car curved aside to give him room.
"Want a ride?" inquired one genial farmer, drawing up beside him. "Where are you going?"
Oliver turned to answer the first question, meaning to reply with a relieved "yes," but his square, sunburned face hardened at the second.
"Oh, I am just going down the road—a little way," he replied stiffly, shook his head at the repeated offer of a lift, and tramped on in the dust.
The next man he met seemed also to feel a curiosity as to his errand, for he stopped a very old, shambling horse to lean from his seat and ask point-
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