ter with him. His forehead was bruised and bleeding slightly but aside from that he showed no evidence of being injured. Hung Long Tom rolled him into a more comfortable position. The soil by the barn was new-plowed and the warm smell of the loam was comforting. At last Scobee was sleeping on the breast of the earth even as his father had often slept when cares and worries beset him. And from the soil he drew strength, at least something of the peace of growing wheat seemed to seep into his tired body, for soon his breathing became even, as though his rest were deep. Once he opened his eyes, again he held out his hand as though to grasp for something that was beyond his reach. Occasionally he mumbled a bit in an unintelligible jargon
such as one frequently employs in slumber.
