road to road, holding up long strings of motors at every corner
while he jovially held out his arm as a sign that he was going to
turn, dark purple clouds were massing and piling up. Foreseeing a
storm, he bought some provisions at a roadhouse, and turned into
a field, where he camped in the lee of a forest of birches. He
cooked himself an excellent supper, toasting bread and
frankfurters in the firebox of the roller. With boiling water
from a steam-cock he brewed a panikin of tea; and sat placidly
admiring the fawn-pink light on wide pampas of bronze grasses,
tawny as a panther's hide. A strong wind began to draw from the
southeast. He lit the lantern at the rear of the machine and by
the time the rain came hissing upon the hot boiler, he was ready.
Luckily he had saved the tarpaulin. He spread this on the ground
underneath the roller, and curled up in it. The glow from the
firebox kept him warm and dry.

"Summer is over," he said to himself, as he heard the clash and
spouting of rain all about him. He lay for some time, not sleepy,
thinking theology, and enjoying the close tumult of wind and
weather.

People who have had an arm or a leg amputated, he reflected, say
they can still feel pains in the absent member. Well, there's an
analogy in that. Modern skepticism has amputated God from the
heart; but there is still a twinge where the arteries were sewn
up.

He slept peacefully until about two in the morning, except when a
red-hot coal, slipping through the grate-bars, burned a
lamentable hole in his trousers. When he woke, the night still