The fugitive paused, undecided. Which way should
he turn? The better travelled highway seemed less mys-
terious and awesome, yet would his pursuers not natur-
ally assume that he had followed it? Then, of course,
the right hand road was the road for him. Yet still he
hesitated, for the right hand road was black and forbid-
ding; suggesting the entrance to a pit of unknown hor-
rors.
As he stood there with the rain and the wind, the
thunder and the lightning, horror of the past and terror
of the future his only companions there broke suddenly
through the storm the voice of a man just ahead and
evidently approaching along the highway.
The youth turned to flee; but the thought of the men
tracking him from that direction brought him to a sud-
den halt. There was only the road to the right, then,
after all. Cautiously he moved toward it, and at the
same time the words of the voice came clearly through
the night:
"'. . . as, swinging heel and toe,
'We tramped the road to Anywhere, the magic road
to Anywhere,
'The tragic road to Anywhere, such dear, dim years
ago.'"
The voice seemed reassuring--its quality and the an-
nunciation of the words bespoke for its owner consider-
able claim to refinement.
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