One rib of
the umbrella was broken, but it was still serviceable.
He hastened along the cart path; he did not know
why, only the need for motion, to reach protection
from the storm, was upon him; and yet what pro-
tection could be ahead of him in that woodland
path? Afterward he grew to think of it as a blind
instinct which led him on.
He had not gone far, not more than half a mile,
when he saw something unexpected -- a small un-
tenanted house. He gave vent to a little cry of joy,
which had in it something child-like and pathetic,
and pushed open the door and entered. It was
nothing but a tiny, unfinished shack, with one room
and a small one opening from it. There was no
ceiling; overhead was the tent-like slant of the
roof, but it was tight. The dusty floor was quite
dry. There was one rickety chair. Stebbins, after
looking into the other room to make sure that the
place was empty, sat down, and a wonderful wave
of content and self-respect came over him. The
poor human snail had found his shell; he had a
habitation, a roof of shelter. The little dim place
immediately assumed an aspect of home. The rain
came down in torrents, the thunder crashed, the
place was filled with blinding blue lights. Stebbins
filled his pipe more lavishly this time, tilted his
chair against the wall, smoked, and gazed about
him with pitiful content.
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