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"Run for your lives, it's Pan!" the girl called in terror. "I saw his face grinning at me among the leaves."
"But of course, my friend," Jules de Grandin conceded as he hitched his pack higher on his shoulders and leaned forward against the grade of the wooded hill, "I grant you American roads are better than those of France; but look to what inconvenience these same good roads put us. Everything in America is arranged for the convenience of the motorist—the man who covers great distances swiftly. Your roads are the direct result of motorized transportation for the million, and, consequently, you and I must tramp half the night and very likely sleep under the stars, because there is no inn to offer shelter.
"Now in France, where roads were laid out for stage-coaches hundreds of years before your Monsieur Ford was dreamed of, there is an abundance of resting places for the pedestrian. Here" He spread his hands in an eloquent gesture of deprecation.
"Oh, well," I comforted, "we started out on a hiking trip, you know, and we've had mighty fine weather so far. A night in the open won't do us any harm. That cleared place at the top of the hill looks like a good spot to make camp."
"Eh, yes, I suppose so," he acquiesced as he breasted the crown of the hill and paused for breath. "Parbleu," he gazed about him, "I fear we trespass, Friend Trowbridge! This is no natural glade, it has been cleared for human habita-
