“Well, here I am,” he said.  “Across Main Street bridge—­and it must be getting on toward noon!” He spoke almost with the aspect of daring, and immediately stood still, listening. “`Remember,"’ he ventured to repeat, again daring, “`Remember!  Across main street bridge at noon!’ " And again he listened.  Then he chuckled faintly with relief, for the voice did not return.  “Thank God, I’ve got rid of that!” he whispered.  “And of the circus band too!”

A dust road turned to the right, following the river and shaded by big sycamores on the bank; the mongrel, intensely preoccupied with this road, scampered away, his nose to the ground.  “Good enough,” said the master.  “Lead on and I’ll come after you.”

But he had not far to follow.  The chase led him to a half-hollow log which lay on a low, grass-grown levee above the stream, where the dog’s interest in the pursuit became vivid; temporarily, however, for after a few minutes of agitated investigation, he was seized with indifference to the whole world; panted briefly; slept.  Joe sat upon the log, which was in the shade, and smoked.

“`Remember!’ " He tried it once more. “`Across main street bridge at noon!’ " Safety still; the voice came not.  But the sound of his own repetition of the words brought him an eerie tremor; for the mist of a memory came with it; nothing tangible, nothing definite, but something very far away and shadowy, yet just poignant enough to give him a queer feeling that he was really keeping an appointment here.  Was it with some water-sprite that would rise from the river?  Was it with a dryad of the sycamores?  He knew too well that he might expect strange fancies to get hold of him this morning, and, as this one grew uncannily stronger, he moved his head briskly as if to shake it off.  The result surprised him; the fancy remained, but his headache and dizziness had left him.

A breeze wandered up the river and touched the leaves and grass to life.  Sparrows hopped and chirped in the branches, absurdly surprised; without doubt having concluded in the Sunday stillness that the world would drowse forever; and the mongrel lifted his head, blinked at them, hopelessly wishing they would alight near him, scratched his ear with the manner of one who has neglected such matters overlong; reversed his position; slept again.  The young corn, deep green in the bottomland, moved with a staccato flurry, and the dust ghost of a mad whirling dervish sped up the main road to vanish at the bridge in a climax of lunacy.  The stirring air brought a smell of blossoms; the distance took on faint lavender hazes which blended the outlines of the fields, lying like square coverlets upon the long slope of rising ground beyond the bottom-land, and empurpled the blue woodland shadows of the groves.