The business-center of Schoenstrom took up one side of one block, facing the railroad.  It was a row of one-story shops covered with galvanized iron, or with clapboards painted red and bilious yellow.  The buildings were as ill-assorted, as temporary-looking, as a mining-camp street in the motion-pictures.  The railroad station was a one-room frame box, a mirey cattle-pen on one side and a crimson wheat-elevator on the other.  The elevator, with its cupola on the ridge of a shingled roof, resembled a broad-shouldered man with a small, vicious, pointed head.  The only habitable structures to be seen were the florid red-brick Catholic church and rectory at the end of Main Street.

Carol picked at Kennicott’s sleeve.  “You wouldn’t call this a not-so-bad town, would you?”

“These Dutch burgs are kind of slow.  Still, at that——­See that fellow coming out of the general store there, getting into the big car?  I met him once.  He owns about half the town, besides the store.  Rauskukle, his name is.  He owns a lot of mortgages, and he gambles in farm-lands.  Good nut on him, that fellow.  Why, they say he’s worth three or four hundred thousand dollars!  Got a dandy great big yellow brick house with tiled walks and a garden and everything, other end of town—­can’t see it from here—­I’ve gone past it when I’ve driven through here.  Yes sir!”

“Then, if he has all that, there’s no excuse whatever for this place!  If his three hundred thousand went back into the town, where it belongs, they could burn up these shacks, and build a dream-village, a jewel!  Why do the farmers and the town-people let the Baron keep it?”

“I must say I don’t quite get you sometimes, Carrie.  Let him?  They can’t help themselves!  He’s a dumm old Dutchman, and probably the priest can twist him around his finger, but when it comes to picking good farming land, he’s a regular wiz!”

“I see.  He’s their symbol of beauty.  The town erects him, instead of erecting buildings.”

“Honestly, don’t know what you’re driving at.  You’re kind of played out, after this long trip.  You’ll feel better when you get home and have a good bath, and put on the blue negligee.  That’s some vampire costume, you witch!”

He squeezed her arm, looked at her knowingly.

They moved on from the desert stillness of the Schoenstrom station.  The train creaked, banged, swayed.  The air was nauseatingly thick.  Kennicott turned her face from the window, rested her head on his shoulder.  She was coaxed from her unhappy mood.  But she came out of it unwillingly, and when Kennicott was satisfied that he had corrected all her worries and had opened a magazine of saffron detective stories, she sat upright.