Clifton Brant believed himself to be only one of innumerable flying grains of human dust in a world gone mad. And among these grains he knew himself to be a misfit. For which reason he was walking the wide highway from Brantford Town in Ontario to the ancient city of Quebec on the St. Lawrence an unimportant matter of seven hundred miles or so not counting the distance he would travel in crossing and recrossing the road on the way.