Oh, the will to do was strong in his heart, but about it was a clammy, oppressive something. He wondered at it--then traced it back directly to the place in his throat that cried out for quenching. As he approached a familiar haunt that urge became more insistent and the palms of his hands commenced to sweat. He crossed the street and made on down the other side. He had wasted his ability to do, had let this desire sap his will. He needed every jot of strength now. He would begin at the bottom and call back that frittered vitality. He shut his teeth together and doggedly stuck his head forward just a trifle. The boy had no plan; there had not been time to become so specific. His whole philosophy had been stood on its head with bewildering suddenness. He knew, though, that the first thing to do was to cut his environment, to get away, off anywhere, to a place where he could build anew. The idea of getting away associated itself with one thing in his mind: means of transportation. So, when his eyes without conscious motive stared at the poster advertising a railroad system that crosses the continent, Danny Lenox stopped and let the crowd surge past him. A man behind the counter approached the tall, broad-shouldered chap who fumbled in his pockets and dumped out their contents. He looked with a whimsical smile at the stuff produced: handkerchiefs, pocket-knife, gold pencil, tobacco pouch, watch, cigarette case, a couple of hat checks, opened letters, and all through it money--money in bills and in coins. The operation completed, Danny commenced picking out the money. He tossed the crumpled bills together in a pile and stacked the coins. That done, he swept up the rest of his property, crammed it into his coat pockets, and commenced smoothing the bills. The other man, meanwhile, stood and smiled. "Cleaning up a bit?" he asked. Danny raised his eyes. "That's the idea," he said soberly. "To clean up--a bit." The seriousness of his own voice actually startled him. "How far will that take me over your line?" he asked, indicating the money. The man stared hard; then smiled. "You mean you want that much worth of ticket?" "Yes, ticket and berth--upper berth. Less this." He took out a ten-dollar bill. "I'll eat on the way," he explained gravely. The other counted the bills, turning them over with the eraser end of his pencil, then counted the silver and made a note of the total. "Which way--by St. Louis or Chicago?" he asked. "We can send you through either place." Danny lifted a dollar from the stack on the counter and flipped it in the air. Catching it, he looked at the side which came up and said: "St. Louis." Again the clerk calculated, referring to time-tables and a map. "Denver," he muttered, as though to himself. Then to Danny: "Out of Denver I can give you the Union Pacific, Denver and Rio Grande, or Santa Fé." "The middle course." "All right--D. and R.G."