“See here, Joe, you’re a good fellow and you’ve been bully in standing by me. But you’d better cut loose here. You must go back home to your job. It’s not square to drag you along with me; I’m a busted community and I don’t know where I’m going to land. I’m not ready to go home yet--you ought to understand that.” “I’ve signed my papers,” replied Joe. “I’m not playin’ for my release. I’m not much stuck on walkin’, but if that’s the sport, I’m in. If it’s crackin’ safes or burnin’ barns I’ll divide the job. I’m no quitter.” Wayne said nothing, but he laid his hand for a moment on Joe’s arm. They went back to the hotel--not of the best--where they played billiards for an hour and went to bed. Wayne did not know it, but Joe watched until well past midnight to make sure that Wayne did not go down to the bar; then he scrawled and mailed a postal card to Paddock. “All O.K. and sober. Don’t follow; I’m on the job”; a message which Paddock bore promptly to Wingfield who passed it on to Walsh. Poor Paddock! His sad little smile gained in pathos those days! Wingfield at the Allequippa was better let alone; he leaned on Walsh, who had found a new and blacker cigar, and would not speak of Wayne. “We’ll leave the machine here until we want it again,” said Wayne in the morning. “And we can express the suit cases to the next stop. We’ll travel incog, as Jones and Smith. I’ll match for the Smith; it’s a name I’ve always admired.” He flipped a coin and pronounced himself Jones. “Where shall we send the stuff?” asked Joe. The porter was at that moment announcing a train in the hotel office and Wayne caught a name. “Send it to Gettysburg,” he said. They stepped into the street and were at once launched upon their expedition. A shower in the early morning had laid the dust and sweetened the air; the sky was never bluer; the young leaves brightened in the sun; the horizons were wistful with the hope and faith of May. The country silence soon enwrapt them like a balm. Joe began to whistle but gave it up. He looked back upon the haze that hung above the capitol and was homesick for paved ground and the buzz of trolleys. “It’s kind o’ lonesome,” he observed, so plaintively that Wayne laughed. “Oh, you’ll begin to like it after a while. When you get used to travelling this way you won’t buy any more railroad tickets. I’ve read books about people who walked everywhere--all over Europe--because it’s the best way to see the country.” “I guess we’re more likely to write home for money. I wonder if they wouldn’t give us a bite at that house over there.” “Not much they won’t! You’ve got to be very regular at meals when you go to tramping and, besides, it isn’t ten o’clock yet.” “It would be nice if apples were ripe. We tackled it at the wrong season for fruit. I think I could eat raw lettuce out of that garden.”