"I'm still going anywhere," he remarked.
"But you can't think anything," I rejoined. "You say I'm tied to a wife and home. All right, I'm glad I am. But you're tied, too. You're tied to a creed, Mister Syndicalist—a creed so stiff that you can't think of anything else."
"All right, I'm glad I am," he echoed. "I'm sorry youth lasted as long as it did."
He closed his grip and strapped it. Then he took up his hat and coat and threw a last look about the room where he had lived for a year or more.
"Breaking up home ties," he said with a grin. "Don't come to the boat," he added downstairs. "She don't sail for an hour or two and I'll be asleep in my bunk long before."
"All right. Good-by, J. K.—remember we may meet over there——"
Again that gruffness came into his voice:
"If you do, you'll be taking a mighty big chance," he said. "Good-by, Bill—it's just possible we may never meet again. Glad to have made your acquaintance, Kid. Here's wishing you luck."
He turned and went off down the Farm with that long swinging walk of his, his big heavy shoulders bent rather more than before. And as I stood looking after him I thought of the lonely winding road that he was to travel day and night, into slums of cities and in and out among the camps.