And Life was a poor thing, too.
He'd tried for hours and hours to think of one fair promise which it still held for him—just one!—tried hard! And couldn't!
Blue Jeans was twenty-two.
And Luck had trifled with him over-long.
One brief month earlier he had been a man of ambition, a man of promise. He'd even found his Dream. An Easterner had helped him to that foolishness; an -ologist from a university who expected to find prehistoric bones and relics entombed under the hills.
Cornered by that Easterner, who liked his face, and not having been handy enough as a liar to get out of it neatly, Blue Jeans had admitted under cross-examination that he was familiar with the country.
Was he doing anything at present?
No-o-o. But he was looking around.
Could he pack?
Yes.