The idea of losing himself in the world, of wandering free in the spring weather, took hold of his fancy. He had watched tramps from car windows with indifference or contempt, but he had read of men of wisdom who forsook the life to which they were born for the open road. Perhaps in the general sifting processes of nature and life this had been his predestined fate! He did not care one way or another. He was willing that henceforth Fate should shake the dice and he would abide by the decision. The lords of destiny might pass any judgment they liked upon him: he was Wayne Craighill, and he would make no defense to any indictments they might lodge against him in their high tribunal.
He bought a pipe as better suited to his new rôle as a man of the road and they set out for a walk in the streets of Harrisburg. Laughter flashed out from open windows; boys and girls went sweet-hearting through the quiet streets; gay speech, floating out from verandas and doorsteps, contributed to the sense of spring. A girl’s voice, singing to the strumming of a banjo, gave him a twinge of heartache. He was an alien in a strange land and the openness and simplicity and sweetness of the town life drove in upon him the realization of his own detachment from the world of order and peace. They went down to the river and listened to the subdued murmur of the Susquehanna moving seaward under the stars.
Wayne suddenly remembered Joe, sprawled on the grass beside him.
“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.