"I can't find anything that's likely to be of any use to me," he said.
His speech was curiously refined and seemed utterly out of place in the office of Mallard's. "I quit London because—It seems to me cities are all the same. They're all full to overflowing, and the only jobs going are the jobs no one wants. Why in hell do we congregate in cities?"
The man beside him replied without looking up from his paper.
"Because we've a ten cent sense with a fi' dollar scare." He laughed harshly. "How long have you been out? Six months? Six months, an' you've learned to guess hard when you see Saney bumming around, or a uniform in the crowd. You've learned to wish you 'hadn't,' so you dream things all night. You're yearning to get back to things as they were before you guessed you'd fancy them diff'rent, and you find that way the door's shut tight, and a feller with a darn sharp sword is sitting around waiting on you. Take a chance, man. Get out in the open. It's big, and it's good. It's a hell of a sight in front of a city, anyway. If they get you—well, what of it? You've asked for it. And anyway they're going to get you some time. You can't get away with the play all the time."
"Yes. I s'pose that's right. It's a big country, and—" The man's fair brows drew together. The regret was plain enough in his eyes. There was more weakness than crime in them.
The bearded man tapped the page of the news sheet he was reading with an emphatic forefinger that was none too clean.
"What in hell?" he exclaimed. "These fellers beat me. Here, look at that, and read the stuff some darn hoodlum has doped out."
He passed the paper to the Englishman. That at which the other pointed was the photograph of a man. The letterpress was underneath it.
"Get a good look at the picture. Then read," the other exclaimed, while his dark eyes searched the Englishman's face.
He waited, watchful, alert. He saw the other's eyes scan the letterpress. Then he saw them revert again to the picture.