Edward spent twenty-five cents on a very bad meal.
After sunset he crouched under a leaning rock on the slope of a hill. He slept well and in the morning found his waking eyes on fire in the glare of a solitary gold poppy, gloriously open within three inches of his face. The poppy was thickly and incredibly golden; its petals had a sheen like a little wind on sunny water and, deep within its cup, dusted with gold, was its treasure, a tiny unkempt chrysanthemum of gold with a crisp core of black.
At the next ranch visited by Edward the disorder of his clothes, after two nights under the dishevelling stars, had its effect. A man in blue jeans, carrying a bucket of grain, met Edward at the gate and said, “We found and lifted the latch of the polar star.”
Edward was no fool. After a second’s surprise he realised that his ears were betraying him again.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t quite catch what you said.”
“What’s that?”
“I didn’t hear what you said.”
“You don’t need to hear anything except Keep Out,” said the man waving at a terse sign rooted in a whirlpool of chickens: KEEP OUT THIS MEANS YOU. “We don’t want no hoboes here.”
“My name is Edward Williams,” said Edward urgently. “I want you to look at——”
“If you said you was William Randolph Hearst I wouldn’t give a whoop. No, sir-ree, not in them togs. ’S’plain enough, ain’t it?”