No one answered. He had, like Hadji the beggar, become in twenty-four hours again a drifter.
Babe sneaked out after him. “Here, Curly,” she slipped her hand into her bosom and held out the octagonal slug. “When Bet an' I reached Allie last night she was holdin' it in her little dead hand, an' there was such a smile on her face! You gave her that happy smile. God bless you for it! Now, you take this—”
But Curly turned away, blinking his eyes, and trying to swallow the lump in his throat. Babe stood watching him through her tears as he tramped down the street, out of the town on the road to the south.
Two years later in a hall in Sonora, a man strolled in to the card tables.
“Why, hel-lo, Curly!”
Curly glanced up briefly. “Hello, George.”
“Hear you've made another strike.”
“You can hear a lot that ain't true. This happens to be.”
“You know, I was telling—”