Ichabod Maurice, listening, read in that appeal, beneath the words, the wild, unsatisfied tale of a disappointed human life.
“You are dissatisfied, lonesome––There was a time years ago perhaps––”
“I don’t know.” The glow had passed and the face was old again, and heavy. “I remember nothing. I’m dead, dead.” He drew a rough map from his pocket and spread it out before him.
“If you’ll move close, please, I’ll show you the open lands.”
For an hour he explained homesteads, preemptions and tree claims, and the method of filing and proving up. At parting, Ichabod held out his hand.
“I thank you for your advice,” he said.
The man behind the desk puffed stolidly.
“But don’t intend to follow it,” he completed.
Instinctively, metaphor sprang to the lips of Ichabod Maurice.
“A small speck of circumstance, which is near, obliterates much that is in the distance.” 140 He turned toward the door. “I shall not be alone.”