"'I can't get out,'" he says over. "'I can't get out.' It's a great mistake. If you feel it in you to get out, then you'll get out. That's the answer."
"I do," I says. "I always have. I wake up in the mornings...."
I'll never know what it was that come over me. But all of a sudden, the me that laid awake nights and thought, and the me that had come out in the sun that morning was the only me I had, and it could talk.
"Oh," I says, "don't you think I'm the way I seemed back there on the road. I'm different; but I'm the only one that knows that. I like nice things. I'd like to act nice. I'd like to be the way I could be. But there ain't enough of me to be that way. And I don't know what to do."
He took both my hands.
"And I don't know what you're to do," he said. "That is the part you must find for yourself. It's like dying—yet a while, till they get us going."
We stood still for a minute. And then I saw what I hadn't seen before—what a grand face he had. He wasn't like the handsome men on calendars or on cigar boxes, or on the signs. He was like somebody else I hadn't ever seen before. His face wasn't young at all, but it looked glad, and that made it seem young.
"I wish you wouldn't ever go way," I says.
"I ought to be miles from here at this moment," he says. "Now see here ... I want to give you these."
He took two cards out of his pocket, and wrote on them.