He made no comment. At the station they claimed their packs and sat down to wait. Two hours or more later, as they stood by the gate, a man with many bundles jostled Lory and stood beside her, unseeing, with a long parcel jabbing at her neck. The Inger laid his great hand on him.
“Say, Snickerfritz,” he said, in perfect good humor, “lamp the lady there.”
And when the man apologized, the Inger smiled his slow smile, and waved his huge hand at him.
As he looked at this man and at the tired woman beside the man, it occurred to the Inger that these people must all have homes. This was a thing that he had never thought about before. Always he had seen people, as it were, in the one dimension of their personal presence, taking no account of them otherwise—neither of that second dimension of their inner beings, nor of the third dimension of their relationships.
“I bet they all got some little old hole they crawl into,” he said, aloud. And as the gate opened, and the two filed down the platform behind the man with the parcels and the tired woman, the Inger added: “That gink and his dame—they looked spliced. Doggone it, I bet they got a dug-out somewheres!”
“Why, yes,” said Lory, in surprise. “Sure they have. What of it?”
“Oh well, I donno,” he mumbled. “Nothin’ much.”
In the day coach, he turned over a seat, and in the forward one, he deposited the two packs.