ng from him.

For days no thought of pursuit or capture had arisen to perplex him. He
had seemed such a tiny thing out there amidst the vastness of rolling
hills, of woods, and plain that there had been induced within him an
unconscious assurance that no one could find him even though they might
seek for him.

The idea of meeting a plain clothes man from detective headquarters
around the next bend of a peaceful Missouri road was so preposterous
and incongruous that Billy had found it impossible to give the matter
serious thought.

He never before had been in the country districts of his native land. To
him the United States was all like Chicago or New York or Milwaukee, the
three cities with which he was most familiar. His experience of unurban
localities had been gained amidst the primeval jungles of far-away Yoka.
There had been no detective sergeants there--unquestionably there could
be none here. Detective sergeants were indigenous to the soil that
grew corner saloons and poolrooms, and to none other--as well expect
to discover one of Oda Yorimoto's samurai hiding behind a fire plug
on Michigan Boulevard, as to look for one of those others along a
farm-bordered road.

But here in Kansas City, amidst the noises and odors that meant a large
city, it was different. Here the next man he met might be looking for
him, or if not then the very first policeman they encountered could
arrest him upon a word from Bridge--and Bridge would get five hundred
dollars. Just then Bridge burst forth into poetry:

In a flannel shirt from earth's clean dirt,
Here, pal, is my calloused hand!
Oh, I love each day as a rover may,
Nor seek to understand.
To enjoy is good enough for me;
The gypsy of God am I.
Then here's a hail to--

"Say," he interrupted himself; "what's the matter with going out now and
wrapping ourselves around that swell feed you were speaking of?"

Billy rose. It didn't seem possible that Bridge could be going to
double-cross him.

In a flannel shirt from earth's clean dirt,
Here, pal, is my calloused hand!

Billy repeated the lines half aloud. They renewed his confidence in
Bridge, somehow.

"Like them?" asked the latter.

"Yes," said Billy; "s'more of Knibbs?"

"No, Service. Come on, let's go and dine. How about the Midland?" and he
grinned at his little joke as he led the way toward the street.

It was late afternoon. The sun already had set; but it still was too
l