n they wondered some, and one of the firm
inquired for him at his old boardin' place. You know how it is in town.
There's so many comin' and goin' that it's hard to keep track of 'em all.
So Beany just faded out.

He told me that when the hospital doctor put it to him flat how bad off
his bum lamp was, and how the other was due to go the same way, he just
started out and walked aimless for two days and nights, hardly stoppin'.
Then he steadied down, pulled himself together, and mapped out a plan.

Besides architectin', all he knew how to do was to raise chickens. He
figured that if he could get a little place off where land was cheap, and
get the hang of it well in his head before his glim was doused
altogether, he might worry along. He couldn't bear to think of goin' back
to his old home, or hangin' around among strangers until he had to be
herded into one of them big brick barracks. He wanted to be alone and
outdoors.

He had a few dollars with him that he'd saved up, and when he struck this
little sand plot, miles from anywhere, he squat right down on it, built
his shack, got some settin' hens, and prepared for a long siege in the
dark. One eye was all to the bad already, and the other was beginnin' to
grow dim. Nice cheerful proposition to wake up to every mornin', wa'n't
it?

Does Beany whine any in tellin' it, though? Never a whimper! Gets off his
little jokes on himself about the breaks he makes cookin' his meals, such
as sweetenin' his coffee out of the salt bag, and bitin' into a cake of
bar soap, thinkin' it was a slice of the soggy bread he'd make. Keeps his
courage up, too, by trying to think that maybe livin' outdoors and
improvin' his health will help him get back his sight.

"I'm sure I am some better already," says he. "For months all I could see
out of my left eye was purple and yellow and blue rings. Now I don't see
those at all."

"That so?" says I, battin' my head for some come-back that would fit.
"Why--er--I should think you'd miss 'em, Beany."

Brilliant, wa'n't it? But Beany throws back his head and lets out the
first real laugh he's indulged in for over a year.

"No, hardly that," says he. "I don't care about carrying my rainbows
around with me."

"But look here, Beany," says I. "You can't stay here doin' the poultry
hermit act."

"It's the only thing I'm fit for," says he; "so I must."

"Then you've got to let us send you a few things occasionally," says I.
"I'll look up your old