laboriously deeper and deeper into the hills. After awhile he had
to descend from the ridge where he found himself standing bleakly
revealed against a lowering, slaty sky that dripped rain
incessantly. As far as he could see were hills and more hills,
bald and barren except in certain canyons whose deeper shadows
told of timber. Away off to the southwest a bright light showed
briefly--the headlight of a Santa Fe train, he guessed it must
be. To the east which be faced the land was broken with bare
hills that fell just short of being mountains. He went down the
first canyon that opened in that direction, ploughing doggedly
ahead into the unknown.

That night Bud camped in the lee of a bank that was fairly well
screened with rocks and bushes, and dined off broiled bacon and
bread and a can of beans with tomato sauce, and called it a meal.
At first he was not much inclined to take the risk of having a
fire big enough to keep him warm. Later in the night he was
perfectly willing to take the risk, but could not find enough dry
wood. His rainproofed overcoat became quite soggy and damp on the
inside, in spite of his efforts to shield himself from the rain.
It was not exactly a comfortable night, but he worried through it
somehow.

At daylight he opened another can of beans and made himself two
thick bean sandwiches, and walked on while he ate them slowly.
They tasted mighty good, Bud thought--but he wished fleetingly
that he was back in the little green cottage on North Sixth
Street, getting his own breakfast. He felt as though he could
drink about four caps of coffee; and as to hotcakes--! But
breakfast in the little green cottage recalled Marie, and Marie