that resolving not to think of Marie, calling up all the
bitterness he could muster against her memory, did no more toward
blotting her image from his mind than did the miles and the
months he had put between them.

He reached the town in a dour mood of unrest, spite of the
promise of wealth he carried in his pocket. He mailed the package
and the letter, and went to a saloon and had a highball. He was
not a drinking man--at least, he never had been one, beyond a
convivial glass or two with his fellows--but he felt that day
the need of a little push toward optimism. In the back part of
the room three men were playing freeze-out. Bud went over and
stood with his hands in his pockets and watched them, because
there was nothing else to do, and because he was still having
some trouble with his thoughts. He was lonely, without quite
knowing what ailed him. He hungered for friends to hail him with
that cordial, "Hello, Bud!" when they saw him coming.

No one in Alpine had said hello, Bud, when he came walking in
that day. The postmaster bad given him one measuring glance when
he had weighed the package of ore, but he had not spoken except
to name the amount of postage required. The bartender had made
some remark about the weather, and had smiled with a surface
friendliness that did not deceive Bud for a moment. He knew too
well that the smile was not for him, but for his patronage.

He watched the game. And when the man opposite him pushed back
his chair and, looking up at Bud, asked if he wanted to sit in,
Bud went and sat down, buying a dollar's worth of chips as an
evidence of his intention to play. His interest in the game was