The next morning, determined to see the sights, he was in New York, and
drifted about to all places night and day, till his money was mostly
gone, and nothing to show for it but a somewhat pleasure-beaten face and
a deep hatred of the crowded, scrambling East. So he suddenly bought a
ticket for Green River, Wyoming, and escaped from the city that seemed to
numb his good humor.

When, after three days, the Missouri lay behind him and his holiday, he
stretched his legs and took heart to see out of the window the signs of
approaching desolation. And when on the fourth day civilization was
utterly emptied out of the world, he saw a bunch of cattle, and,
galloping among them, his spurred and booted kindred. And his manner took
on that alertness a horse shows on turning into the home road. As the
stage took him toward Washakie, old friends turned up every fifty miles
or so, shambling out of a cabin or a stable, and saying, in casual tones,
"Hello, Lin, where've you been at?"

At Lander, there got into the stage another old acquaintance, the Bishop
of Wyoming. He knew Lin at once, and held out his hand, and his greeting
was hearty.

"It took a week for my robes to catch up with me," he said, laughing.
Then, in a little while, "How was the East?"

"First-rate," said Lin, not looking at him. He was shy of the
conversation's taking a moral turn. But the bishop had no intention of
reverting--at any rate, just now--to their last talk at Green River, and
the advice he had then given.

"I trust your friends were all well?" he said.