He ate as slowly as he dared and as long as he could swallow, and when
he left was lucky enough to find the office occupied only by a big
yellow cat curled up on the desk with the pen between its paws. It
seemed a shame to disturb the cat. He went by it on his toes and
passed on down the steps and into the full face of the town lying
there cupped in green hills and with a sunshiny quiet that made the
world seem farther away than ever.

A couple of men were walking down the street and stopping now and then
to talk to those they met. Jack followed aimlessly, his hands in his
pockets, his new Stetson--that did not look so unusual here in
Quincy--pulled well down over his eyebrows and giving his face an
unaccustomed look of purposefulness. Those he met carried letters and
papers in their hands; those he followed went empty handed, so Jack
guessed that he was observing the regular morning pilgrimage to the
postoffice--which, had he only known it, really begins the day in
Quincy.

He did not expect any mail, of course; but there seemed nothing else
for him to do, no other place for him to go; and he was afraid that if
he stayed around the hotel some one might ask him to register. He
went, therefore, to the postoffice and stood just outside the door
with his hands still in his pockets and the purposeful look on his
face; whereas no man was ever more completely adrift and purposeless
than was Jack Corey. Now that he had lost himself from the
world--buried himself up here in these wonderfully green mountains
where no one would ever think of looking for him--there seemed nothing
at all to do. He did not even want to go fishing. And as for
journeying on to that lake which the peanut butcher had talked so much