Kenny pitied in foretaste the ragged parent who would come upon the
camp fire of his son, picturesque and repentant, and dramatized the
meeting, a lump in his throat. Emotionally it was complex to be actor
and audience both. Thank God, he reflected, as he opened a closet
door, dragged forth a battered multitude of bags and suit cases and
began an impatient upheaval of bureau drawers, he was a man of action.
When Garry entered a half hour later he found the studio floor littered
with preparation.

"I'm off, this morning," he explained. "In an hour now. Garry, how
can I possibly reduce this mass to packing possibility?"

"Stop running around in circles!" commanded Garry, thunderstruck.
"What's it all about? Where are you going?"

"I'm going," said Kenny with his chin out and his eyes defiant, "to
hunt Brian."

Garry stared blankly at the packing litter and the tall Irishman in the
center of it wearily mopping his forehead. It was impossible to locate
the crags he must have leaped to reach his spectacular decision. They
were shrouded in mystery.

"You mean," said Garry after a while, "that you will tour vaguely off,
seeking a farm on a hill, a wood, a river, a youngster in patches and
Brian's trail of camp fires?"

"Precisely," said Kenny with detestable confidence. "See, even you
mark the clues with perfect logic."