Well, here he was--waiting. It was snowing outside. There was no noise in
the street. A man was passing. One of the pack? No. Just a man. The man
looked up. Tommy O'Connor took his face slowly away from the window. He
had a gun in his pocket and his hand was holding it. But the man was
walking away. Huh! If the guy knew that Lucky Tommy O'Connor was watching
him from a window he'd walk a little faster. If the guy knew that Lucky
O'Connor, who had busted his way out of jail and was being hunted by a
million people with guns, was sitting up here behind the window, he'd
throw a fit. But he didn't know. He was like the walls and the windows and
the snow outside--quiet and peaceful.

"Nice boy," grinned Tommy O'Connor. Then he began to fidget. He ought to
go out and buy a paper. See what was doing. See what became of Mac and the
rest of the boys. Maybe they'd all been nabbed. But they couldn't do him
harm. On account nobody knew where he was. No pal. No dame. Nobody knew he
was sitting here in the room looking at the snow and just thinking. The
papers were probably full of cock-and-bull stories about his racing across
the country and hiding in haystacks and behind barns. Kid stuff. Maybe he
should ought to of left town. But it felt better in town. Some rube was
always sure to pick out a stranger beating it down a empty road. And there
was no place to hide. Long, empty stretches, where anybody could see you
for a mile.

Better in town. Lots of walls, alleys, roofs. Lots of things like that. No
hare-and-hounds effect like in the country. But the papers were probably
full of a lot of bunk. He'd take a walk later and buy a few. Better sit
still now. There was nothing harder to find than a man sitting still.

* * * * *