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always there came to his mind the termination of the article he had found in

Bridge's pocket--the mention of the five-hundred-dollar reward.

"Five hundred dollars," thought Billy, "is a lot o' coin. I just wonder now," and he

let his eyes wander to his companion as though he might read upon his face the

purpose which lay in the man's heart. "He don't look it; but five hundred dollars

is a lot o' coin--fer a bo, and wotinell did he have that article hid in his clothes

fer? That's wot I'd like to know. I guess it's up to me to blow."

All the recently acquired content which had been Billy's since he had come upon

the poetic Bridge and the two had made their carefree, leisurely way along shaded

country roadsides, or paused beside cool brooklets that meandered lazily through

sweet-smelling meadows, was dissipated in the instant that he had realized the

nature of the article his companion had been carrying and hiding from him.

For days no thought of pursuit or capture had arisen to perplex him. He had

seemed such a tiny thing out there amidst the vastness of rolling hills, of woods,

and plain that there had been induced within him an unconscious assurance

that no one could find him even though they might seek for him.

The idea of meeting a plain clothes man from detective headquarters around the

next bend of a peaceful Missouri road was so preposterous and incongruous that

Billy had found it impossible to give the matter serious thought.

He never before had been in the country districts of his native land. To him the

United States was all like Chicago or New York or Milwaukee, the three cities with

which he was most familiar. His experience of unurban localities had been gained

amidst the primeval jungles of far-away Yoka. There had been no detective

sergeants there--unquestionably there could be none here. Detective sergeants

were indigenous to the soil that grew corner saloons and poolrooms, and to none

other--as well expect to discover one of Oda Yorimoto's samurai hiding behind a

fire plug on Michigan Boulevard, as to look for one of those others along a farm-

bordered road.

But here in Kansas City, amidst the noises and odors that meant a large city, it

was different. Here the next man he met might be looking for him, or if not then

the very first policeman they encountered could arrest him upon a word from

Bridge--and Bridge would get five hundred dollars. Just then Bridge burst forth

into poetry:

In a flannel shirt from earth's clean dirt,

Here, pal, is my calloused hand!

Oh, I love each day as a rover may,

enough for me;

Nor seek to understand. To enjoy is good

The gypsy of God am I. Then here's a hail to--

172

The Mucker