Might as well make a clean job of it. He
restored the stewpan and spoon to their places and left his hotel.
He was fed. To-day something else would have to happen.
The plush hat cocked at a rakish angle, he walked abroad with
something of the old confident swagger. Once he doubtfully fingered
the sprouting beard, but resolutely dismissed a half-formed notion
of finding out how the Holden lot barber would regard a proposition
from a new patron to open a charge account. If nothing worse than
remaining unshaven was going to happen to him, what cared he? The
collar was still pretty good. Why let his beard be an incubus? He
forgot it presently in noticing that the people arriving on the
Holden lot all looked so extremely well fed. He thought it singular
that he should never before have noticed how many well-fed people
one saw in a day.
Late in the afternoon his explorations took him beyond the lower end
of his little home street, and he was attracted by sounds of the
picture drama from a rude board structure labelled the High Gear
Dance Hall. He approached and entered with that calm ease of manner
which his days on the lot had brought to a perfect bloom.
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