But it was a hot noonday, the dispensary lies
somewhat up hill, and the uniformless officer of the Zone
metropolis is rather thickly built. Wherefore, stowing away this
private bit of information under his hat, he told himself with a
yawn, "Oh, I'll drag him in later in the day," and drifted down to
a wide-open door on Railroad Avenue to spend a bit of the $25
reward in off-setting the heat. Meanwhile "Mac," feeling somewhat
recovered from his financial extravagance, came sauntering out of
the dispensary and, seeing his curly-headed friend strolling a
beat not far away, naturally cried out, "Hello, Eck!" And what
could Eck say, being a reputable Zone policeman, but:
"Why, hello, Mac! How they framin' up? Consider yourself pinched."
Which was lucky for "Mac." For Eck had once worn a marine hat over
his own right eye and, he knew from melancholy experience that the
$25 was no government generosity, but "Mac's" own involuntary
contribution to his finding and delivery; so managed to slip most
of it back into "Mac's" hands.
Long, long after, more than six weeks after in fact, I chanced to
be in Bas Obispo with a half-hour to spare, and climbed to the
flowered and many-roaded camp on its far-viewing hilltop that
falls sheer away on the east into the canal. In one of the airy
barracks I found Renson, cards in hand, clear-skinned and "fit"
now, thanks to the regular life of this adult nursery, though his
lost youth was gone for good.
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