In the right pocket he carried a revolver, which he had picked up on
his way through the house. His forefinger felt about its trigger.
He had recognised Foe through the glass. He had pelted up the path
in the old sweating terror, making for the mountain as if driven, to
call on it to cover him.
Close by Engelbaum's gate he overtook three small boys contending
around a suit-case: the point being that all three could not demand
reward for carrying so light a burden. If the owner were a fool, or
generously inclined (which amounted to the same thing), two of the
three might put in a colourable claim for services rendered.
In white countries one boy fights with another. In San Ramon as many
as fifteen can fight indiscriminately, and the vanquished are weeded
out by gradual process. Farrell shook the urchins apart, driving
them for a moment from the suit-case as one would drive three wasps
off a honey-pot. . . . It lay at his feet. Yes, he'd have recognised
it anywhere, even without help of the half-effaced "J. F." painted on
its canvas cover. It was a far-travelled piece of luggage, and
much-enduring--What are those adjectives by which Homer is always
calling Ulysses? .
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