My head sank to the table and my hands clasped my eyes to shut out the
blackness. But the blackness came again.
XVII
Tip Pulsifer leaned on my gate. Crowning the post at his side was his
travelling bandanna, into which he had securely clasped by one great
knot all his portable possessions. It was very early in the morning,
in that half-dark and half-dawn time, when the muffled crowing begins
to sound from the village barns and the dogs crawl forth from their
barrels and survey the deserted street and yawn. Tip was not usually
abroad so early, but in his travelling bandanna and solemn face, as he
leaned on his elbows and smoked and smoked, I saw his reason for
getting out with the sun. He was taking flight. The annual Pulsifer
tragedy had occurred; the head of the house had tied together his few
goods, and, vowing never to trouble his wife again, had set his face
toward the mountain. But on my part I had every reason to believe that
Tip would show surprise when I hobbled forth from the misty gloom.
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