stood sponsor for his clothes. The winding, doubling streets, leading
nowhere, bewildered him. And then there was a little river, crooked
as a pot-hook, that crawled through the middle of the town, crossed
by a hundred little bridges so nearly alike that they got on Curly's
nerves. And the last bartender wore a number nine shoe.

[FOOTNOTE 59: Military Plaza--The Plaza de Armas was established
about 1722 as the drill grounds for the Presidio
San Antonio de Béxar. After the Civil War it was
used as an open market. Today it is the site of
governmental buildings.]

The saloon stood on a corner. The hour was eight o'clock. Homefarers
and outgoers jostled Curly on the narrow stone sidewalk. Between the
buildings to his left he looked down a cleft that proclaimed itself
another thoroughfare. The alley was dark except for one patch of
light. Where there was light there were sure to be human beings. Where
there were human beings after nightfall in San Antonio there might be
food, and there was sure to be drink. So Curly headed for the light.

The illumination came from Schwegel's Café. On the sidewalk in front
of it Curly picked up an old envelope. It might have contained a check
for a million. It was empty; but the wanderer read the address, "Mr.
Otto Schwegel," and the name of the town and State. The postmark was
Detroit.

Curly entered the saloon. And now in the light it could be perceived
that he bore the stamp of many years of vagabondage. He had none of
the tidiness of the calculating and shrewd professional tramp. His
wardrobe represented the cast-off specimens of half a dozen fashions