"You know, Nance, I was a prodigal--only when I awoke I had no father to
go to. Poor grandad! What a brutal cub I was! That has always stuck in
my mind. I was telling you about that cold wet night in Denver. I had
found a lodging in the police station. There were others as forlorn--and
Nance--did you ever realise the buoyancy of the human mind? It's
sublime. We rejected ones sat there, warming ourselves, chatting, and
pretty soon one man found there were thirteen of us. You would have
thought that none of them could fear bad luck--worse luck--none of them
could have been more dismally situated. But, do you know? most of those
fellows became nervous--as apprehensive of bad luck as if they had been
pampered princes in a time of revolution. I was one of the two that
volunteered to restore confidence by bringing in another man.

"We found an undersized, insignificant-looking chap toddling aimlessly
along the street a few blocks away from the station. We grappled with
him and hustled him back to the crowd. He slept with us on the floor,
and no one paid any further attention to him, except to remark that he
talked to himself a good bit. He and I awoke earliest next morning. I
asked him if he was hungry and he said he was. So I bought two fair
breakfasts with the money I'd saved for one good one, and we started out
of town. This chap said he was going that way, and I had made up my mind
to find a certain friend of mine--a chap named Hoover. The second day
out I discovered that this queer man was the one who'd been turning
Denver upside down for ten days, healing the halt and the blind. He was
running away because he liked a quieter life."

He stopped, laughing softly, as if in remembrance--until she prompted
him.