managed it very adroitly, carrying in his old suitcase the hat, coat,
shoes and tie he had bought in Sacramento, changing into them in the
men's washroom in the Sacramento depot, and emerging therefrom the Harry
Romaine who rented room 19 in the Whatcheer House.

Of course there was danger of detection, and faced by this and the memory
of his discomfort on the train down, he told himself he would certainly
move the money. But back in the Argonaut Hotel his resolution weakened.
Where would he move it to? He could bank it in San Francisco, but here
again there were perils, of a kind he dreaded even more than the
Sacramento trips. There was that question of references, and he feared
the eyes of men, honest men, business men. He kept away from them; they
were shrewd, bitterly hostile to such as he. So he invariably slipped
back into a state where he said he must do something, waited until he had
only a few dollars left, then, cursing and groaning, pulled the old
clothes out of his trunk, packed his battered suitcase and told Ned
Murphy he was going into the interior "on business."

But outside all these lesser boredoms and anxieties there was another
bigger than all the rest and growing every day: After the money was
gone, what?

It was a question that, in the past, he would have sheered away from as a
horse shies from an obstacle intruding on a pleasant road. But time had
taught him [Note: last word, 'far-righted' must be a typo] many
things--the picaroon was becoming far-sighted; the grasshopper had
learned of the ant. The spring of his youth was gone; the renewal of the
old struggle too horrible to contemplate. And he would have to
contemplate it or decide on something to forestall it. That was what he
had been thinking about for the past week, shut up in his hotel room, his