“A telegram, Joe,” he said.  “Read it.”

Joe read it with a drunken, quizzical leer.  But what he read seemed to sober him.  He looked at the other reproachfully, tears oozing into his eyes and down his cheeks.

“You ain’t goin’ back on me, Mart?” he queried hopelessly.

Martin nodded, and called one of the loungers to him to take the message to the telegraph office.

“Hold on,” Joe muttered thickly.  “Lemme think.”

He held on to the bar, his legs wobbling under him, Martin’s arm around him and supporting him, while he thought.

“Make that two laundrymen,” he said abruptly.  “Here, lemme fix it.”

“What are you quitting for?” Martin demanded.

“Same reason as you.”

“But I’m going to sea.  You can’t do that.”

“Nope,” was the answer, “but I can hobo all right, all right.”

Martin looked at him searchingly for a moment, then cried:-

“By God, I think you’re right!  Better a hobo than a beast of toil.  Why, man, you’ll live.  And that’s more than you ever did before.”

“I was in hospital, once,” Joe corrected.  “It was beautiful.  Typhoid—­did I tell you?”

While Martin changed the telegram to “two laundrymen,” Joe went on:-

“I never wanted to drink when I was in hospital.  Funny, ain’t it?  But when I’ve ben workin’ like a slave all week, I just got to bowl up.  Ever noticed that cooks drink like hell?—­an’ bakers, too?  It’s the work.  They’ve sure got to.  Here, lemme pay half of that telegram.”

“I’ll shake you for it,” Martin offered.

“Come on, everybody drink,” Joe called, as they rattled the dice and rolled them out on the damp bar.

Monday morning Joe was wild with anticipation.  He did not mind his aching head, nor did he take interest in his work.  Whole herds of moments stole away and were lost while their careless shepherd gazed out of the window at the sunshine and the trees.

“Just look at it!” he cried.  “An’ it’s all mine!  It’s free.  I can lie down under them trees an’ sleep for a thousan’ years if I want to.  Aw, come on, Mart, let’s chuck it.  What’s the good of waitin’ another moment.  That’s the land of nothin’ to do out there, an’ I got a ticket for it—­an’ it ain’t no return ticket, b’gosh!”

A few minutes later, filling the truck with soiled clothes for the washer, Joe spied the hotel manager’s shirt.  He knew its mark, and with a sudden glorious consciousness of freedom he threw it on the floor and stamped on it.

“I wish you was in it, you pig-headed Dutchman!” he shouted.  “In it, an’ right there where I’ve got you!  Take that! an’ that! an’ that! damn you!  Hold me back, somebody!  Hold me back!”

Martin laughed and held him to his work.  On Tuesday night the new laundrymen arrived, and the rest of the week was spent breaking them into the routine.  Joe sat around and explained his system, but he did no more work.