Jack threw back his shoulders and took a long, deep, satisfying breath.  He looked around him gloatingly and climbed into the little make-believe train, and smiled as he settled back in a seat.  There was not another soul going to Quincy that morning, save the conductor and engineer.  The conductor looked at his passenger as boredly as the wife of a professional humorist looks at her husband, took his ticket and left him.

Jack lighted a cigarette and blew the smoke out of the open window while the little train bore him down through the green forest into the valley.  He was in a new world.  He was safe here—­he was lost.

CHAPTER FOUR

JACK FINDS HIMSELF IN POSSESSION OF A JOB

Writing his name on the hotel register was an embarrassing ceremony that had not occurred to Jack until he walked up the steps and into the bare little office.  Some instinct of pride made him shrink from taking a name that did not belong to him, and he was afraid to write his own in so public a place.  So he ducked into the dining room whence came the muffled clatter of dishes and an odor of fried beefsteak, as a perfectly plausible means of dodging the issue for a while.

He ate as slowly as he dared and as long as he could swallow, and when he left was lucky enough to find the office occupied only by a big yellow cat curled up on the desk with the pen between its paws.  It seemed a shame to disturb the cat.  He went by it on his toes and passed on down the steps and into the full face of the town lying there cupped in green hills and with a sunshiny quiet that made the world seem farther away than ever.

A couple of men were walking down the street and stopping now and then to talk to those they met.  Jack followed aimlessly, his hands in his pockets, his new Stetson—­that did not look so unusual here in Quincy—­pulled well down over his eyebrows and giving his face an unaccustomed look of purposefulness.  Those he met carried letters and papers in their hands; those he followed went empty handed, so Jack guessed that he was observing the regular morning pilgrimage to the postoffice—­which, had he only known it, really begins the day in Quincy.

He did not expect any mail, of course; but there seemed nothing else for him to do, no other place for him to go; and he was afraid that if he stayed around the hotel some one might ask him to register.  He went, therefore, to the postoffice and stood just outside the door with his hands still in his pockets and the purposeful look on his face; whereas no man was ever more completely adrift and purposeless than was Jack Corey.  Now that he had lost himself from the world—­buried himself up here in these wonderfully green mountains where no one would ever think of looking for him—­there seemed nothing at all to do.  He did not even want to go fishing.  And as for journeying on to that lake which the peanut butcher had talked so much about, Jack had never for one minute intended going there.