-West traffic through. The motorman
slid open his window and shouted insults at the driver, and the traffic
cop left his little platform and strode heavily toward the Ford,
pulling his book out of his pocket with the mechanical motion born of
the grief of many drivers.

Casey Ryan, clinging to the front step of the street car on his way to
the apartment house he once more called home, swung off and beat the
traffic officer to the Ford. He stooped and gave a heave on the crank,
obeyed a motion of the driver's head when the car started, and stepped
upon the running board. The traffic officer paused, waved his book
warningly and said something. The motorman drew in his head, clanged
the bell, and the afternoon traffic proceeded to untangle.

"Get in, old-timer," invited the driver whom Casey had assisted. Casey
did not ask whether the driver was going in his direction, but got in
chuckling at the small triumph over his enemies, the police.

"Fords are mean cusses," he observed sympathetically. "They like
nothing better than to get a feller in bad. But they can't pull
nothin' on me. I know 'em to a fare-you-well. Notice how this one
changed 'er mind about gettin' you tagged, soon as Casey Ryan took 'er
by the nose?"

"Are you Casey Ryan?" The driver took his eyes off the traffic long
enough to give Casey an appraising look that measured him mentally and
physically. "Say, I've heard quite a lot about you. Bill Masters, up
at Lund, has spoke of you often. He knows you, don't he?"

"Bill Masters sure had ought t' know me," Casey grinned. In a big,
roaring, unfriendly city, here sounded a friendly, familiar tone; a
voice straight from the desert, as it were. Casey forgot what had
happened when Barney Oakes crossed his path claiming acquaintance with
Bill Masters, of Lund. He bit off a chew of tobacco, hunched down
lower in the seat, and prepared himself for a real conflab with the man
who spoke the language of his tribe.

He forgot that he had just bought tickets to that evening's performance
at the Orpheum, as a sort of farewell offering to his domestic goddess
before once more going into voluntary exile as advised by the judge.
Pasadena Avenue heard conversational fragments such as, "Say! Do you
know--? Was you in Lund when--?"

Casey's new friend drove as fast as the law permitted. He talked of
many places and men familiar to Casey, who was in a mood that hungered
for those places and men in a spiritua