Which was all very well, as far as it went. The trouble was that
resolving not to think of Marie, calling up all the bitterness he could
muster against her memory, did no more toward blotting her image from
his mind than did the miles and the months he had put between them.
He reached the town in a dour mood of unrest, spite of the promise of
wealth he carried in his pocket. He mailed the package and the letter,
and went to a saloon and had a highball. He was not a drinking man--at
least, he never had been one, beyond a convivial glass or two with his
fellows--but he felt that day the need of a little push toward optimism.
In the back part of the room three men were playing freeze-out. Bud went
over and stood with his hands in his pockets and watched them, because
there was nothing else to do, and because he was still having some
trouble with his thoughts. He was lonely, without quite knowing what
ailed him. He hungered for friends to hail him with that cordial,
"Hello, Bud!" when they saw him coming.
No one in Alpine had said hello, Bud, when he came walking in that day.
The postmaster bad given him one measuring glance when he had weighed
the package of ore, but he had not spoken except to name the amount of
postage required. The bartender had made some remark about the weather,
and had smiled with a surface friendliness that did not deceive Bud for
a moment. He knew too well that the smile was not for him, but for his
patronage.
He watched the game. And when the man opposite him pushed back his chair
and, looking up at Bud, asked if he wanted to sit in, Bud went and sat
down, buying a dollar's worth of chips as an evidence of his intention
to play. His interest in the game was not keen. He played for the
feeling it gave him of being one of the bunch, a man among his friends;
or if not friends, at least acquaintances. And, such was his varying
luck with the cards, he played for an hour or so without having won
enough to irritate his companions. Wherefore he rose from the table at
supper time calling one young fellow Frank quite naturally. They went to
the Alpine House and had supper together, and after that they sat in
the office and talked about automobiles for an hour, which gave Bud a
comforting sense of having fallen among friends.
Later they strolled over to a picture show which ran films two years
behind their first release, and charged fifteen cents for the privilege
of watching them. It was the first theater Bud had entered since he left
San Jose, and at the last minute he hesitated, tempted to turn back.
He hated moving pictures. They always had love scenes somewhere in the
story, and love scenes hurt. But Frank had already bought two tickets,
and it seemed unfriendly to turn back now. He went inside to the
jangling of a player-piano in dire need of a tuner's service, and sat
down near the back of the hall with his hat upon his lifted knees which
could have used more space between the seats.