by candlelight in a bare world that was too large for it.
He turned his back on it and came over the crest of the hill to see the valley to which the road was leading.
It was a charming valley, with the last light softening its pleasant alternations of field and orchard, smooth meadows and clustered woods. To Barney it was merely “goose pastures,” as Hudson Street calls the green suburbs. It was empty of shop windows, bill boards, moving picture fronts, newspaper bulletins, hurdy-gurdies, passers-by, street traffic, peddlers, or any of the noise and movement of affairs that make life in the open air interesting. And it was inhabited by poor country boobs who lived in loneliness, with their eyes on the city, growing cabbages to sell in town.
There could be no doubt that the man in the Panama hat was a crook, concealing himself from the police. That was the only reason why he should live in such a place. Well, it was probably “one better than being in jail.”
