"I didn't hear him insult anybody," Bert said in surprise.
"Some people don't know when they're insulted," said Dolf, "but I'm not one of them. You can go out there as often as you like, but don't count on me."
So Bert rode out alone to the cabin and the house of glass. The day was fresh and sparkling after the rain, the road had been washed clean, and the tire treads swished and whirred as they griped the surface of the highway. To-day he did not have Bill along to hold him back, and the speedometer recorded a swift succession of the miles. Before noon he pushed through the path, where the brush was still wet, and came to his destination.
There was about the clearing an atmosphere of emptiness and desertion. No sound broke the stillness. It seemed that it must have been days since a human was here . . . and yet, in the soft ground, Bert found the marks of Bill's tires and the puncture of Bill's crutch.
The door of the cabin was open a bare two inches. Bert leaned his bicycle against the wall, so gently that he did not disturb the hush of the place. After that he sat in the doorway. The Butterfly Man had guaranteed this as a good loafing spot. Staring off into the distance, Bert found a drowsy peace taking possession of his being. Time ceased to have any importance.
