He packed everything he owned--
a big suitcase held it all by squeezing--paid his bill at the
office, accepted a poor cigar, and in return said, yes, he was
going to strike out and look for work; and took the train for
Oakland.
A street car landed him within two blocks of the address on the
tag, and Bud walked through thickening fog and dusk to the place.
Foster had a good-looking house, he observed. Set back on the
middle of two lots, it was, with a cement drive sloping up from
the street to the garage backed against the alley. Under cover of
lighting a cigarette, he inspected the place before he ventured
farther. The blinds were drawn down--at least upon the side
next the drive. On the other he thought he caught a gleam of
light at the rear; rather, the beam that came from a gleam of
light in Foster's dining room or kitchen shining on the next
house. But he was not certain of it, and the absolute quiet
reassured him so that he went up the drive, keeping on the grass
border until he reached the garage. This, he told himself, was
just like a woman--raising the deuce around so that a man had
to sneak into his own place to get his own car out of his own
garage. If Foster was up against the kind of deal Bud had been up
against, he sure had Bud's sympathy, and he sure would get the
best help Bud was capable of giving him.
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