Beta Book

Midway in a paragraph he rose, threw _One Hundred Ways to See
California_ on the tumbled bed, and ran away from Our Mr. Wrenn.
But Our Mr. Wrenn pursued him along the wharves, where the sun
glared on oily water. He had seen the wharves twelve times that
fortnight. In fact, he even cried viciously that "he had seen
too blame much of the blame wharves."
Early in the afternoon he went to a moving-picture show, but the
first sight of the white giant figures bulking against the gray
background was wearily unreal; and when the inevitable
large-eyed black-braided Indian maiden met the canonical
cow-puncher he threshed about in his seat, was irritated by the
nervous click of the machine and the hot stuffiness of the room,
and ran away just at the exciting moment when the Indian chief
dashed into camp and summoned his braves to the war-path.
Perhaps he could hide from thought at home.
As he came into his room he stood at gaze like a kitten of good
family beholding a mangy mongrel asleep in its pink basket.


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