I’d been interested in this fellow ever since he came on our division; he was closemouthed and unfriendly.
He was one of those fellows with a settled, mature body and a young face, such as you often see among workingmen. There was something calm, and sarcastic, and mocking about his expression—that, too, you often see among workingmen.
When he had put all his money away, he got up and walked toward the door without a word, without saying good night to anybody.
“Manners of a hog, and a dirty hog!” little Barney Shea yelled after him. Blake’s back was just in the doorway; he hitched up one shoulder, but didn’t turn or make a sound.
I slipped out after him and followed him down the street. His walk was unsteady, and the gold in his baggy overalls pockets clinked with every step he took. I ran a little way and caught up with him.
“What are you going to do with all that money, Blake?” I asked him.
“Lose it, tomorrow night. I’m no hog for money. Damned barber-pole dudes!”
I thought I’d better follow him home. I knew he lodged with an old Mexican woman, in the yellow quarter, behind the roundhouse.
His room opened on to the street, by a sky-blue door. He went in, didn’t strike a light or make a stab at undressing, but threw himself just as he was on the bed and went to sleep.
His hat stuck between the iron rods of the bed-head, the gold ran out of his pockets and rolled over the bare floor in the dark.