The two friends parted at the train that night. Charles felt a pang of loneliness as his companion was borne away. He had his bag with him and he wondered what he had better do. There was a small hotel near by and he went into the office and asked for a room. The clerk handed a pen to him across the counter and turned the register around for him to inscribe his name. Charles hesitated for barely an instant, then decided to make use of his own name. It looked strange to him, for he had not written it since he left home.

"C. Brown," he smiled. "Too common to attract notice. I\'ve given up everything else; I will stick to my name. I can\'t always be lying about it."

A negro porter showed him his room. It was on the second floor and looked out toward the circus-grounds. The windows were up and he could hear the band and the clapping of hands by the audience. The air of the room was hot, and so he threw off his coat and tried to be comfortable, but he was restless and had no inclination to sleep. He knew, from the changing airs of the band, every act that was on in the ring. He could hear the familiar voice of the clown, the crack of the ringmaster\'s whip, and the clown\'s comical cry of pain, followed by the moss-grown jests Charles had heard hundreds of times.

Finding that he could not sleep, he put on his coat and went out. The street below was quite deserted. The stores were all closed. Everybody had gone to the circus. He walked to the end of the street, then turned eastward and climbed a hill in the edge of the town. He had the square and the diverging streets before him, and an odd sense of part ownership in it all crept over him.

"It is mine, it is mine!" he whispered. "I\'ll live here or close by. I\'ll make a home of it."

The performance was over under the vast canvas. He knew it from the ceasing of the music and the far-away hum of voices as the crowd filtered back to the town. One by one the tent lights went out. He heard the rumble of the wheeled animal cages, the gilded band-wagon and gaudy chariots, as they were rolled on to the flat cars; the loud shouts of teamsters; the roar of a disturbed lion. He heard the clatter of the seat-boards and supports as they were taken down and hauled to the train, the crash of falling tent-poles, the familiar oaths of the foreman of the gang he had just left. Soon the lights were all out save those moving about the train. The bell of the locomotive was ringing a hurry signal. Charles had a mental picture of his former companions tumbling, half undressed, into their berths in the dimly lighted cars. There was a sound of escaping steam from the locomotive, a clanging of its bell. The train was moving. Charles waved his hat in the still air as the train was passing the foot of the hill.

"Good-by, boys!" he said, with feeling. "I\'ll never see you again."

The train moved on and disappeared in the distance. Charles sat down on a boulder. For a year past he had longed for just that sort of freedom, but, now that it was within his reach, it somehow lacked the charm he had expected. Suddenly he felt averse to the thought of sleeping in the room he had taken at the hotel. He wanted to lie on the grass there in the starlight, and greet the rising of the sun upon his new life. But he told himself that he had better go to the hotel. Not to occupy a room after engaging it might arouse suspicion, so he went back to the deserted square.

The clerk was behind the counter and gave him his key, "You was with the circus, wasn\'t you?" he asked.

"Yes, but how could you tell?" Charles answered.

"Oh, by your clothes," the young man replied. "All of you fellers look different from common folks, somehow; your hats, shirts, shoes ain\'t the sort we-all wear. Then you are as sunburnt as gipsies. You\'ve quit \'em, I reckon!"

"Yes," Charles told him. "I\'m going to try something else. I............