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.