His promises were fluent always and alluring.

Only by the courage of utter separation could Brian make his longed for emancipation a thing assured.
So he tramped the highway, lingering by fence and rail to talk with men, living and learning.

For the highway meant to him the passion of life.

Hope and sorrow traveled it day and night in homely hearts.
And often his thoughts harked wistfully back to the words of a modern poet which Kenny with his usual skill had set to music: "And often, often I'm longing still, This gay and golden weather, For my father's face by an Irish hill, And he and I together." In the gay and golden weather things were going badly with the unsuccessful parent.

For weeks now his life had been in ferment, his moods as freakish as the wind.