Steve Packard's pulses quickened and a bright eagerness came into
his eyes as he rode deeper into the pine-timbered mountains. To-day
he was on the last lap of a delectable journey. Three days ago he
had ridden out of the sun-baked town of San Juan; three months had
passed since he had sailed out of a South Sea port. Far down there,
foregathering with sailor men in a dirty water-front
boarding-house, he had grown suddenly and even tenderly reminiscent
of a cleaner land which he had roamed as a boy. He stared back
across the departed years as many a man has looked from just some
such resort as Black Jack's boarding-house, a little wistfully
withal. Abruptly throwing down his unplayed hand and forfeiting his
ante in a card game, he had gotten up and taken ship back across
the Pacific. The house of Packard might have spelled its name with
the seven letters of the word "impulse."
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