At first Rudolph was fairly contented. It amused him. He liked
the idleness of it. He liked kicking the innumerable Mexican dogs
out of his way. He liked baiting the croupiers in the "Owl." He
liked wandering into that notorious resort and shoving Hindus,
Chinamen, and Mexicans out of the way, while he flung down a silver
dollar and watched the dealers with cunning, avaricious eyes.
He liked his own situation, too. It amused him to think that here
he was safe, while only a hundred feet away he was a criminal,
fugitive from the law. He liked to go to the very border itself,
and jeer at the men on guard there.
"If I was on that side," he would say, "you'd have me in one of
those rotten uniforms, wouldn't you? Come on over, fellows. The
liquor's fine."
Then, one day, a Chinaman he had insulted gave him an unexpected
shove, and he had managed to save himself by a foot from the clutch
of a quiet-faced man in plain clothes who spent a certain amount of
time lounging on the other side of the border.
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