lamps of the city marched up the hills and down again. He thought of the tiny island that was his home, of the house on Punchbowl Hill where his wife and children patiently awaited his return. Suddenly he was appalled at the distance he had come.
Bob Eden joined him there in the dark, and waved his hand toward the glow in the sky above Grant Avenue. “A big night in Chinatown,” he said.
“Very large night,” agreed Chan. “And why not? Tomorrow is the first day of the new year. Of the year 4869.”
“Great Scott,” smiled Eden. “How time flies. A Happy New Year to you.”
“Similar one to you,” said Chan.
The boat plowed on. From the prison island of Alcatraz a cruel, relentless searchlight swept at intervals the inky waters. The wind was bitter now.
“I’m going inside,” shivered Bob Eden. “This is goodbye, I guess.”
“Better so,” admitted Charlie. “When you are finally at Madden’s ranch, look about for that desert rat.”
Alone, he continued to stare at the lamps of the city, cold and distant now, like the stars.
“A desert rat,” he repeated softly, “with no fondly feeling for a trap.”
