"It is horrible to see a fat man with purple veins in his face lying
dead."
At such times he hurried along the road like one pursued. People driving
past in buggies and seeing him and hearing the stream of talk that issued
from his lips, turned and watched him out of sight. And Sam, hurrying and
seeking relief from the thoughts in his mind, called to the old
commonsense instincts within himself as a captain marshals his forces to
withstand an attack.
"I will find work. I will find work. I will seek Truth," he said.
Sam avoided the larger towns or went hurriedly through them, sleeping
night after night at village hotels or at some hospitable farmhouse, and
daily he increased the length of his walks, getting real satisfaction from
the aching of his legs and from the bruising of his unaccustomed feet on
the hard road. Like St. Jerome, he had a wish to beat upon his body and
subdue the flesh. In turn he was blown upon by the wind, chilled by the
winter frost, wet by the rains, and warmed by the sun. In the spring he
swam in rivers, lay on sheltered hillsides watching the cattle grazing in
the fields and the white clouds floating across the sky, and constantly
his legs became harder and his body more flat and sinewy.
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