282 The Theory and the Hound
her bankbook tucked well hidden beneath her tattered shawl begged. Bridger stopped and disinterred for her a quarter from his holiday waistcoat.
On the next corner a quarter of a ton of well-clothed man with a rice-powdered, fat, white jowl, stood holding the chain of a devil- born bulldog whose forelegs were strangers by the length of a dachshund. A little wo- man in a last season's hat confronted him and wept, which was plainly all she could do, while he cursed her in low, sweet, practised tones.
Bridger smiled again strictly to himself- and this time he took out a little memorandum book and made a note of it. This he had no right to do without due explanation, and I said so.
"It's a new theory," said Bridger, "that I picked up down in Ratona. I've been gather- ing support for it as I knock about. The world isn't ripe for it yet, but well, I'll tell you; and then you run your mind back along the people you've known and see what you make of it."
And so I cornered Bridger in a place where they have artificial palms and wine; and he
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