Our hero is struggling with the Protestant Ethic and the profligate habits of his comrades. Nor is it something like a factory our hero is hoping to build, rather he's attempting to acquire resources necessary to secure his onward passage, a dynamic that has less and less to do with aimless wandering and more and more to do with his legal status. He has no entry stamp in his passport. The ancients of course never had to worry about such things, but in the more recent groupings of people, the nomadic and the stateless condition is sinful.
It's a legacy of the written word so well rationalize by the academic and the
power hungry. A most unattractive narrative, kind of like traffic lights. Yet
your writer of pulp is more than aware of the even sadder reality which is that
with traffic lights fewer people kill each other in disagreements at crossroads,
those sort of behaviors are reserved for Grocery Store car parks when demand for
entirely unnecessary nick-nacks and the larger pieces of meat are at their
height. Sadder still for the written word, I must kill the Glossy Hoppy Bug to
save the Eggplant.