"Good fur rheumatiz," he said, stopping at arm's length, and good-naturedly leering his invitation for me to partake. I shook my head. "No.... Thank you." There was an expression on his countenance which disarmed me of my wrath. At close range I searched his features. They were irregular, undecided. His nose was pug--another satyr touch--and his neck long, thin and ridged. I could not see his eyes. But something about him came out to me as an appeasing and soothing agent. Worse than useless for me to speculate as to what it was. A nameless something, probably, which acted upon my spirit, or nature, and charmed it in a way. I knew this thing before me was a fragment, a waif, a bit of flotsam on Life's sea. He could be nothing else. And yet--and yet, as he stood patiently with that enormous bottle stuck under my nose, and the genial, whole-hearted leer of invitation on his pagan face, I knew a sudden kinship; a quick, sympathetic rush of feeling, and as I waved the bottle aside with my left hand I thrust out my right and grasped his as it hung limply in front of the bundle he still pressed to his side with his elbow. "I don't want your liquor, Satyr," I said; "but you may sit down and talk to me if you want to." "Don't want good liquor?" he repeated, batting his lids, and lowering the bottle as though puzzled beyond understanding. "Not now; not often. Sometimes I do. But what sort of stuff is that?" I had just noticed the contents of the bottle was clear. "White lightnin'," he replied, carefully stowing it away in a pocket I could not see. I knew then. It was moonshine whiskey. Suddenly his cadaverousness struck me afresh. "Have you had supper--or dinner--or breakfast?" I demanded, with such vim that he answered hurriedly: "Naw; neither; nothin'." The grammar was bad, but the meaning was good. "Then let's eat--you and I--and become acquainted." I did not tell him my supper was over, though this bit of tact was doubtless unnecessary. Neither did I invite him indoors. While it is true I had really warmed to his outcast condition, the sentiment did not embrace the hospitality of my roof. I felt a desire to cultivate him, but the acquaintance must grow in the open. He grinned appreciatively at my suggestion, and I saw him lick his lips surreptitiously, after the manner of a starved animal which smells food. "Get busy about a fire, and I'll find the grub," I continued, not waiting for the assent which I knew he would give. With that I went in the house, took from my larder some bacon, eggs, bread and coffee, all of which, with a skillet, I carried out. Quickly as I had moved, I found the Satyr's fire ablaze when I returned. This he had made from dry leaves and sticks which I had already scraped into a pile from off my garden plot.