As host, I prepared the meal. While it was cooking, my strange guest sat just across from me in a most uncouth attitude. His shoulders and a portion of his back rested against a stump; the small of his back he sat upon. His long, spider legs were flexed in such a manner that his sharp knees shot up into the air above his head. He had placed his dust colored hat upon the ground, and I could see pale, lifeless strands of hair waving in the early night breeze on top of his partly bald head. The oilcloth bundle lay across his stomach. Neither spoke during the few minutes in which the eggs, meat and coffee were being prepared. One of his claw-like hands lay upon the bundle. Once I saw his other hand stray rather aimlessly under his coat, but it brought nothing out when withdrawn. "Go to it!" I said, cheerily, when all was done, shoving the skillet toward him, and rising to find a cup for his coffee. When I came back it was to see him with the skillet between his knees, devouring its contents with the voracity of a starved wolf. He was using a stick and his fingers to convey the hot food to his mouth, as I had forgotten to provide either knife or spoon. I watched him in amazement, for he bolted the bacon and eggs as a dog might. It was very plain he was badly in need of nourishment. "Good, Satyr?" I asked, squatting down and pouring out a running-over cupful of steaming coffee. He tried to reply, but the words were unintelligible because of the fullness of his mouth. So I wisely made no further effort at conversation until the skillet was clean--literally clean--for the hungry man took chunks of bread and sopped and swabbed until the black iron glowed spotless. Three cups of strong coffee he drank, three big cups; then, because, I suppose, there was nothing left, he drew his ragged sleeve across his mouth, sighed and voiced his thanks. "Hell 'n' blazes!" It meant more, from him, than the most polished bit of rhetoric from a scholar. "Glad you liked it," I said. "Do you smoke?" For reply, he began to search his garments silently, and directly produced a cob pipe, as remarkable in appearance as its owner. To begin with, it was made from a mammoth corncob. I verily believe it was two inches in diameter. Around its middle was a dark band, where the nicotine had soaked through. The reed stem was so short that it brought the pipe almost against the smoker's lips. He helped himself to the twist of tobacco I offered him, dexterously flipped out a red coal from the edge of the fire with a stick, then deliberately picked the live coal up between finger and thumb and laid it on top of the pipe. I had heard of this feat, but had never believed it true.