So far in his limited experience Bealby had never seen a human countenance lit from behind by a flickering red flame. The effect he found remarkable rather than pleasing. It gave this stranger the most active and unstable countenance Bealby had ever seen. The nose seemed to be in active oscillation between pug and Roman, the eyes jumped out of black caves and then went back into them, the more permanent features appeared to be a vast triangle of neck and chin. The tramp would have impressed Bealby as altogether inhuman if it had not been for the smell of cooking he diffused. There were onions in it and turnips and pepper—mouth-watering constituents, testimonials to virtue. He was making a stew in an old can that he had slung on a cross stick over a brisk fire of twigs that he was constantly replenishing. “I won’t ’urt you, darn you,” he repeated. “Come and sit down on these leaves here for a bit and tell me all abart it.” Bealby did as he was desired. “I got lost,” he said, feeling too exhausted to tell a good story. The tramp, examined more closely, became less pyrotechnic. He had a large loose mouth, a confused massive nose, much long fair hair, a broad chin with a promising beard and spots—a lot of spots. His eyes looked out of deep sockets and they were sharp little eyes. He was a lean man. His hands were large and long and they kept on with the feeding of the fire as he sat and talked to Bealby. Once or twice he leant forward and smelt the pot judiciously, but all the time the little eyes watched Bealby very closely. “Lose yer collar?” said the tramp. Bealby felt for his collar. “I took it orf,” he said. “Come far?” “Over there,” said Bealby. “Where?” “Over there.” “What place?” “Don’t know the name of it.” “Then it ain’t your ’ome?” “No.” “You’ve run away,” said the man. “Pr’aps I ’ave,” said Bealby. “Pr’aps you ’ave! Why pr’aps? You _’ave_! What’s the good of telling lies abart it? When’d you start?” “Monday,” said Bealby. The tramp reflected. “Had abart enough of it?” “Dunno,” said Bealby truthfully. “Like some soup?” “Yes.” “’Ow much?” “I could do with a lot,” said Bealby. “Ah yah! I didn’t mean that. I meant, ’ow much for some? ’Ow much will you pay for a nice, nice ’arf can of soup? I ain’t a darn charity. See?” “Tuppence,” said Bealby. The tramp shook his head slowly from side to side and took out the battered iron spoon he was using to stir the stuff and tasted the soup lusciously. It was—jolly good soup and there were potatoes in it. “Thrippence,” said Bealby. “’Ow much you got?” asked the tramp. Bealby hesitated perceptibly. “Sixpence,” he said weakly. “It’s sixpence,” said the tramp. “Pay up.” “’Ow big a can?” asked Bealby. The tramp felt about in the darkness behind him and produced an empty can with a jagged mouth that had once contained, the label witnessed—I quote, I do not justify—‘_Deep Sea Salmon_.’ “That,” he said, “and this chunk of bread.... Right enough?”