Yet Danny saw none of those things. He looked straight into the blue eyes squinting up at him--eyes deep and comprehensive, set in a copper-colored face, surrounded by an intricate design of wrinkles in the clear skin; eyes that had looked at incalculably distant horizons for decades, and had learned to look at men with that same long-range gaze. A light was in those eyes--a warm, kindly, human light--that attracted and held and created an atmosphere of stability; it seemed as though that light were tangible, something to which a man could tie--so prompt is the flash from man to man that makes for friendship and devotion; and to Danny there came a sudden comfort. That was why he did not notice the other things about the little man. That was why he wanted to talk. "Good morning," he said. "'Mornin'." Then a pause, while their eyes still held one another. After a moment Danny looked away. He had a stabbing idea that the little man was reading him with that penetrating gaze. The look was kindly, sincere, yet--and perhaps because of it--the boy cringed. The man stirred and spat. "To be sure, things kind of quiet down when th' train quits this place," he remarked with a nasal twang. "Yes, indeed. I--I don't suppose much happens here--except trains." Danny smiled feebly. He took his hat off and wiped the brow on which beads of sweat glistened against the pallor. The little man still looked up, and as he watched Danny's weak, uncertain movements the light in his eyes changed. The smile left them, but the kindliness did not go; a concern came, and a tenderness. Still, when he spoke his nasal voice was as it had been before. "Take it you just got in?" "Yes--just now." Then another silence, while Danny hung his head as he felt those searching eyes boring through him. "Long trip this hot weather, ain't it?" "Yes, very long." Danny looked quickly at his interrogator then and asked: "How did you know?" "Didn't. Just guessed." He chuckled. "Ever think how many men's been thought wise just guessin'?" But Danny caught the evasion. He looked down at his clothes, wrinkled, but still crying aloud of his East. "I suppose," he muttered, "I do look different--_am_ different." And the association of ideas took him across the stretches to Manhattan, to the life that was, to-- He caught his breath sharply. The call of his throat was maddening! The little man had risen and, with thumbs hooked in his chap belt, stumped on his high boot heels close to Danny. A curious expression softened the lines of his face, making it seem queerly out of harmony with his garb. "You lookin' for somebody?" he ventured, and the nasal quality of his voice seemed to be mellowed, seemed to invite, to compel confidence. "Looking for somebody?" Danny, only half consciously, repeated the query. Then, throwing his head back and following that range of flat tops off to the north, he muttered: "Yes, looking for somebody--looking for myself!"