It was evident enough what Latisan wanted at that moment, but he had not the courage to voice his wishes in regard to her; he had not enough self-possession left to state his actual desires as to food, even. There was one staple dish of the drive; he was heartily sick of that food, but he could not think of anything else right then. "Bub--bub--beans!" he stuttered. She hurried away. When she returned with her tray she did not interrupt any conversation between the two men at the little table; the Vose-Mern man still had his back turned on Latisan; the drive master sat bolt upright in a prim attitude which suggested a sort of juvenile desire to mind his manners. The girl's eyes were still alight with the spirit of jest. She placed steak and potatoes and other edibles in front of Latisan. She gave the gentleman from the agency a big bowl of beans. "I didn't order those!" "I'm sorry, sir. I must have got my orders mixed." "You have! You've given that"--he stopped short of applying any epithet to Latisan--"you've given him my order!" "Won't you try our beans--just once? The cook tells me they were baked in the ground, woodman style." "Then give 'em to the woodsmen--it's the kind of fodder that's fit for 'em." Latisan leaned across the table and tugged Crowley's sleeve. "Look me in the eye, my friend!" The man who was exhorted found the narrowed, hard eyes very effective in a monitory way. "I don't care what you eat, as a general thing. But you have just slurred woodsmen and have stuck up your nose at the main grub stand-by of the drive. You're going to eat those beans this lady has very kindly brought. If you don't eat 'em, starting in mighty sudden, I'll pick up that bowl and tip it over and crown you with it, beans and all. Because I'm speaking low isn't any sign I don't mean what I say!" The beans were steaming under the stout man's nose. He decided that the heat would be better in his stomach than on the top of his head; he had just had one meal served that way. He devoured the beans and marched out of the dining room, his way taking him past the sideboard where the new waitress was skillfully arranging glasses after methods entirely different from those of the sullen youth. "Don't jazz the game any more--not with _me_," growled Crowley, fury in his manner. "And I want to see you in private." She stiffened, facing him. She knew that Latisan's earnest eyes were on her. She assumed the demeanor of a girl who was resentfully able to take care of herself, playing a part for the benefit of the drive master. "Attend strictly to your end of the program, Crowley!" "What do you mean--my end?" "Protecting me from insults by these rough woodsmen. I suppose you are doing the same for Miss Elsham." Her irony was biting. He scowled and put his face close to hers. "If you're up here on the job--it's not a lark. It's a case of he-men in these parts. If you're not careful you'll start something you can't stop."