June was downcast and woe-begone and self-accusing. Not a cent had he accumulated since noon. Luck had fairly deserted him. Every offer of services had been refused and a big, red-faced man had chased him out of a butcher shop with upraised cleaver when June had tried to negotiate for “a little ol’ piece o’ meat.” Hunger again faced them, and, to make matters worse, they were homeless. Wayne slumped down on the wheelbarrow and studied the situation from all angles, while June kept a sharp and nervous watch for that troublesome policeman. At length Wayne arose with a look of settled determination on his face. “Come on,” he said. “We’ve got to eat, June. If we don’t we can’t look for work. Mr. Connor wants Sam and----” June let out a wail. “You ain’ goin’ to sell Sam, Mas’ Wayne! Please don’ you do that! Why, I ain’ hungry scarcely at all yet! Why, I don’ reckon you got any _right_----” “I’m not going to sell him,” interrupted Wayne impatiently, even indignantly. “I’m going to ask Mr. Connor to take him and let us have our meals until we can pay him and get Sam back. That’s fair, isn’t it? Sam won’t mind--much. He’ll be warm and have plenty to eat and--and all.” “He ain’ goin’ to be happy,” replied June, shaking his head sorrowfully, “but I reckon he won’ mind a awful lot if you kind of explains to him jus’ how it is, Mas’ Wayne. But you reckon Mister Denny goin’ to do it?” “I mean to ask him, anyway,” answered Wayne stoutly. “He can’t do any more than refuse. So come along before the place fills up.” Fortunately they found the lunch-wagon empty save for the presence of Mr. Connor himself and one tattered individual consuming coffee and doughnuts at a far end of the counter. Denny was reading the evening paper under a light beside the glistening, sizzing coffee urn. “Hello, boys,” he greeted cordially. “And how’s the world using you these days? You wasn’t in this morning, was you?” “No, sir,” answered Wayne. “I--could I speak to you a minute, Mr. Connor?” “Sure.” Denny laid the paper down and followed Wayne out of earshot of the lone patron. “What is it, my boy?” In a low voice Wayne confided their predicament and made his proposal. Denny was sympathetic, and interjected, “I want to know!”, “Think of that now!”, and similar remarks during the narrative, and when Wayne had finished turned instantly and slid two cups and saucers toward the coffee urn. “Here,” he exclaimed, “you fellers put this down before you do any more jabbering. There’s the sugar forninst you, Junius. What’ll you have to eat, now? Beef stew, corned beef hash, ham, eggs----” He ran an eye down the placard on the wall. “What’ll it be, boys?” “Then you don’t mind doing it?” asked Wayne. “I’ll be awfully much obliged to you, Mr. Connor. I don’t know just when I can pay you back, but it won’t be very long, I reckon, and----” “Ah, go on!” replied Denny gruffly. “Eat what you want. I don’t want your dog, kid!”