I learned from a neighbour that no use was now being made of the pie-plant that grew on the railroad property, so I helped myself to a fine cooking. Forced to abstain from fruit and vegetables so long, the rhubarb made an especial appeal to our palates. I also discovered a large patch of a wild plant, which, as a child, I had often gathered for my mother. She called it “lamb’s quarter,” and held the young and tender shoots in high esteem for greens. I now pulled a large panful and we found them a pleasant addition to our menu. As I worked I again saw the invalid, and that night the poor fellow was sitting on a pile of ties with his head in his hands when Dan came home from work. He looked so desperately lonely and miserable that I asked Dan to go over and talk to him and see if there was anything we could do to help. In a few minutes Dan came back. “The man is not sick. He’s hungry,” he said. “Hungry!” I cried. “If that is all that ails him, he must be starving to look as he does. Go and invite him here for supper.” Dan returned with the ragged, pallid stranger, whose emaciated face was almost covered by a heavy brown beard. He took a seat on an old stump and ate what was offered him in silence. After the meal he filled the water bucket, carried dried dung to replenish the smudge, then set off toward the boxcar without a word. Next morning he sat on the ties as before. Again Dan called him over, and again he ate in silence, but on leaving he doffed his scare-crow hat. “Thank you very much,” he muttered. That evening he appeared without waiting to be summoned and as he drank his cocoa, I saw Dan choking with suppressed emotion. No sooner had the man gone, after attending to the chores as before, when Dan burst out. “Did you see what that chap did? He picked up the salt instead of the sugar (we keep both in cocoa cans) and put a heaping spoonful in his cocoa, and blessed if he didn’t drink the unspeakable mess without a quiver.” Next day our peculiar visitor came in rather early and stood awkwardly about, fumbling with his hat. Then with a shy, sidelong movement, he laid a fifty cent piece on our pine box table, and bolted away like a scared rabbit. A half hour later he came hesitatingly back, and prompted by Dan’s questions, explained that he had spent most of the day chopping wood, for which work he had received the fifty cents. We had dubbed him Larabo for want of a better name, as a convenient abbreviation of Laramie Hobo, and that night he spent the evening beside our fire. Emboldened by our acceptance of his pitiful offering and encouraged by tactful questions, he told us his story.