Blandy drained his glass before he gave the other a nod. Then, “Gimme some ham and eggs and fried potatoes,” he began. “A steak, if you got it, too. And coffee. And some pie. And fruit----” “Oranges is the only fruit,” interrupted the waiter. “Orange’ll do. And could the cook mix me some flap-jacks?” “I guess.” “Then that’ll be all.” The young man in shirt-sleeves went out, kicking the swinging door open before him and shouting his order. Left alone, Blandy helped himself to a second glass of water, after which he stretched his legs far under the table, folded his arms upon his breast, and took a deep breath. Then, as he waited, the smile at the corners of his mouth began slowly to spread, until his burned cheeks were wrinkled with it, and his moistened lips were parted to show a double line of strong white teeth. Thus he sat, all a-grin, dreaming. Beyond the swinging doors, dishes were clattering, and there was a sound of sputtering and frying. The voice of the waiter rose and fell, too, amid the din of crockery and cooking; and mingled with his voice, now and then, was the voice of a woman. Presently, the tempting smell of ham was wafted out into the dining-room. It was then that Blandy drew in his feet and sat erect, turning his eyes kitchen-ward. Soon the waiter appeared. Pyramided upon his towel-draped left arm were numerous plates and platters, topped by a huge cup of inky coffee that steamed as it washed gently from side to side with every sway of the arm. As the order was placed upon the table, together with some cutlery, which the waiter scattered with his right hand, Blandy picked up a knife and fork, pulled a platter into place before him, and began to eat, ravenously. Someone--a man--entered the front door and took a seat behind the cash-register. Blandy did not look up. One by one the platters and plates were emptied. At last, refreshed and satisfied, Blandy picked up an orange and began to peel it leisurely. It was now that for the first time he chanced to look across at the man behind the counter. That glance brought him to his feet, the half-peeled orange in his hand. “Harvey Patton!” he exclaimed in amazement. “How are you?” answered Patton, indifferently. The tip of his nose moved up and down a little as he spoke. Blandy strode toward the counter. “What under the shinin’ sun are you doin’ back in _Searles_?” he demanded. “Keeping restaurant.” The other was silent for a moment, his astonished eyes still fixed upon Patton. Then, “Where’s--Polly?” he asked. Patton jerked his head sidewise toward the kitchen. “She’s doing the cooking,” he explained, smiling. Blandy’s staring eyes narrowed. He turned abruptly, crossed the room to the swinging door and struck it out of the way before him.