Apache looked at him with a relieved expression. "Well, that’s hopeful," he said. "Perhaps Blaine would n’t catch it either. Still, still, I should n’t have mocked him. You noticed, I bet?" he said to me. "Strowl?" I inquired. He sighed. "There ’s no sense in trying to make fun of anything in a man’s clothes or talk or manner. Besides, it’s excessively vulgar, excessively vulgar." "Here ’s an interesting ’bad man,’" I mused; but there was no more said till we won clear of the town, quite beyond the last sidewalks that stretched and criss-crossed among the rocks and sand, marking out the prospective streets. There, on a little rising place of sand and rocks, we sat down. It was a desolate spot. A gentle wind was blowing among the dunes and the sand was all moving, trickling down here and piling up there. Being near sunset the cicadi had disappeared and the evening light falling wan on the occasional tufts of sage-brush gave them a peculiar air of desolation. Donoghue pulled out a clasp-knife and sat progging in the sand with it, and then Apache Kid jerked up his head and smiled on me, a smile entirely friendly. And suddenly as he looked at me his face became grave. "Have you had supper yet?" he asked. "No," I said. "It’s early yet." He looked at me keenly and then: "You ’ll excuse me remarking on your appearance, but you look extraordinarily tired." "Oh," said I, lightly, "I have not been feeling just up to the scratch and—well, I thought I ’d try the fasting cure." He hummed to himself and dived a hand into his trousers pocket and held out a five-dollar bill under my nose. "There," he said, "go and eat and don’t lie any more. I ’ve been there myself—when I was new to the country and could n’t get into its ways." There was something of such intense warm-heartedness behind the peremptory tones (while Donoghue turned his face aside, running the sand between his fingers and looking foolishly at it) that to tell you the truth, I found the tears in my eyes before I was aware. But this sign of weakness Apache Kid made pretence not to observe. "We ’ll wait here for you till you get fed," said he, examining the back of his hand. "No, no," I answered hastily, "I had rather hear what you have to say just now." Thank him for his kindness I could not, for I felt that thanks would but embarrass him. "To tell you the truth, the mere knowledge that I need not go to bed hungry is sufficient." "Well," said he, looking up when my voice rang firm. "The fact is, I am going to offer you a job; but it is a job you might not care to take unless you were hard pressed; so you will please consider that a loan, not a first instalment, and the fact of settling it must not influence."