He woke with a violent start, his feet swung to the floor, his body hunched as if to spring, his glance wildly alive. Then it fell on her and the fierce alertness died out; his face softened into a smile, almost sheepish, and he rubbed his hand over his eyes. "Lord, I was asleep," he muttered. She kissed him, pulled him up, and with an arm round his back, steered him to an armchair, asking questions. His hand on her waist patted softly. "Well, you ain't fattened up any," he said with a quizzical grin and side glance. That made him look more like himself, but Pancha noticed that his movements were stiff. "What's the matter?" she said sharply. "You ain't got the rheumatism again, have you?" "Nup," he sank slowly into the chair. "But sometimes when I first move I sort 'er kink at the knees. Gets me in the morning, but I limber up all right." She stood beside him, uneasily frowning. "What are you goin' to do this winter when the rains begin? You can't run risks of being sick, and me not able to get to you." "Sick--hell!" He shot a humorous look at her. "I ain't sick in God's own country--it's only down here. Why y'ain't all as stiff as stone images in this sea-damp beats me." "Oh, it's the damp," she said, relieved. "Course it's the damp. I wouldn't expect a rope dancer to live here and stay spry." That was like Pa; her anxiety evaporated and she began to smile. "Well, there's one person who does--yours truly. If you don't believe it, come to the Albion and see." "There ain't another like you, hon. There's not your match from the Rockies to the Pacific." "Oh, old blarney!" she cried, now joyous, and, giving him a pat on the shoulder, moved about collecting supper. "Sit tight there while I get you a bite. I've some olives that'll make you think you're back among the greasers." The supper came from divers places--the window sill, the top bureau drawer, the closet shelf. Beer and sardines were its chief features, with black olives soaked in oil and garlic, cheese straws taken from a corset box, and ripe figs oozing through their paper bag. They ate hungrily without ceremony, wiping their fingers on the towel she had spread for a cloth. As they munched they swapped their news--his failure at selling the ledge, her success in "The Zingara." He listened to that with avid attention. "Can you stay and see me tomorrow night?" she asked. He shook his head. "'Fraid not. I got a date with a feller in Dutch Flat for tomorrow afternoon." "About the prospect?" "Yep--it's a chance and I got to jump at it." "Why did it fall through before?" He shoveled in a cracker spread with sardines before he answered. "Oh, same old story--thought it didn't show up as big as they'd expected. You can't count on it, no more'n you can on the weather."