She snatched her sweater from the ground, almost from under the old man's elbow.
"Oh, Carrie, how can you talk like that?" whispered Polly.
"Well, you never can tell what a tramp will take," Carrie said, taking no pains to keep her voice low.
"I wouldn't take anything, lady," the old man protested, with dignity.
"I'll bet he's hungry," Jess whispered to Polly. "Are there any sandwiches left?"
There were three or four, and a little shyly Polly offered them to the tramp who thanked her and ate them with evident appetite. Then Jess toasted him several marshmallows, and though he said he wasn't "any great hand for sweet things," he ate them without further protest.
Fred put more wood on the fire, and as he leaned over to prod it into a better blaze, he saw Ella Mooney slip her hand into the gaping pocket of the shabby jacket the old man wore.
"I'll bet she gave him some money," ran Fred's swift thought. "She's that kind of a girl—while all Carrie can think of is that she may lose her silly sweater."
Ella's eye caught Fred's, and she blushed violently. He shook his head to signify that he would not tell, and she seemed relieved. Meanwhile, Mattie Helms had been asking questions: Where had he come from? Where was he going? Was he a sailor?
"We just sent some messages off in a tin box," she chattered. "Do you suppose maybe sailors on a ship will pick them up, or people on shore?"