There was a tentative quality in this observation that roused in Fred a vague speculation. He had a feeling that the stranger was leading up cautiously to some subject. He looked again, this time sharply, at his companion of the moment. There was nothing extraordinary in the face except the eyes burning fitfully under the gloom of incredibly thick, coarse, reddish eyebrows. His mouth was a curious mixture of softness and cruelty, and his hands were broad, but not ungraceful.
"Well, if a man is starving he'll do almost anything, I guess," Fred returned, significantly.
"Do you mean that you would—if you were starving?"
"I'm starving now!" escaped Fred Starratt, almost involuntarily.
"I thought so," said the other, quietly.
"Why?"
"I've seen plenty of starving men in my day. I know the look. And you're suffering in the bargain. Not physically. But you've been through a hell of some kind. Am I right?"
"Yes … you're quite right."
The boat was swinging into the slip. Already a crowd was moving down upon them.
"That's why I spoke to you. A man who's been through hell is like a field freshly broken to the plow. He's ready for seed."