“Get out of my yard,” was the prompt response. “I don’t feed tramps!”
“We aren’t tramps, ma’am. We’ll pay for the coffee——”
“And steal the doormat! I know your sort!” There was no doormat in sight, but Wayne didn’t notice the fact. “Go on now before I call my man to you.” The door slammed shut.
Wayne viewed June in surprise and the negro boy shook his head helplessly. “She surely is a powerful disgrumpled lady, Mas’ Wayne! Yes, sir! Reckon we better move along.”
“Maybe she isn’t well,” said Wayne, as they left the inhospitable dwelling behind and again climbed to the track. “Just the same, she didn’t have any right to call us tramps, did she? I suppose we’d better keep on to the town, June. It isn’t much farther.”
So they went on, past sidings laden with long lines of freight cars, past locomotives sizzling idly, past a crossing where eight burnished rails, aglow in the sunlight, crossed their path, under a big signal tower, their eyes very busy and their stomachs, since they had not eaten since early the preceding afternoon, very empty. A long freight shed was reached, and as they passed it one of the many doors slid slowly open and a brawny man stood revealed against the dimness beyond. He stretched his arms, yawned, caught sight of the passers and stood there, framed in the square opening, staring interestedly. Wayne stopped.
“Howdy,” he said. “Can you tell me where I can get something to eat, sir?”
“Sure! Cross over back of the yellow building and you’ll see a lunch-wagon. Maybe you’re looking for the hotel, though?”
Wayne shook his head. “I reckon a lunch-wagon’s good enough. What is this place, please?”
“Medfield, son. Aren’t lost, are you?”