Jeff Blandy, staggering across the last mile of his journey, directed his way over the railroad track to Conley’s restaurant. The dust of many days and nights was upon him, powdering hair and clothes to the colour of his grey hat. The weariness of trudging over yielding and uneven ground was in his long legs and in the stoop of his shoulders. And the leathern sallow of his face wore a fresh gloss of vivid red that was like the reflection of a torch-flame. Yet in his eyes—as brown and big and appealingly honest as the eyes of a great, friendly dog—was a gleam that neither the sand-laden winds nor the scorching sun had dulled. And there was a smile lurking among the long bristles at the corners of his wide mouth.
Entering the restaurant, he found it unchanged, though a year had passed since he had left Searles. There were the two oilcloth-covered tables that reached from end to end of the room, and the counter, with its cash-register. But no one was on hand to take his order. Stiffly, he let himself down upon a chair at one end of the first table. Then, leaning back and dropping his hat to the floor at his side, he picked up a knife and rang a sharp summons on the rim of an empty glass.
The door into the kitchen swung open to admit a young man in shirt-sleeves and soiled apron,—a short, thick-set young man with the curly flaxen hair, full blue eyes and apple-red cheeks of a boy doll. He was carrying a pitcher of water.
Blandy drained his glass before he gave the other a nod. Then, “Gimme some ham and eggs and fried potatoes,” he began. “A steak, if you got it, too. And coffee. And some pie. And fruit——”
“Oranges is the only fruit,” interrupted the waiter.
“Orange’ll do. And could the cook mix me some flap-jacks?”
“I guess.”
“Then that’ll be all.”
The young man in shirt-sleeves went out, kicking the swinging door open before him and shouting his order. Left alone, Blandy helped himself to a second glass of water, after which he stretched his legs far under the table, folded his arms upon his breast, and took a deep breath. Then, as he waited, the smile at the corners of his mouth began slowly to spread, until his burned cheeks were wrinkled with it, and his moistened lips were parted to show a double line of strong white teeth. Thus he sat, all a-grin, dreaming.
Beyond the swinging doors, dishes were clattering, and there was a sound of sputtering and frying. The voice of the waiter rose and fell, too, amid the din of crockery and cooking; and mingled with his voice, now and then, was the voice of a woman. Presently, the tempting smell of ham was wafted out into the dining-room. It was then that Blandy drew in his feet and sat erect, turning his eyes kitchen-ward.