“Hello, bub! Lookin’ for your own picture or figgerin’ on nabbin’ some of them gents?” McCann asked genially.
“Naw, I was just lookin’,” Allen said awkwardly.
“Where did yuh come from an’ where yuh goin’?”
“I come from down Fort Worth way an’ I’m driftin’ aroun’ lookin’ for a job,” Allen replied.
“I’m goin’ out to the Double R to-morrow. Spur Treadwell, the manager, is a friend of mine. Want to go along an’ ast him for a job?” One-wing asked.
“Sure—but I don’t want no job peeling potatoes,” Allen complained.
“Yuh be aroun’ at seven to-morrow, an’ I’ll take yuh out an’ make Spur give yuh a job as top hand,” the older man chuckled.
One-wing McCann was the sort who would do a favor for some one if it did not cost him effort or money, but his generosity did not run to staking a ragged, homeless boy to a dinner and bed. He walked behind the bar and helped himself to a drink.
Allen wandered out into the street. It was dark now, and he made for a small restaurant he had seen when he entered the town. Having tucked away a beefsteak and some coffee, he wandered forth again and peered into the various saloons. He carefully studied each man he saw, but found none whom he knew or who might know him.
The following morning, when One-wing McCann came from the hotel and climbed into his buckboard, he found Allen waiting for him. He stared; his invitation of the evening before had been carelessly given and forgotten ten minutes after.