On the threshold Danny stopped, confusion possessing him. He stammered a moment, tried to smile, and then muttered:
"Guess I'd better wait a little. It isn't necessary to eat right away, anyhow."
He stepped back from the doorway with its smells of cooking food and the other followed him quickly, blue eyes under brows that now drew down in determination.
"Look here, boy," the man said, stepping close, "you was crazy for chuck a minute ago, an' now you make a bad excuse not to eat. To be sure, it ain't none of my business, but I'm old enough to be your daddy; I ain't afraid to ask you what's wrong. Why don't you want to eat?"
The sincerity of it, the unalloyed interest that precluded any hint of prying or sordid curiosity, went home to Danny and he said simply:
"I'm broke."
"You didn't need to tell me. I knowed it. I ain't, though. You eat with me."
"I can't! I can't do that!"
"Expect to starve, I s'pose?"
"No—not exactly. That is," he hastened to say, "not if I'm worth my keep. I came out here to—to get busy and take care of myself. I'll strike a job of some sort—anything, I don't care what it is or where it takes me. When I'm ready to work, I'll eat. I ought to get work right away, oughtn't I?"