“I dare say you’re hungry,” observed Titus, suddenly. “I always am when I’ve been in the train. What would you like? It’s a good while before lunch.”
“Ah, thank you,” said the other, politely; “if I might have a little meat, just a little.”
“Meat,” repeated Titus, “certainly. Higby,” and he turned toward the man, who, with a face brimful of curiosity, was coming in with some coal for the fire, “please have some meat brought up.”
“And have it raw,” said the stranger, with exquisite courtesy.
Titus threw a glance at the boy’s pale cheeks. He looked sick. Probably he was taking a raw-meat cure.
“What kind of m-m-meat?” inquired Higby, goggling at the newcomer.
“Any kind,” replied the boy, smoothly.
“What’s your name?” blurted Titus, in an embarrassed manner when Higby had left the room.
“Dallas de Warren.”
“Ah!” said Titus, and he drew a long breath. Then a succession of confused thoughts began to pass through his brain. He was not a brilliant boy, but he was not without shrewdness. He felt that the lad before him, though perfectly calm and apparently happy, had been led to expect a different welcome from this. The enthusiastic, elderly clergyman in New York had probably told the lad that the two Sancrofts would fall on his neck. What could Titus do to be more agreeable? He would better apologize for his grandfather. The lad had not mentioned him, but Titus felt sure that he was thinking of him.