"Oh, come along and have some lunch. Can you do with native fare? I feed at the osteria over there, and hear all the gossip of the place. Olives, cheese, omelettes, sardines, salad, coffee, vin du pays."
"Thanks. I bar the vinegar."
The enjoyment of this simple menu appeared to lighten the young man's cheer considerably. His appetite, for a person who had been contemplating a violent exit from a world of care at intervals all the forenoon, was not bad—a circumstance not unobserved by his host. The table talk was impersonal and even lighter than the fare. An anecdote spiced with dry humour drew from the stony-broke a light-hearted, boyish laugh, the gay ring of which attracted the attention and sympathetic smiles of some workmen and peasants.
"He has a light heart, that one," they told each other in their patois, as if the possession of a light heart were guarantee of all that is admirable in man.
"Didn't you try ranching once?" the light-hearted one suddenly asked the man of piercing gaze.
"I did. Once."
"Any money in ranching?"
"Best part of mine left in it."
"What has money in it? That's what I want to know?"
"What is that to you? You don't want money."