“Well—I’ll—be—darned!” said every one, almost in chorus.
“Who are you?” the hook-nosed man demanded of Father. But his voice sounded puzzled and he gazed incredulously at Mother as she cozily peeled potatoes, her delicate cheeks and placid eye revealed in the firelight. She was already as sturdily industrious and matter-of-fact as though she were back in the tea-room.
“I’m Appleby, the pedestrian,” said Father. “Wife and I went— Say, ain’t she the nicest-looking woman in that firelight! Great woman, let me tell you. We went broke in New York and we’re tramping to ’Frisco. Can you take us in for the night? I guess we’re all fellow-hoboes.”
“Sure will,” said the hook-nosed man. “Pleased to have you come, fellow-bum. My name’s Crook McKusick. I’m kind of camp boss. The boys call me ‘Crook’ because I’m so honest. You can see that yourself.”
“Oh yes,” said Father, quite innocently.
“The lad that the madam dispossessed is Reddy, and this fish-faced duck here is the K. C. Kid. But I guess the most important guy in the gang is Mr. Mulligan, the stew. If your missus wants to elect herself cook to-night, and make the mulligan taste human, she can be the boss.”
“Bring me the salt and don’t talk so much. You’ll have the stew spoiled in about one minute,” Mother said, severely, to Crook McKusick, and that mighty leader meekly said, “Yes, ma’am,” and trotted to a box on the far side of the fire.
The rest of the band—eight practical romanticists, each of whom was in some ways tougher than the others—looked rather sullenly at Mother’s restraining presence, but when the mulligan was served they volunteered awkward compliments. Veal and chicken and sweet potatoes and Irish potatoes and carrots and corn were in the stew, and it was very hot, and there was powerful coffee with condensed milk to accompany it.
Father shook his head and tried to make himself believe that he really was where he was—in a rim of bare woods reddened with firelight, surrounding a little stumpy clearing, on one side of which was a shack covered with tar-paper fastened with laths. The fire hid the storm behind its warm curtain. The ruffians about the fire seemed to be customers in a new “T Room” as Mother fussed over them and kept their plates filled.
Gradually the hoboes thawed out and told the Applebys that they had permission from the owner of the land to occupy this winter refuge, but that they liberally “swiped” their supplies from the whole countryside.