“When did you taste food last?” continued the other.
“Yesterday morning,” said Sam, clearing a soft piece of bread from his teeth with his tongue.
“Could you take something?” inquired the other.
Sam smiled expectantly and took a seat. He heard his new friend order a pot, and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, tried to think of something nice to say as he drank it. Then his blood froze in his veins, and his jaw dropped as the other came from the counter and held out half a loaf.
“There, my man,” he said kindly, “put that inside you.”
Sam took it and tried to put it into his pocket, and repeating his old tale about taking it home to the children, rose to depart.
“You eat that, and I’ll give you a couple of loaves to take home to them,” said the other.
The bread fell from Sam’s nerveless fingers and rolled on to the floor. A bystander picked it up, and wiping it on his coat, returned it to him.
“Go on,” said the big man, taking a deep draught of his beer—“eat away.”
“I must see my children eat first,” said Sam in a broken voice.