Supper was a serious matter to the boy. He had no money nor provisions. In the usual case, money would have been no good—but there were a few things left in the shop of the lame woman. The field ration was light; and while he would not go hungry if the staff-officers knew, it was a delicate matter to make known his grubless state. Morning rambled over the town, after helping Mr. Kennard to quarters, and returned empty to the upper room. Mr. Calvert was there and appeared to see Morning for the first time. Calvert was a slender quiet chap, and believed in what he had to say.
“Where did you get that little sheath-knife you showed Mr. Kennard?” he asked abruptly.
Morning sickened before the man’s eyes. His life had been fought out in dark, rough places. He was as near twenty as twenty-five. He had the way of the under-dog, who does not expect to be believed, looking for the worst of it, whether guilty or not. He told Calvert he had found the knife on this table.
“I thought I put it in my saddle-bags,” Calvert said.
“You are very welcome to it. The Mio Amigo made me look at it twice——”
“That’s why I wanted it. Take this for your trouble.”
Calvert placed a bit of paper money on the table between them.
“It was no trouble. I don’t want the money.”
“Take it along. Don’t think of it again.”
Morning didn’t want to appear stubborn. This was the peculiarity of the episode. The thought of taking the money repelled him. The connection of the money with supper occurred, but not with the strength of his dislike to appear perverse or bad-tempered.... He saw all clearly after he had accepted the paper, but the matter was then closed. He was very miserable. He had proved his inferiority. The little brush with big men had been too much for him. He belonged among the enlisted....