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I saw the scattered men look at him curiously. They had the air of not taking part.

"Oh!" I said.

"Yes," said he, "Oh!—as you say. Do you want lunch?"

"Yes," I said, "I came over for lunch."

"Well," said he, "I'm very sorry, but I don't intend to have lunch here except for residents. I can't serve people passing through. Are you a hobo? I don't remember your face at all."

Now a hobo is a tramp, a beggar at doors, and so I looked this drunken new proprietor, as he called himself, up and down, and said I:

"Seeing that I'm not going to eat at your house—not even if you put up a free lunch—I don't see that you have any call to know anything about me. Good-day to you—and I hope you may flourish in your establishment."

I wheeled about and trudged back to the depôt, more than ever conscious of my empty stomach and intending to ask Scotty if I could obtain a lunch anywhere else, consoling myself, at least, with the recollection of the tinned goods in the store—tinned salmon, tinned tomatoes, tinned everything, all round the store in the deep shelves.