"Good morning," nodded Hill and squinted down his eyes as the young man boggled at his words.
"Good morning," replied the hobo and then, after a pause, he straightened up and came to the point. "What's the chance to get a little something to eat?" he inquired with a twisted smile and Bunker Hill sprang his bomb.
"Danged poor," he returned, and as the hobo blinked he spoke his piece with a rush. "I've got a store over there where you can buy what you want; but I've quit, absolutely, feeding every hobo that comes by and batters my door for grub. I'm an old man myself and you're young and strong--why the hell don't you get out and work?"
"Never you mind," answered the hobo, his eyes glowing angrily; and as Old Bunk went on with his tirade the miner's lip curled with scorn. "That's all right, old-timer," he broke in with cold politeness--"no offense--don't let me deprive you. I don't make a practice of battering on back doors. But, say, I'm looking for a fellow with a big, black mustache--did you see him come by this way?"
"Did I _see_ him?" yelled Hill flying into a fury, "well you're danged whistling I did! He came in last night and bummed his supper--my wife had to cook it special--and I gave him his bed and breakfast; and this morning when he left he didn't even say: 'Thanks!' That's how grateful these hoboes are! And when I went out to pick up his blankets a thumping big purse dropped out!"
"Holy Joe!" exclaimed the hobo looking up with sudden interest, "say, how long ago did he leave?"
"Not half an hour! No, not ten minutes ago--and if my wife hadn't been there to hold me down I'd have run him till he dropped. And when I opened that purse it was full of money--there was eight hundred and twenty-five dollars--and him trying to tell me he was broke!"
"That's him, all right," declared the hobo. "Well, so long; I'll be on my way."
He started off down the trail at a long, swinging stride, then turned abruptly back.
"I'll get a drink," he suggested, "if there's no objection. Don't charge for your water, I reckon."
It was all said politely and yet there was an edge to it which cut Old Bunk to the quick. He, Bunker Hill, who had fed hoboes for years and had never taken a cent, to be insulted like this by the first sturdy beggar that he declined to serve with a meal! He reached for his gun, but just at that moment his wife laid a hand on his arm. She had not been far away, just up on the porch where she could watch what was going on, and she turned to the hobo with a smile.