Before I got to the house a couple of dogs dashed out, barking savagely. A healthy, matronly woman came out and quieted them, looking at me inquiringly. I told her myself and two boy friends, runaways from home, were hungry and I wanted some food, that I would be glad to pay her for anything she could spare, and if she would wrap it up I would hurry down to the bridge with it, where my chums were waiting.

“Yes,” she said kindly, “come in. I haven’t much here, but maybe I can find enough.” She gave me a seat outside near the kitchen door, where I waited and made friends with the dogs. In no time she came out with a large parcel, and refused the money I offered. I thanked her and went down to the bridge with my lump.

The bums had coffee boiling. We found enough tin cans to drink from and opened the parcel. It contained cold, fried chicken, cold biscuits, and half a pie.

“You’re a good connector, kid; sure you didn’t pay for this?” one of them said.

“No, and I didn’t have to answer any questions. It was easy except for the dogs.”

“Don’t let dogs worry you, kid; they’re cowards. I ought to know, I’ve been battlin’ ’em twenty years. They’ll bite you if you turn your back or run away, or if there’s a pack of ’em they’ll pull you down. If you get up against a hostile dog, rush him and he’ll weaken. I never got bit but once an’ that was in the town of Pueblo. I was just after gettin’ a six months’ floater out of Denver an’ went down to Pueblo to do a little D.D. ing with lavender for myself. I got myself a bunch of lavender and a ducat.”

The other bum laughed, his mouth full of chicken. “You’re talkin’ Chinook to that kid. What does he know about the D.D. and lavender and ducats.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I don’t know what he is talking about.” I was anxious to learn, but didn’t like to ask questions.