“You the main guy here?”

The agent nodded.

“Got a sore throat?” demanded the boy surlily.  He started toward the door.  The agent made no move, but his eyes were attentive.

“That’ll be near enough,” he said quietly.

“Oh, we ain’t on that lay,” put in the grizzled man.  He was quite hoarse.  “You needn’t to be scared of us.”

“I’m not,” agreed the agent.  And, indeed, the fact was self-evident.

“What about the pueblo yonder?” asked the man with a jerk of his head toward the town.

“The hoosegow is old and the sheriff is new.”

“I got ya,” said the man, nodding.  “We better be on our way.”

“I would think so.”

“You’re a hell of a guy, you are,” whined the boy. “‘On yer way’ from you an’ not so much as ‘Are you hungry?’ What about a little hand-out?”

“Nothing doing.”

“Tightwad!  How’d you like—­”

“If you’re hungry, feel in your coat-pocket.”

“I guess you’re a wise one,” put in the man, grinning appreciatively.  “We got grub enough.  Panhandlin’s a habit with the kid; don’t come natural to him to pass a likely prospect without makin’ a touch.”

He leaned against the platform, raising one foot slightly from the ground in the manner of a limping animal.  The agent disappeared into the station, locking the door after him.  The boy gave expression to a violent obscenity directed upon the vanished man.  When that individual emerged again, he handed the grizzled man a box of ointment and tossed a packet of tobacco to the evil-faced boy.  Both were quick with their thanks.  That which they had most needed and desired had been, as it were, spontaneously provided.  But the elder of the wayfarers was puzzled, and looked from the salve-box to its giver.

“How’d you know my feet was blistered?”

“Been padding in the rain, haven’t you?”

“Have you been on the hoof, too?” asked the hobo quickly.

The other smiled.

“Say!” exclaimed the boy.  “I bet he’s Banneker.  Are you?” he demanded.

“That’s my name.”

“I heard of you three years ago when you was down on the Long Line
Sandy,” said the man.  He paused and considered.  “What’s your lay, Mr.
Banneker?” he asked, curiously but respectfully.

“As you see it.  Railroading.”

“A gay-cat,” put in the boy with a touch of scorn.

“You hold your fresh lip,” his elder rebuked him.  “This gent has treated us like a gent.  But why?  What’s the idea?  That’s what I don’t get.”

“Oh, some day I might want to run for Governor on the hobo ticket,” returned the unsmiling agent.

“You get our votes.  Well, so long and much obliged.”