Billy was penniless, yet he had no doubt but that he should eat when he had discovered food.  He was thinking of this as he walked briskly toward the west, and what he thought of induced a doubt in his mind as to whether it was, after all, going to be so easy to steal food.

“Shaw!” he exclaimed, half aloud, “she wouldn’t think it wrong for a guy to swipe a little grub when he was starvin’.  It ain’t like I was goin’ to stick a guy up for his roll.  Sure she wouldn’t see nothin’ wrong for me to get something to eat.  I ain’t got no money.  They took it all away from me, an’ I got a right to live—­but, somehow, I hate to do it.  I wisht there was some other way.  Gee, but she’s made a sissy out o’ me!  Funny how a feller can change.  Why I almost like bein’ a sissy,” and Billy Byrne grinned at the almost inconceivable idea.

Before Billy came to a road he saw a light down in a little depression at one side of the track.  It was not such a light as a lamp shining beyond a window makes.  It rose and fell, winking and flaring close to the ground.

It looked much like a camp fire, and as Billy drew nearer he saw that such it was, and he heard a voice, too.  Billy approached more carefully.  He must be careful always to see before being seen.  The little fire burned upon the bank of a stream which the track bridged upon a concrete arch.

Billy dropped once more from the right of way, and climbed a fence into a thin wood.  Through this he approached the camp fire with small chance of being observed.  As he neared it the voice resolved itself into articulate words, and presently Billy leaned against a tree close behind the speaker and listened.

There was but a single figure beside the small fire—­that of a man squatting upon his haunches roasting something above the flames.  At one edge of the fire was an empty tin can from which steam arose, and an aroma that was now and again wafted to Billy’s nostrils.

Coffee!  My, how good it smelled.  Billy’s mouth watered.  But the voice—­that interested Billy almost as much as the preparations for the coming meal.

   We’ll dance a merry saraband from here to drowsy Samarcand. 
  Along the sea, across the land, the birds are flying South,
 And you, my sweet Penelope, out there somewhere you wait for me,
  With buds, of roses in your hair and kisses on your mouth.

The words took hold of Billy somewhere and made him forget his hunger.  Like a sweet incense which induces pleasant daydreams they were wafted in upon him through the rich, mellow voice of the solitary camper, and the lilt of the meter entered his blood.

But the voice.  It was the voice of such as Billy Byrne always had loathed and ridiculed until he had sat at the feet of Barbara Harding and learned many things, including love.  It was the voice of culture and refinement.  Billy strained his eyes through the darkness to have a closer look at the man.  The light of the camp fire fell upon frayed and bagging clothes, and upon the back of a head covered by a shapeless, and disreputable soft hat.