He cut short my request for something to eat, snapping out, "I don't
believe you want to work."

Now this was irrelevant. I hadn't said anything about work. The topic
of conversation I had introduced was "food." In fact, I didn't want to
work. I wanted to take the westbound overland that night.

"You wouldn't work if you had a chance," he bullied.

I glanced at his meek-faced wife, and knew that but for the presence
of this Cerberus I'd have a whack at that meat-pie myself. But
Cerberus sopped himself in the pie, and I saw that I must placate him
if I were to get a share of it. So I sighed to myself and accepted his
work-morality.

"Of course I want work," I bluffed.

"Don't believe it," he snorted.

"Try me," I answered, warming to the bluff.

"All right," he said. "Come to the corner of blank and blank
streets"--(I have forgotten the address)--"to-morrow morning. You know
where that burned building is, and I'll put you to work tossing
bricks."

"All right, sir; I'll be there."

He grunted and went on eating. I waited. After a couple of minutes he