They looked at each other and laughed again; initiated friends;
tasting each other's souls. They shared sandwiches and
confessions. When the other passengers had gone to bed and the
sailors on watch seemed lonely the two men were still declaring,
shyly but delightedly, that "things is curious."

In the damp discomfort of early morning the cattlemen shuffled
from the steamer at Portland and were herded to a lunch-room by
the boss, who cheerfully smoked his corn-cob and ejaculated to
Mr. Wrenn and Morton such interesting facts as:

"Trubiggs is a lobster. You don't want to let the bosses bluff
you aboard the _Merian_. They'll try to chase you in where the
steers'll gore you. The grub'll be--"

"What grub do you get?"

"Scouse and bread. And water."

"What's scouse?"

"Beef stew without the beef. Oh, the grub'll be rotten.
Trubiggs is a lobster. He wouldn't be nowhere if 't wa'n't for me."

Mr. Wrenn appreciated England's need of roast beef, but he
timidly desired not to be gored by steers, which seemed
imminent, before breakfast coffee. The streets were coldly
empty, and he was sleepy, and Morton was silent. At the
restaurant, sitting on a high stool before a pine counter, he
choked over an egg sandwich made with thick crumby slices of a