pound of bacon. Day
before that he won Henry's last can of beans. He's got his share under his
blanket over there, and swears he'll shoot any one who goes to monkeying
with his bed--so you'd better fight shy of it. Thompson--he isn't up
yet--chose the whisky for _his_ share, so you'd better fight shy of him,
too. Henry and I'll divvy up with you."

"Thanks," said Roscoe, the one word choking him.

Henry came from his bunk, bent and wobbling. He looked like a dying man,
and for the first time Roscoe saw that his hair was gray. He was a little
man, and his thin hands shook as he held them out over the stove, and
nodded at Roscoe. The bearded man had opened his can, and approached the
stove with a pan of water, coming in beside Roscoe without noticing him. He
brought with him a foul odour of stale tobacco smoke and whisky. After he
had put his water over the fire he turned to one of the bunks and with half
a dozen coarse epithets roused Thompson, who sat up stupidly, still half
drunk. Henry had gone to a small table, and Scotty followed him with the
bacon. But Roscoe did not move. He forgot his hunger. His pulse was beating
quickly. Sensations filled him which he had never known or imagined before.
He had known tragedy; he had investigated to what he had supposed to be the
depths of human vileness--but this that he was experiencing now stunned
him. Was it possible that these were people of his own kind? Had a madness
of some sort driven all human instincts from them? He saw Thompson's red
eyes fastened upon him, and he turned his face to escape their questioning,
stupid leer. The bearded man was turning out the can of beans he had won
from Scotty. Beyond the bearded man the door creaked, and Roscoe heard the
wail of the storm. It came to him now as a friendly sort of sound.

"Better draw up, pardner," he heard Scotty say. "Here's your share."

One of the thin slices of bacon and a hard biscuit were waiting for him on
a tin plate. He ate as ravenously as Henry and Scotty, and drank a cup of
hot tea. In two minutes the meal was over. It was terribly inadequate. The
few mouthfuls of food stirred up all his craving, and he found it
impossible to keep his eyes from the bearded man and his beans. The bearded
man, whom Scotty called Croker, was the only one who seemed well fed, and
his horror increased when Henry bent over and said to him in a low whisper:
"He didn't get my beans fair. I had three aces and a pair of deuces, an'