If Helen May worried about her cough and her failing energy, she did not mention the fact again; but that was Helen May’s way, and Peter was not comforted by her apparent dismissal of the subject.  So far as he could see she was a great deal more inclined to worry over Vic, who refused to stay in school when he could now and then earn a dollar or two acting in “mob scenes” for some photoplay company out in Hollywood.  He did not spend the money wisely; Helen May declared that he was better off with empty pockets.

Ordinarily Peter would have taken Vic’s rebellion seriously enough to put a stop to it.  He did half promise Helen May that he would notify all the directors he could get hold of not to employ Vic in any capacity; even to “chase him off the studio grounds”, as Helen May put it.  But he did not, because chance threw him a bit of solid material on which to rebuild his air castle for Helen May.

He was edging his way down the long food counter, collecting his lunch of rice pudding, milk and whole-wheat bread in a cafeteria on Hill Street.  He was late, and there was no unoccupied table to be had, so he finally set his tray down where a haggard-featured woman clerk had just eaten hastily her salad and pie.  A brown-skinned young fellow with country manners and a range-fostered disposition to talk with any one who tarried within talking distance, was just unloading his tray load of provender on the opposite side of the table.  He looked across at Peter’s tray, grinned at the meager luncheon, and then looked up into Peter’s face with friendliness chasing the amusement from his eyes.

“Golly gee!  There’s a heap of difference in our appetites, from the looks of our layouts,” he began amiably.  “I’m hungry as a she-wolf, myself.  Hope they don’t make me wash the dishes when I’m through; I’m always kinda scared of these grab-it-and-go joints.  I always feel like making a sneak when nobody’s looking, for fear I’ll be called back to clean up.”

Peter smiled and handed his tray to a waiter.  “I wish I could eat a meal like that,” he confessed politely.

“Well, you could if you lived out more in the open.  Town kinda gits a person’s appetite.  Why, first time I come in here and went down the chute past the feed troughs, why it took two trays to pack away the grub I seen and wanted.  Lookout lady on the high stool, she give me two tickets—­thought there was two of, me, I reckon.  But I ain’t eatin’ the way I was then.  Town’s kinda gittin’ me like it’s got the rest of you.  Last night I come pretty near makin’ up my mind to go back.  Little old shack back there in the greasewood didn’t look so bad, after all.  Only I do hate like sin to bach, and a fellow couldn’t take a woman out there in the desert to live, unless he had money to make her comfortable.  So I’m going to give up my homestead—­if I can find some easy mark to buy out my relinquishment.  Don’t want to let it slide, yuh see, ’cause