“Well, since the cat’s come back, I suppose it must have its saucer of milk,” he grinned, by way of hiding the fact that the lip-quiver had touched him.  “I haven’t taken any nourishment myself for quite some time.  Come on and eat.”

He started back toward town, and Bland Halliday followed him like a lonesome pup.

On the way, Johnny took stock of Bland in little quick glances from the corner of his eyes.  Bland had been shabby when Johnny discovered him one day on the depot platform of a tiny town farther down the line.  He had been shabbier after three weeks in Johnny’s camp, working on the airplane in hope of a free trip to the Coast.  But his shabbiness now surpassed anything Johnny had known, because Bland had evidently made pitiful attempts to hide it.  That, Johnny guessed, was because of the hussy Bland had mentioned.

Bland’s shoes were worn through on the sides, and he had blackened his ragged socks to hide the holes.  Somewhere he had got a blue serge coat, from which the lining sagged in frayed wrinkles.  His pockets were torn down at the corners; buttons were gone, grease spots and beer stains patterned the cloth.  Under the coat he wore a pink-and-white silk shirt, much soiled and with the neck frankly open, imitating sport style because of missing buttons.  He looked what he was by nature; what he was by training,—­a really skilful birdman,—­did not show at all.

He begged a smoke from Johnny and slouched along, with an aimless garrulity talking of his hard luck, now curiously shot with hope.  Which irritated Johnny vaguely, since instinct told him whence that hope had sprung.  Still, sympathy made him kind to Bland just because Bland was so worthless and so miserable.

At a dingy, fly-infested place called “Red’s Quick Lunch” whither Johnny, mindful of his low finances, piloted him, Bland ordered largely and complained because his “T bone” was too rare, and afterwards because it was tough.  Johnny dined on “coffee and sinkers” so that he could afford Bland’s steak and “French fried” and hot biscuits and pie and two cups of coffee.  The cat, he told himself grimly, was not content with a saucer of milk.  It was on the top shelf of the pantry, lapping all the cream off the pan!

Afterwards he took Bland to the hotel where his room was paid for until the end of the week, led him up there, produced an old suit of clothes that had not seemed to wear a sufficiently prosperous air for the owner of an airplane, and suggestively opened the door to the bathroom.

Bland took the clothes and went in, mumbling a fear that he would do himself mortal injury if he took a bath right after a meal.

“If you die, you’ll die clean, anyway,” Johnny told him grimly.  So Bland took a bath and emerged looking almost respectable.

Johnny had brought his second-best shoes out, and Bland put them on, pursing his loose lips because the shoes were a size too small.  But Johnny had thrown Bland’s shoes out of the window, so Bland had to bear the pinching.