For fully half an hour longer, the sailorman and I talked on in similar fashion.  In the end he told the policemen that I was what I represented myself to be, and after a night’s lodging and a breakfast I was released to wander on westward to my married sister in San Francisco.

But to return to the woman in Reno who opened her door to me in the deepening twilight.  At the first glimpse of her kindly face I took my cue.  I became a sweet, innocent, unfortunate lad.  I couldn’t speak.  I opened my mouth and closed it again.  Never in my life before had I asked any one for food.  My embarrassment was painful, extreme.  I was ashamed.  I, who looked upon begging as a delightful whimsicality, thumbed myself over into a true son of Mrs. Grundy, burdened with all her bourgeois morality.  Only the harsh pangs of the belly-need could compel me to do so degraded and ignoble a thing as beg for food.  And into my face I strove to throw all the wan wistfulness of famished and ingenuous youth unused to mendicancy.

“You are hungry, my poor boy,” she said.

I had made her speak first.

I nodded my head and gulped.

“It is the first time I have ever ... asked,” I faltered.

“Come right in.”  The door swung open.  “We have already finished eating, but the fire is burning and I can get something up for you.”

She looked at me closely when she got me into the light.

“I wish my boy were as healthy and strong as you,” she said.  “But he is not strong.  He sometimes falls down.  He just fell down this afternoon and hurt himself badly, the poor dear.”

She mothered him with her voice, with an ineffable tenderness in it that I yearned to appropriate.  I glanced at him.  He sat across the table, slender and pale, his head swathed in bandages.  He did not move, but his eyes, bright in the lamplight, were fixed upon me in a steady and wondering stare.

“Just like my poor father,” I said.  “He had the falling sickness.  Some kind of vertigo.  It puzzled the doctors.  They never could make out what was the matter with him.”

“He is dead?” she queried gently, setting before me half a dozen soft-boiled eggs.

“Dead,” I gulped.  “Two weeks ago.  I was with him when it happened.  We were crossing the street together.  He fell right down.  He was never conscious again.  They carried him into a drug-store.  He died there.”

And thereat I developed the pitiful tale of my father—­how, after my mother’s death, he and I had gone to San Francisco from the ranch; how his pension (he was an old soldier), and the little other money he had, was not enough; and how he had tried book-canvassing.  Also, I narrated my own woes during the few days after his death that I had spent alone and forlorn on the streets of San Francisco.  While that good woman warmed up biscuits, fried bacon, and cooked more eggs, and while I kept pace with her in taking care of all that she placed before me, I enlarged the picture of that poor orphan boy and filled in the details.  I became that poor boy.  I believed in him as I believed in the beautiful eggs I was devouring.  I could have wept for myself.  I know the tears did get into my voice at times.  It was very effective.