The girl turned her head with a toss, and did not reply.  “Good-by,” James said.

The man grinned.  “Good-by, Doc,” he said.  “I’ll call you when I git the measles.  You’re a good feller.  If you’d been a benefactor I’d run you out.”

The man clattered down the steps of the gaudily painted little structure.  The girl whom he had called Mame turned and looked at James with a sort of innocent boldness.  “He’s a queer feller,” she observed.

“He seems to be.”

“He is, you bet.  Livin’ in a house he’s built out of boxes when he makes big money.  He’s on strike every little while.  I wouldn’t look at him.  Don’t know what he’s drivin’ at half the time.  Reckon he’s—­” She touched her head significantly.

“Lots of folks are,” said James affably.

“That’s so.”  She stared reflectively at James.  “I’m keepin’ this quick lunch ’cause my father’s sick,” said she.  “I see a lot of human nature in here.”

“I suppose you do.”

“You bet.  Every kind gits in here first and last, tramps up to swells who think they’re doin’ somethin’ awful funny to git frankfurters and coffee in here.  They must be hard driv.”

“I suppose they are sometimes.”

Mame’s eyes, surveying James, suddenly grew sharp.  “You ain’t one?” she asked accusingly.

“You bet not.”

Mame’s grew soft.  “I knew you were all right,” said she.  “Sometimes they say things to me that their fine lady friends would bounce ’em for, but I knew the minute I saw you that you wasn’t that kind if you be dressed up like a gent.  Reckon you’ve been makin’ big money in your last place.”

“Considerable,” admitted James.  He felt like a villain, but he had not the heart to accuse himself of being a gentleman before this pathetic girl.

Mame leaned suddenly over the counter, and her blonde crest nearly touched his forehead.  “Say,” said she, in a whisper.

“What?” whispered James back.

“What he said ain’t true.  There ain’t a mite of truth in it.”

“What he said,” repeated James vaguely.

Mame pouted.  “How awful thick-headed you be,” said she.  “What he said about my havin’ a feller.”  She blushed rosily, and her eyes fell.

James felt his own face suffused.  He pulled out his pocket-book, and rose abruptly.  “I’m sorry,” he said with stupidity.

The rosy flush died away from the girl’s face.  “Nobody asked you to be sorry,” said she.  “I could have any one of a dozen I know if I jest held out my little finger.”

“Of course, you could,” James said.  He felt apologetic, although he did not know exactly why.  He fumbled over the change, and at last made it right with a quarter extra for the girl.

“It’s a quarter too much,” said she.

“Keep it, please.”

She hesitated.  She was frowning under her great blonde roll, her mouth looked hurt.

“What a fuss about a quarter,” said James, with a laugh.  “Keep it.  That’s a good girl.”