But to return to the woman in Reno who opened her door tome in the deepening twilight. At the first glimpse of her kindlyface I took my cue. I became a sweet， innocent， unfortunatelad. I couldn’t speak. I opened my mouth and closed it again.
Never in my life before had I asked any one for food. Myembarrassment was painful， extreme. I was ashamed. I， wholooked upon begging as a delightful whimsicality， thumbedmyself over into a true son of Mrs. Grundy， burdened withall her bourgeois morality. Only the harsh pangs of the bellyneedcould compel me to do so degraded and ignoble a thingas beg for food. And into my face I strove to throw all thewan wistfulness of famished and ingenuous youth unused tomendicancy.
“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 alreadyfinished eating， but the fire is burning and I can get somethingup 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 felldown this afternoon and hurt himself badly， the poor dear.”
She mothered him with her voice， with an ineffabletenderness in it that I yearned to appropriate. I glanced at him.
He sat across the table， slender and pale， his head swathedin bandages. He did not move， but his eyes， bright in thelamplight， were fixed upon me in a steady and wonderingstare.
“Just like my poor father，” I said. “He had the fallingsickness. Some kind of vertigo. It puzzled the doctors. Theynever could make out what was the matter with him.”
“He is dead？” she queried gently， setting before me half adozen soft-boiled eggs.
“Dead，” I gulped. “Two weeks ago. I was with him when ithappened. We were crossing the street together. He fell rightdown. He was never conscious again. They carried him into adrug-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 Franciscofrom the ranch； how his pension （he was an old soldier）， andthe little other money he had， was not enough； and how he hadtried book-canvassing. Also， I narrated my own woes duringthe few days after his death that I had spent alone and forlornon the streets of San Francisco. While that good womanwarmed up biscuits， fried bacon， and cooked more eggs， andwhile I kept pace with her in taking care of all that she placedbefore me， I enlarged the picture of that poor orphan boy andfilled in the details. I became that poor boy. I believed in himas I believed in the beautiful eggs I was devouring. I couldhave wept for myself. I know the tears did get into my voice attimes. It was very effective.
In fact， with every touch I added to the picture， that kindsoul gave me something also. She made up a lunch for me tocarry away. She put in many boiled eggs， pepper and salt， andother things， and a big apple. She provided me with three pairsof thick red woollen socks. She gave me clean handkerchiefsand other things which I have since forgotten. And all the timeshe cooked more and more and I ate more and more. I gorgedlike a savage； but then it was a far cry across the Sierras on ablind baggage， and I knew not when nor where I should findmy next meal. And all the while， like a death’s-head at thefeast， silent and motionless， her own unfortunate boy sat andstared at me across the table. I suppose I represented to himmystery， and romance， and adventure—all that was deniedthe feeble flicker of life that was in him. And yet I could notforbear， once or twice， from wondering if he saw through medown to the bottom of my mendacious heart.
“But where are you going to？” she asked me.
“Salt Lake City，” I said. “I have a sister there—a marriedsister.” （I debated if I should make a Mormon out of her， anddecided against it.） “Her husband is a plumber—a contractingplumber.”
Now I knew that contracting plumbers were usually creditedwith making lots of money. But I had spoken. It was up to meto qualify.