a vicious and scrawny boy of eighteen or so

Footsteps shuffling along the right of way dispelled his visions. He looked up to see two pedestrians who halted at his movement. They were paired typically of that strange fraternity, the hobo, one being a grizzled, hard-bitten man of waning middle age, the other a vicious and scrawny boy of eighteen or so. The boy spoke first. "You the main guy here?" The agent nodded. "Got a sore throat?" demanded the boy surlily. He started toward the door. The agent made no move, but his eyes were attentive. "That'll be near enough," he said quietly. "Oh, we ain't on that lay," put in the grizzled man. He was quite hoarse. "You needn't to be scared of us." "I'm not," agreed the agent. And, indeed, the fact was self-evident. "What about the pueblo yonder?" asked the man with a jerk of his head toward the town. "The hoosegow is old and the sheriff is new." "I got ya," said the man, nodding. "We better be on our way." "I would think so." "You're a hell of a guy, you are," whined the boy. "'On yer way' from you an' not so much as 'Are you hungry?' What about a little hand-out?" "Nothing doing." "Tightwad! How'd you like--" "If you're hungry, feel in your coat-pocket." "I guess you're a wise one," put in the man, grinning appreciatively. "We got grub enough. Panhandlin's a habit with the kid; don't come natural to him to pass a likely prospect without makin' a touch." He leaned against the platform, raising one foot slightly from the ground in the manner of a limping animal. The agent disappeared into the station, locking the door after him. The boy gave expression to a violent obscenity directed upon the vanished man. When that individual emerged again, he handed the grizzled man a box of ointment and tossed a packet of tobacco to the evil-faced boy. Both were quick with their thanks. That which they had most needed and desired had been, as it were, spontaneously provided. But the elder of the wayfarers was puzzled, and looked from the salve-box to its giver.