There was no effort at general conversation. David had the feeling
that they hated each other and were ready to hurl things at the
slightest provocation, such as the passing of the time of day.
A half-grown boy placed a huge tin cup full of steaming coffee on to
the table and said in a husky, consumptive voice: "'Ere's your slop,
kid."
Another boy jammed a panful of bacon and corn-bread across his
shoulder and advised him to hurry up and "grab it, you."
David ate in shocked silence. The man at his left laughed at his
genteel use of the knife and fork and the dainty handling of the
bacon. Sugar and cream were not served. He was hungry. The coarse but
well-cooked food pleased his palate more than he could have believed.
He ate his fill of the "chuck," as his neighbor called it. Then he was
hurried back to the wagon in which he had slept. It was empty now,
cavernous and reeking with the odor of damp canvas lately removed.
"Git in there, kid," said his guide briskly. "You gotta keep under
cover fer a spell. Stay in there 'tel Joey Grinaldi says the word.
Them's Braddock's orders."
David hesitated a moment.
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