"I beg your pardon." Van Landing, whose well-regulated life permitted
of few impulses, turned to the boy. "I ordered these things"--he
pointed to the steaming food--"and I don't want them. I want something
else. Would you mind having them? It's a pity to throw them away."

The boy hesitated, uncertain what was meant, then he laughed. "It sure
is," he said. "If you don't want them I'll help you out. I'm hollow as
a hound what's been on a hunt. Good thing Christmas don't come but
once a year. You can cut out lunch better'n anything else for a
save-up, though. That girl over there"--he pointed his finger behind
him--"ain't had nothing but a glass of milk for a month. She's got
some kiddie brothers and sisters, and they're bound to have Christmas,
she says. Rough day, ain't it?"

Van Landing gave another order. Had it not been for the gnawing
restlessness, the growing fear, which filled him, the scene would have
interested. A few days ago he would have seen only the sordid side of
it, the crudeness and coarseness; but the search he was on had
humanized what hitherto had only seemed a disagreeable and
objectionable side of life, and the people before him were of an odd
kinship. In their faces was hunger. There were so many kinds of hunger
in the world. He got up, and with a nod to the boy paid his bill and
went out.

Through the afternoon hours he walked steadily. Dogged determination
made him keep on, just as sensitive shrinking prevented his making
inquiries of others. It was silly to ask what couldn't be answered. He
must have been mad the night before not to have noticed where he was
going, not to have asked Carmencita her name.