"It's the devil walking in the heat on these rotten dusty roads."

The other nodded and handed him the glass. He drained it, tilting his
head till the sinews in his haggard throat showed below his beard. Then
he handed it back with a muttered thanks.

"Been walking far?" said Mark.

The tramp moved away from the pickets, jerking his head toward the road
behind him. For the first time Mark noticed that he had a basket on his
arm, containing a folded blanket.

"From the fruit farms down there. I've been working my way up fruit
picking. But it's a dog's job; better starve while you're about it. Thank
you. So long."

It was evident he wanted no further parley, for he started off down the
road. Mark stood looking after him. He noticed that he was tall and
walked with a long stride, not the lazy shuffle of the hobo. Also he had
caught a quality of education in the husky voice. Under its coarsened
inflections there was an echo of something cultured, not fitting with his
present appearance, a voice that might once have known very different
conditions. Possibly a dangerous chap, Mark thought; had an ugly look, a
secret, forbidding sort of face. When the educated kind dropped they were
apt to fall further and come down harder than the others. He threw the
glass into the bushes and went in to wash up. Before he was called to
supper he had forgotten all about the man.

In the cool of the evening the Burrages sat on the porch, rather crowded