Suddenly his cadaverousness struck me afresh.
"Have you had supper--or dinner--or breakfast?" I demanded, with such
vim that he answered hurriedly:
"Naw; neither; nothin'."
The grammar was bad, but the meaning was good.
"Then let's eat--you and I--and become acquainted."
I did not tell him my supper was over, though this bit of tact was
doubtless unnecessary. Neither did I invite him indoors. While it is
true I had really warmed to his outcast condition, the sentiment did not
embrace the hospitality of my roof. I felt a desire to cultivate him,
but the acquaintance must grow in the open.
He grinned appreciatively at my suggestion, and I saw him lick his lips
surreptitiously, after the manner of a starved animal which smells food.
"Get busy about a fire, and I'll find the grub," I continued, not
waiting for the assent which I knew he would give.
With that I went in the house, took from my larder some bacon, eggs,
bread and coffee, all of which, with a skillet, I carried out. Quickly
as I had moved, I found the Satyr's fire ablaze when I returned. This he
had made from dry leaves and sticks which I had already scraped into a
pile from off my garden plot.
As host, I prepared the meal. While it was cooking, my strange guest sat
just across from me in a most uncouth attitude. His shoulders and a
portion of his back rested against a stump; the small of his back he sat
upon. His long, spider legs were flexed in such a manner that his sharp
knees shot up into the air above his head. He had placed his dust
colored hat upon the ground, and I could see pale, lifeless strands of
hair waving in the early night breeze on top of his partly bald head.
The oilcloth bundle lay across his stomach. Neither spoke during the few
minutes in which the eggs, meat and coffee were being prepared. One of
his claw-like hands lay upon the bundle. Once I saw his other hand stray
rather aimlessly under his coat, but it brought nothing out when
withdrawn.
"Go to it!" I said, cheerily, when all was done, shoving the skillet
toward him, and rising to find a cup for his coffee.
When I came back it was to see him with the skillet between his knees,
devouring its contents with the voracity of a starved wolf. He was using
a stick and his fingers to convey the hot food to his mouth, as I had
forgotten to provide either knife or spoon. I watched him in amazement,
for he bolted the bacon and eggs as a dog might. It was very plain he
was badly in need of nourishment.
"Good, Satyr?" I asked, squatting down and pouring out a running-over
cupful of steaming coffee.
He tried to reply, but the words were unintelligible because of the
fullness of his mouth. So I wisely made no further effort at
conversation until the skillet was clean--literally clean--for the
hungry man took chunks of bread and sopped and swabbed until the black
iron glowed spotless. Three cups of strong coffee he drank, three big
cups; then, because, I suppose, there was nothing left, he drew his
ragged sleeve across his mouth, sighed and voiced his thanks.
"Hell 'n' blazes!"
It meant more, from him, than the most polished bit of rhetoric from a
scholar.
"Glad you liked it," I said. "Do you smoke?"
For reply, he began to search his garments silently, and directly
produced a cob pipe, as remarkable in appearance as its owner. To begin
with, it was made from a mammoth corncob. I verily believe it was two
inches in diameter. Around its middle was a dark band, where the
nicotine had soaked through. The reed stem was so short that it brought
the pipe almost against the smoker's lips. He helped himself to the
twist of tobacco I offered him, dexterously flipped out a red coal from
the edge of the fire with a stick, then deliberately picked the live
coal up between finger and thumb and laid it on top of the pipe. I had
heard of this feat, but had never believed it true.
Now my guest sat Turk fashion, contentedly puffing away, so I followed
his example on my side the fire, after tossing on a few more sticks to
keep the blaze going. The red embers would have sufficed for heat, the
night being warm, but I wanted to see more of this queer being. Above
all, I wanted to see his eyes. This I could not do, because the
firelight flickered, smoke arose from the burning sticks, and the man
had bushy brows.
For several minutes there was no sound but the gentle crackling of
wood-fiber, or the occasional sizzling of a little jet of steam escaping
from its tiny prison. Then I heard a question which almost startled me.
"Whut mought a satyr be, no-how?"