In two years Vandover had learned
a great deal; even his dulled wits had been sharpened when it had come
to a question of food. The brute in him might destroy all his finer
qualities, but even the brute had to feed. When work failed him at the
beginning of the week Vandover was not unprepared for the contingency;
the thing had happened before and he knew how to meet it.
On Monday he beat up and down the Barbary Coast, picking out fifteen or
twenty saloons which supported a free-lunch counter in connection with
the bar. He took his breakfast Monday morning at the first of these. He
paid five cents for a glass of beer and ate his morning's meal at the
lunch counter: stew, bread, and cheese. At noon he made his dinner at
the second saloon on his route. Here he had another glass of beer, a
great plate of soup, potato salad, and pretzels. Thus he managed to feed
himself throughout the week.
It was always his great desire to feed well at Sunday's dinner, to spend
at least a quarter on that meal. It was something to be looked forward
to throughout the entire week.
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