In the middle of
the room was a long table, covered with worn oil-cloth, set out with
plates and cups of heavy white ware and with black wooden-handled
knives and forks. Running up and down each side of the one
unpartitioned room were narrow bunks, a row close to the floor,
another row three feet higher, arranged roughly like berths on board a
steamer.
Sitting on chairs, or on the edges of the bunks with their legs
a-dangle, their eyes interestedly upon the cook's operations, were
half a dozen men, rough of garb, rough of hands, big, brawny, uncouth.
As Conniston came into the room every pair of eyes left the cook to
examine him swiftly, frankly. He paused a moment for the introduction
Rawhide Jones would make. But Rawhide Jones had no idea of doing
anything more than enough to fulfil his orders. He strode on through
the men until he stopped at one of the upper bunks, about the middle
of the room, from which a worn, soiled red quilt trailed half-way to
the floor.
"This here was Benny's. It's yourn now."
He had turned away, and, standing with his big hands resting upon his
hips, was watching the cook. And Conniston saw that all of the other
men, seemingly forgetful of his entrance, were again doing the same
thing. He felt suddenly a deep lonesomeness, greater a thousand times
than when he had been actually alone under the spell of the desert.
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