He ate two of the three greasy, cigarlike shapes cordially pressed upon
him in return. The first bite convinced him that he had made a mistake;
these winnies seemed of a very inferior flavour, almost unpleasant, in
fact. But he felt obliged to conceal his poor opinion of them, for fear
of offending the red-faced man. He ate without haste or eagerness--so
slowly, indeed, that he began to think the redfaced man might dislike
him, as a deterrent of trade. Perhaps Penrod's mind was not working
well, for he failed to remember that no law compelled him to remain
under the eye of the red-faced man, but the virulent repulsion excited
by his attempt to take a bite of the third sausage inspired him with at
least an excuse for postponement.
"Mighty good," he murmured feebly, placing the sausage in the pocket
of his jacket with a shaking hand. "Guess I'll save this one to eat at
home, after--after dinner."
He moved sluggishly away, wishing he had not thought of dinner. A
side-show, undiscovered until now, failed to arouse his interest, not
even exciting a wish that he had known of its existence when he had
money. For a time he stared without attraction; the weather-worn colours
conveying no meaning to comprehension at a huge canvas poster depicting
the chief his torpid eye. Then, little by little, the poster became more
vivid to his consciousness. There was a greenish-tinted person in the
tent, it seemed, who thrived upon a reptilian diet.
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