He
had no baggage to detain him, and, as he had no money either, he made
his way to an Italian restaurant where he knew they would trust him
to pay later for what he ate. It was a place where the newspaper men
were accustomed to meet, men who knew him, and who, until he found
work, would lend him money to buy a bath, clean clothes, and a hall
bedroom.
Norris, the World man, greeted him as he entered the door of the
restaurant, and hailed him with a cry of mingled fright and pleasure.
"Why, we didn't know but you were dead," he exclaimed. "The boys said
when they left Kingston you weren't expected to live. Did you ever
get the money and things we sent you by the Red Cross boat?"
Channing glanced at himself and laughed.
"Do I look it?" he asked. He was wearing the same clothes in which he
had slept under the fruit-sheds at Port Antonio. They had been soaked
and stained by the night-dews and by the sweat of the fever.
"Well, it's great luck, your turning up here just now," Norris
assured him, heartily. "That is, if you're as hungry as the rest of
the boys are who have had the fever. You struck it just right; we're
giving a big dinner here to-night," he explained, "one of Maria's
best.
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