Junior was six years old, and his face was dirty and his eyes were old, old eyes, but brown like his father's.

He had the pinched, hungry look which Casey had seen only amongst starving Indians, and after he had kissed Casey perfunctorily he snatched the piece of raw bacon which Casey had just sliced off, and tore at it with his teeth like a hungry pup.
Casey affected not to notice, and busied himself with the fire while the woman reproved Junior half-heartedly in an undertone, and laughed stagily and remarked upon the number of hours since they had breakfasted.
Casey tried not to watch them eat, but in spite of himself he thought of a prospector whom he had rescued last summer after a five-day fast.

These people ate more than the prospector had eaten, and their eyes followed greedily every mouthful which Casey took, as if they grudged him the food.
Wherefore Casey did not take as many mouthfuls as he would have liked.
"This desert air certainly does put an edge on one's appetite," the woman smiled, while she blew across her fourth cup of coffee to cool it, and between breaths bit into a huge bacon sandwich, which Casey could not help knowing was her third.

"Jack, dear, isn't this coffee delicious!" "Mah-mal Do we have to p-pay that there g-godsend?
C-can you p-pay for more b-bacon for me, mah-ma ?" Junior licked his fingers and twitched a fold of his mother's soiled skirt.
"Sure, give him more bacon! All he wants.

I'll fry another skillet full," Casey spoke hurriedly, getting out the piece which he had packed away in the bag.
"He's used to these hold-up joints where they charge you forty cents for a greasy plate," the man explained, speaking with his mouth full.