He was lonely, without quite knowing what ailed him.

He hungered for friends to hail him with that cordial, "Hello, Bud!" when they saw him coming.
No one in Alpine had said hello, Bud, when he came walking in that day.
The postmaster bad given him one measuring glance when he had weighed the package of ore, but he had not spoken except to name the amount of postage required.

The bartender had made some remark about the weather, and had smiled with a surface friendliness that did not deceive Bud for a moment.

He knew too well that the smile was not for him, but for his patronage.
He watched the game.

And when the man opposite him pushed back his chair and, looking up at Bud, asked if he wanted to sit in, Bud went and sat down, buying a dollar's worth of chips as an evidence of his intention to play.