"But by the way! If you've got the makings of a meal in your car--and you look too old a hand in the desert to be without grub--I won't refuse to have a snack with you.

I hate to invite myself to breakfast, but it's that or go hungry--and an empty belly won't stand on ceremony." The hard-bitten features of Casey Ryan, tanned as they were by wind and sun to a fair imitation of leather, were never meant to portray mixed emotions.

His face, therefore, remained impassive except for a queer, cornered look in his eyes.

With a sick feeling at the pit of his stomach he wondered just how much of his impassioned soliloquy the man had overheard; who and what this man was, and how he had managed to approach within six feet of Casey without being overheard.

With a sicker feeling, he wondered if there were any grub in the car; and if so, how he could get at it without revealing his contraband load to this stranger.
But Casey Ryan was nothing if not game.