"That's the antidote," he said. "It's the best medicine I know of in the
grub line for a man who's lost his grip. There's the making of three men
in that sack."
"What is it?" asked David, curiously.
The Missioner bent over to examine a card attached to the neck of the
bag.
"To be perfectly accurate it contains 110 pounds of beans," he answered.
"Beans! Great Heavens! I loathe them!"
"So do most down-and-outs," affirmed Father Roland, cheerfully. "That's
one reason for the peculiar psychological value of beans. They begin to
tell you when you're getting weaned away from a lobster palate and a
stuffed-crab stomach, and when you get to the point where you want 'em
on your regular bill of fare you'll find more fun in chopping down a
tree than in going to a grand opera. But the beans must be _cooked_
right, David--browned like a nut, juicy to the heart of 'em, and
seasoned alongside a broiling duck or partridge, or a tender rabbit.
Ah!"
The Little Missioner rubbed his hands ecstatically.
David's rejoinder, if one was on his lips, was interrupted by a violent
cursing. The train was well under way, and the baggage-man had sat down
to a small table with his back toward them. He had leaped to his feet
now, his face furious, and with another demoniac curse he gave the coal
skuttle a kick that sent it with a bang to the far end of the car.
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