Mac and Whitaker exchanged comprehending glances of dismay and followed him down to the grill.
It was a pleasant refuge from the autumn storm--that grill.

The dark old wood framed light and color, sketches and a line of paintings.
Mac's sculptured ragamuffin looked wistfully down from his niche near the open rafters upon a Round Table institutionally fraternal.

He seemed always seeking warmth and food.

Kenny's old peasant in wrinkled apple-faced cheer smiled broadly from the wall, listening to the click of billiard balls with his painted eyes upon the doorway.
The hum and clatter at the Round Table stopped as Kenny entered.

It was followed by an immediate scraping of chairs, pushed back, and a hearty chorus of greeting but Kenny knew, intuitively, that the talk had been of him.
He ate but little and went back to the studio to play dummy bridge with Mac and Whitaker.