Obviously the man was a hobo. The coffee boiling in a
discarded tin can would have been proof positive of this
without other evidence; but there seemed plenty more. Yes,
the man was a hobo. Billy continued to stand listening.
The mountains are all hid in mist, the valley is like amethyst,
The poplar leaves they turn and twist, oh, silver, silver green!
Out there somewhere along the sea a ship is waiting patiently,
While up the beach the bubbles slip with white afloat between.
"Gee!" thought Billy Byrne; "but that's great stuff. I
wonder where he gets it. It makes me want to hike until I find
that place he's singin' about."
Billy's thoughts were interrupted by a sound in the wood to
one side of him. As he turned his eyes in the direction of the
slight noise which had attracted him he saw two men step
quietly out and cross toward the man at the camp fire.
These, too, were evidently hobos. Doubtless pals of the
poetical one. The latter did not hear them until they were
directly behind him. Then he turned slowly and rose as they
halted beside his fire.
"Evenin', bo," said one of the newcomers.
"Good evening, gentlemen," replied the camper, "welcome
to my humble home. Have you dined?"
"Naw," replied the first speaker, "we ain't; but we're goin'
to.
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