The mist and rain
In England and the hot old plain from Needles to Berdoo.
We kept a-rambling all the time. I rustled grub, he rustled rhyme--
Blind-baggage, hoof it, ride or climb--we always put it through.
"You're a good sort," he broke off, suddenly. "There ain't
many boes that would have done as much for a fellow."
"It was two against one," replied Billy, "an' I don't like
them odds. Besides I like your poetry. Where d'ye get it--
make it up?"
"Lord, no," laughed the other. "If I could do that I wouldn't
be pan-handling. A guy by the name of Henry Herbert
Knibbs did them. Great, ain't they?"
"They sure is. They get me right where I live," and then,
after a pause; "sure you got enough fer two, bo?"
"I have enough for you, old top," replied the host, "even if
I only had half as much as I have. Here, take first crack at
the ambrosia. Sorry I have but a single cup; but James has
broken the others. James is very careless. Sometimes I almost
feel that I shall have to let him go."
"Who's James?" asked Billy.
"James? Oh, James is my man," replied the other.
Billy looked up at his companion quizzically, then he tasted
the dark, thick concoction in the tin can.
"This is coffee," he announced.
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