The
lowing of cows, the crowing of a rooster, the yelping of a
happy dog just released from a night of captivity.
Bridge yawned and stretched. Billy rose to his feet and
shook himself.
"This is the life," said Bridge. "Where you going?"
"To rustle grub," replied Billy. "That's my part o' the
sketch."
The other laughed. "Go to it," he said. "I hate it. That's the
part that has come nearest making me turn respectable than
any other. I hate to ask for a hand-out."
Billy shrugged. He'd done worse things than that in his life,
and off he trudged, whistling. He felt happier than he had for
many a day. He never had guessed that the country in the
morning could be so beautiful.
Behind him his companion collected the material for a fire,
washed himself in the creek, and set the tin can, filled with
water, at the edge of the kindling, and waited. There was
nothing to cook, so it was useless to light the fire. As he sat
there, thinking, his mind reverted to the red mark upon Billy's
wrist, and he made a wry face.
Billy approached the farmhouse from which the sounds of
awakening still emanated. The farmer saw him coming, and
ceasing his activities about the barnyard, leaned across a gate
and eyed him, none too hospitably.
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