He never
thought of asking his companion's true name, any more than
Bridge would have questioned him as to his, or of his past.
The ethics of the roadside fire and the empty tomato tin do
not countenance such impertinences.
For several days the two continued their leisurely way
toward Kansas City. Once they rode a few miles on a freight
train, but for the most part they were content to plod joyously
along the dusty highways. Billy continued to "rustle grub,"
while Bridge relieved the monotony by an occasional burst of
poetry.
"You know so much of that stuff," said Billy as they were
smoking by their camp fire one evening, "that I'd think you'd
be able to make some up yourself."
"I've tried," admitted Bridge; "but there always seems to be
something lacking in my stuff--it don't get under your belt--
the divine afflatus is not there. I may start out all right, but I
always end up where I didn't expect to go, and where nobody
wants to be."
"'Member any of it?" asked Billy.
"There was one I wrote about a lake where I camped
once," said Bridge, reminiscently; "but I can only recall one
stanza."
"Let's have it," urged Billy. "I bet it has Knibbs hangin' to
the ropes."
Bridge cleared his throat, and recited:
Silver are the ripples,
Solemn are the dunes,
Happy are the fishes,
For they are full of prunes.
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