He looked up at Billy, a smile twitching at the corners of
his mouth. "How's that?" he asked.
Billy scratched his head.
"It's all right but the last line," said Billy, candidly. "There
is something wrong with that last line."
"Yes," agreed Bridge, "there is."
"I guess Knibbs is safe for another round at least," said
Billy.
Bridge was eying his companion, noting the broad shoulders,
the deep chest, the mighty forearm and biceps which the
other's light cotton shirt could not conceal.
"It is none of my business," he said presently; "but from
your general appearance, from bits of idiom you occasionally
drop, and from the way you handled those two boes the night
we met I should rather surmise that at some time or other you
had been less than a thousand miles from the w.k. roped
arena."
"I seen a prize fight once," admitted Billy.
It was the day before they were due to arrive in Kansas
City that Billy earned a hand-out from a restaurant keeper in
a small town by doing some odd jobs for the man. The food
he gave Billy was wrapped in an old copy of the Kansas City
Star. When Billy reached camp he tossed the package to
Bridge, who, in addition to his honorable post as poet laureate,
was also cook.
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