"Now maybe we are both wrong--maybe Knibbs and
Kipling and Service didn't write poetry, and some people will
say as much; but whatever it is it gets you and me in the same
way, and so in this respect we are equals. Which being the
case let's see if we can't rustle some grub, and then find a nice
soft spot whereon to pound our respective ears."
Billy, deciding that he was too sleepy to work for food,
invested half of the capital that was to have furnished the
swell feed the night before in what two bits would purchase
from a generous housewife on a near-by farm, and then,
stretching themselves beneath the shade of a tree sufficiently
far from the road that they might not attract unnecessary
observation, they slept until after noon.
But their precaution failed to serve their purpose entirely. A
little before noon two filthy, bearded knights of the road
clambered laboriously over the fence and headed directly for
the very tree under which Billy and Bridge lay sleeping. In the
minds of the two was the same thought that had induced
Billy Byrne and the poetic Bridge to seek this same secluded
spot.
There was in the stiff shuffle of the men something rather
familiar. We have seen them before--just for a few minutes it
is true; but under circumstances that impressed some of their
characteristics upon us.
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