"'Bridge,'" he said, quite suddenly, and apropos of nothing, in an effort to change the subject."That's an odd name.
I've heard of Bridges and Bridger; but I never heard Bridge before.""Just a name a fellow gave me once up on the Yukon,"explained Bridge."I used to use a few words he'd never heard before, so he called me 'The Unabridged,' which was too long.
The fellows shortened it to 'Bridge' and it stuck.It has always stuck, and now I haven't any other.I even think of myself, now, as Bridge.Funny, ain't it?""Yes," agreed Billy, and that was the end of it.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 Ialways 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.
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.Then Billy walked down to the stream, near-by, that he might wash away the grime and sweat of honest toil from his hands and face.
As Bridge unwrapped the package and the paper unfolded beneath his eyes an article caught his attention--just casually at first; but presently to the exclusion of all else.As he read his eyebrows alternated between a position of considerable elevation to that of a deep frown.Occasionally he nodded knowingly.Finally he glanced up at Billy who was just rising from his ablutions.Hastily Bridge tore from the paper the article that had attracted his interest, folded it, and stuffed it into one of his pockets--he had not had time to finish the reading and he wanted to save the article for a later opportunity for careful perusal.
That evening Bridge sat for a long time scrutinizing Billy through half-closed lids, and often he found his eyes wandering to the red ring about the other's wrist; but whatever may have been within his thoughts he kept to himself.
It was noon when the two sauntered into Kansas City.Billy had a dollar in his pocket--a whole dollar.He had earned it assisting an automobilist out of a ditch.
"We'll have a swell feed," he had confided to Bridge, "an'
sleep in a bed just to learn how much nicer it is sleepin' out under the black sky and the shiny little stars.""You're a profligate, Billy," said Bridge.
"I dunno what that means," said Billy; "but if it's something I shoudn't be I probably am."The two went to a rooming-house of which Bridge knew, where they could get a clean room with a double bed for fifty cents.It was rather a high price to pay, of course, but Bridge was more or less fastidious, and he admitted to Billy that he'd rather sleep in the clean dirt of the roadside than in the breed of dirt one finds in an unclean bed.
At the end of the hall was a washroom, and toward this Bridge made his way, after removing his coat and throwing it across the foot of the bed.After he had left the room Billy chanced to notice a folded bit of newspaper on the floor beneath Bridge's coat.He picked it up to lay it on the little table which answered the purpose of a dresser when a single word caught his attention.It was a name: Schneider.
