I was tired of Tex and his tribe and their smoky back room and cheap cheating. I was sick of the sight of the crabby widow at the boarding house. It was springtime. Sundown found me miles away on a country road, walking westward. Yes, I was going in the right direction. There was the sun going down away off in front of me. Darkness was coming on, but it did not strike me as unusual that I had no supper or no room for the night. I came to a bridge and stopped when I heard voices below. I looked over the side and a voice came up: “Come on down, kid. Don’t be leary, we’re only a couple of harmless bindle stiffs.” I picked my way down to the level place beside the small creek where they were. One of them was unrolling a “bindle” of blankets, the other was washing a large tin can in the creek. “Throw out your feet, kid, and get some wood before it gets too dark. We’ll have a fire and a can of Java, anyway.” Wood was plentiful. I soon returned with an armful. The other bum came up with the can from the creek and began breaking up some twigs to start the fire. He barely looked at me. “Take a look around the jungle, kid, and see if you can find a pan,” he ordered. “What in hell do you want a pan for?” asked the one that sent me after wood. “Are you going to fry some water?” The other was on his hands and knees blowing up the weak fire. He stood up and looked at the speaker with a most superior air. “Not so fast, brother, not so fast. I’ve got a gump in my bindle.” He unrolled his blankets and produced a live chicken, big and fat. The other bum was humbled. “A gump!” he muttered, “and me carrying a fryin’ pan with me for the last week.” He dived into his bindle and got the pan. The owner of the chicken took the pan and held it between his eye and the fire looking for holes in it. “It’ll do,” he said. “More wood, kid,” they both ordered. We were three strangers well met under the bridge; one had a chicken, one coffee and a stale loaf of bread. I had nimble legs and gathered the firewood. The gump was picked, cleaned, unjointed, and put in the pan with neatness and despatch that would have done credit to any chef. The coffee boiled fragrantly in the tin can. The owner of the stale loaf hacked it into three equal parts with his strong pocketknife, while the chicken man deftly turned sections of the bird with a sharp-pointed stick. “This is a pretty snide jungle,” he said, “no cans. Throw your feet, kid, and get some cans for the Java.” I scurried around and was lucky to find one small can in the dark. The cook inspected it. “Go down and wash it, bring it back half full of water an’ I’ll boil it out.”