I washed the can and brought it back. The chicken and coffee were cooked and cooling near the fire. The cook scalded out the small can and filled it with coffee. He held out the pan of chicken to the other bum and then to me, helping himself to a piece last. The small can of coffee was now cool enough to drink, and was handed around in the same order. The first bum took several swallows and passed it to me. I handed it to the cook without drinking any. He looked at me for the first time. “Say, brat, listen. If you was some kind of a rank dingbat you wouldn’t have been invited down here. Don’t think because you couldn’t hustle a can that you ain’t entitled to your coffee.” “You’re right at that, Jack,” said the bum that furnished the coffee. “Go ahead, kid.” I drank my coffee and passed the can along. We ate in silence. The chicken and bread soon disappeared. My companions lit up their pipes and smoked while we finished the coffee. I was learning fast. I took the frying pan, filled it with water, and put it on the fire, without waiting for orders. When the water boiled I washed it at the creek, scrubbed it with sand, and returned it to the owner. “Where you from, kid?” “The city,” I answered. “How long you been on the road?” “This is my first day.” “Got any people?” “No, they are all dead.” “Where you goin’?” “Oh, just west, anywhere, everywhere.” “Got any pennies?” “No pennies. I’ve got a couple of dollars.” I looked from one to the other. “Do you want any of it, either of you?” “No,” from both of them. “But,” said the cook, “if we was in the city I’d take fifty cents of it purty pronto and get myself a four-bit micky.” “A what?” I asked, mystified. “A four-bit micky, a fifty-cent bottle of alcohol—Dr. Hall, white line,” he translated in disgust. “If you’re goin’ west you better learn to talk west.” “Yes,” said the other, “and ‘pennies’ don’t mean pennies. It means money, on the road.” They didn’t talk much between themselves; they had probably compared notes before I arrived at the bridge. They were both past fifty, wore clean overalls, substantial shoes, and clean-looking blue shirts. A month later I could have classified them correctly as professional bums, too old to ride the trains, satisfied to throw their feet along the “star routes,” or country roads, where food was seldom refused, and to sleep in their bindles, or blankets, under the stars. It was time to “flop.” They took off their shoes and coats. The shoes were neatly placed together on a level spot; the coat was folded and placed on top of them making a fair pillow, and at the same time protecting them from theft. Each of them threw me a piece of blanket. I made a pillow of my coat and shoes, rolled up in the blankets, and was soon asleep.