They reached the tank and sat down on the ground behind it, resting their backs against the pedestals. Halfaman removed a greasy cap with a broken visor, and laid it in his lap, allowing the cool mountain breeze to play with the kinks of his sandy hair. He had a way of talking out of one corner of his good-natured and rather wide mouth which amused the reticent Falcon.
“You ain’t been on the road long, have you, kid?” he said kindly.
“Why do you say that?”
“You might just as well be wearin’ a card on yer breast, like a blind man does, tellin’ the world about it,” said Halfaman. “Le’ me tell you sumpin. You don’t wanta go buttin’ into hobo camps like you did back there. Them old Jaspers hate themselves. They got no use fer the likes o’ you.”
“But you’re not like them.”
“I should say I ain’t! I’m a construction stiff. They’re just stiff. I’m a tramp, but I work. They don’t unless they have to—see? I was buyin’ some pinks and punk to cook up for myself—see?—and they butts in on me and gets me for a feed. I never turn a stiff down if I got anything, so I told ’em to come on an’ bust ’emselves. I know two of ’em—‘Sinful Blister’ and ‘Monk o’ the Rum.’ The other two’s pals o’ theirs. I’ll feed anybody—gaycat, yegg, bindle-stiff, skinner, mucker, or dyno. But I want ’em to feed me when I’m broke, too. I got no use for the likes o’ them back there. I’m a decent tramp—get me?”
“Yes,” replied The Falcon. “I try to be that myself. That’s why I approached the camp. I thought maybe I’d be treated like I’ve treated dozens of others since I started West.”
“And wasn’t you?”
“Yes—by you. And I’ll not forget it. Stay by me—if you like me—and you’ll never regret what you did for me to-day.”
The other studied him openly. “I don’t quite get your number,” he stated. “Your hands ain’t the hands of a workin’ stiff, and you talk kinda like you knew how. You say you been followin’ construction camps all yer life?”