He scrambled down, forked himself between the strands of barbed wire, and boldly approached the source of those savory odors.
That this was a permanent hobo camp was evident from the many blackened cans that lay about, the cold ashes of ancient camp fires, and the carvings on the trees that shaded the rendezvous.
One man stooped over the fire and stirred a large can of boiling Mexican beans. Another was cutting into slices a loaf of bread with his pocketknife, hacking to the center on one side, then turning the loaf to complete the cuts, by reason of the shortness of the blade. Three others lounged on the ground, smoked and whittled, and eyed the newcomer with disapproval.
“How are you, fellows?” the “buttinsky” said, smiling and seating himself on a moss-covered stone.
No one replied, but the man who was cutting the bread looked up and grinned.
He was about the newcomer’s age, and had a clean, lean face with distinct freckles on it and on his neck. His hair was sandy and kinky, and a comb and brush would have made no change whatever in its wiry appearance. His eyes were blue and friendly.
The stranger at once sensed that this man was of a different type from his four companions. Though a tramp, there were about him no marks of the confirmed John Yegg. The others were old-timers of the oldest known school.
“Going to have a little feed, eh?” innocently remarked the new arrival. “I smelled those beans cooking a hundred yards away.”
The old-timers looked from one to another in blank amazement. “Can you beat it?” was the question their looks expressed. Then with a great sigh as of resignation to the demands of a stern duty, one of them rose and fumbled in a pocket of his grease-salvaged vest.
He extracted a dirty match, looked it over with owl-like wisdom, and, stepping around the fire, silently passed it to the newcomer.