At least four pairs of cold eyes watched this pantomime. The man who had been offered the match took it mechanically, and looked up into the donor’s face.
“Seems to me I get you,” he said, a trifle embarrassed. “I’ve heard of a tramp’s being given the match in a camp where he’s not wanted. It’s a subtle suggestion, I believe, for him to go elsewhere and build a camp fire of his own, isn’t it?”
“Ol’-timer,” the donor of the match said sneeringly, “youse’re right. Dat means ‘Beat it!’—and dis means ‘Beat it quick!’—see?”
He lifted a clenched fist for the other’s inspection.
“Oh, I get you,” the unwelcome visitor replied, rising from the stone. “I’ll beat it, of course. But don’t labor under the delusion that what you’ve just held up has anything to do with it.”
He turned, thrust his hands into his pockets again, and started back toward the right of way.
“Wait a minnit, Jack!”
The ejected one turned. It was the bread slicer who had spoken.
“C’mon back here an’ dig in on the bread an’ beans, ol’-timer,” he invited. “You’re as welcome as the flowers in May. I happen to know, for the simple reason that I’m the Jasper that bungled up for the pinks and the punk myself. I’m entertainin’ to-day.”
The man who had passed the match turned on him with a snarl.