“Oh, yes—lots of them.”
“Who all’s at Mangan-Hatton’s? Any ole-timers, did you hear?”
“You bet. I know all the old-timers’ names. There’s Lardo the Cook and Laflin the Goblin, Tombstone, Totaljohn, and Demijohn, Gus the Finn, Bung the B-B—I think that’s just too funny!—Davie the Child,—and, let’s see—Grimes o’ the Coffins, Raddle the Swamper, Dippy-Dip, The Parasite, Lobbygow, Markle, and Spot o’ the Outcasts. Laflin the Goblin is a strange creature. They say his name will be put up at the next hobo convention for king of the tramps. Isn’t that too ridiculous?”
“What d’ye mean, redickilous?”
“Why, tramps having a king.”
Wing o’ the Crow was thoughtful. “I guess maybe it is,” she admitted at length. “I never thought about it. I know purty near all them stiffs—knew most of ’em all my life. I wish we could get stiffs—they work so much better, somehow. But stiffs won’t stay in a gypo camp long, if they stop there at all. We get hicks—farmers, and bindle stiffs. They don’t know no better.”
“Why won’t the stiffs work for you?”
“Well, we can’t feed like th’ big bugs do. An’ we can’t afford to furnish blankets. All our men are bindle stiffs—not regular stiffs, you know—but th’ fellas that carry bundles on their backs—their own beddin’. Then our stock is old and rundown, an’ stiffs want good stock to work with. If I was like a gypo queen’s supposed to be I reckon I’m good lookin’ enough to hold the stiffs. But I ain’t like that. I wouldn’t kid any man along to get ’im to stick in our camp. I’m a lady, if I do skin Jack an’ Ned an’ pull a lot o’ rough stuff. Did you tell me all th’ stiffs’ names that’s at Mangan-Hatton’s?”
“There’s—now—Falcon the Flunky.”
“Never heard o’ him. Who’s skinnin’ th’ plow teams on th’ dirt work?”