“Wot’s de idear, ‘Halfaman’? Do youse want every farmer on de line to come buttin’ in on yer scoffin’s? Youse gi’me a pain, Jack!”
“Aw, go get in yer kennel and gnaw yer bone, ‘Blister’!” retorted the bread-and-beans magnate. “You ole fuzzy tails get my goat. You wouldn’t give a man a crumb o’ tobacco; but I notice you’re always the first one to butt in yerself when anybody else has scoffin’s. I buys them pinks and I buys this punk; and all that any o’ you stiffs furnished for this little picnic was the salt ‘Monk o’ the Rum’ swiped from the grocer while I was gettin’ the beans. I’ll do the sayin’ who’s to scoff in this camp. C’mon back here, ol’-timer, and dig in!”
“Sinful Blister,” which was the weird moniker of the dissenter, slouched back to his seat on the ground, muttering discontentedly. The other John Yeggs shrugged indifferently, in full sympathy with the Blister, but diplomatically acceding to the wishes of him who had bought the beans.
The now invited guest returned, and the cook poured out the beans into smaller tin cans and silently passed one to him. The one designated as Halfaman thrust two slices of bread into the other’s hands, and into other cans poured black coffee.
For a space the six ate in silence, the stranger from time to time glancing at his benefactor as if he wished to thank him, but could not find the words.
“Where you headin’ for, Jack?” Halfaman presently asked, his freckled cheeks shuttling over jaw-bones that oversaw the mastication of huge portions of food.
“West,” was the short reply.
“What d’ye follow when ye’re followin’?”
“I’m hunting construction work.”
“Dirt or rock?”