“Either.”
“That’s me; I’m a stiff. Was you beatin’ it down to the desert? There’s a big job openin’ up down there.”
“Yes, I heard about that. The Gold Belt Cut-off, eh?”
“That’s her, I’m makin’ it down there. I know lots o’ contractors that’ll have jobs on the road.”
The other ate in silence for a space, as if thinking deeply. “I don’t know but I’ll try to get down there, too,” he said presently. “I wasn’t exactly headed for any particular place.”
“She oughta be a good job. There’s good men’ll be down there. First thing I c’n ketch goin’ west takes me.”
“Do—do you mind if I go along with you?” hesitatingly asked the other.
“I should say not! I don’t like ramblin’ alone. Never did. I get to talkin’ to meself. Sure—we’ll make it out together. What’s yer moniker, Jack?”
Again the stranger hesitated. Then a little red crept into his face as he replied: “They call me ‘The Falcon.’”
One of the John Yeggs snorted softly and winked at a companion. It was quite plain to him that the speaker knew little about hobos’ monikers and such things.