“Sure, I ain't sore,” Billy assured him. “Say, spiel that part again 'bout Penelope with the kisses on her mouth, an' you can kid me till the cows come home.”
The camper by the creek did as Billy asked him, while the latter sat with his eyes upon the fire seeing in the sputtering little flames the oval face of her who was Penelope to him.
When the verse was completed he reached forth his hand and took the tin can in his strong fingers, raising it before his face.
“Here's to—to his Knibbs!” he said, and drank, passing the battered thing over to his new friend.
“Yes,” said the other; “here's to his Knibbs, and—Penelope!”
“Drink hearty,” returned Billy Byrne.
The poetical one drew a sack of tobacco from his hip pocket and a rumpled package of papers from the pocket of his shirt, extending both toward Billy.
“Want the makings?” he asked.
“I ain't stuck on sponging,” said Billy; “but maybe I can get even some day, and I sure do want a smoke. You see I was frisked. I ain't got nothin'—they didn't leave me a sou markee.”
Billy reached across one end of the fire for the tobacco and cigarette papers. As he did so the movement bared his wrist, and as the firelight fell upon it the marks of the steel bracelet showed vividly. In the fall from the train the metal had bitten into the flesh.