Bealby held his pipe in his clenched hand. He had already smoked—once. He remembered it quite vividly still, although it had happened six months ago. Yet he hated not using that tobacco. “No,” he said, “I’ll smoke later.”
The tramp replaced the screw of red Virginia in his pocket with the air of one who has done the gentlemanly thing....
They went on their way, an ill-assorted couple.
All day Bealby chafed at the tie and saw the security in the tramp’s pocket vanish. They lunched on bread and cheese and then the tramp had a good sustaining drink of beer for both of them and after that they came to a common where it seemed agreeable to repose. And after a due meed of repose in a secluded hollow among the gorse the tramp produced a pack of exceedingly greasy cards and taught Bealby to play Euchre. Apparently the tramp had no distinctive pockets in his tail coat, the whole lining was one capacious pocket. Various knobs and bulges indicated his cooking tin, his feeding tin, a turnip and other unknown properties. At first they played for love and then they played for the balance in the tramp’s pocket. And by the time Bealby had learnt Euchre thoroughly, that balance belonged to the tramp. But he was very generous about it and said they would go on sharing just as they had done. And then he became confidential. He scratched about in the bagginess of his garment and drew out a little dark blade of stuff, like a flint implement, regarded it gravely for a moment and held it out to Bealby. “Guess what this is.”
Bealby gave it up.
“Smell it.”
It smelt very nasty. One familiar smell indeed there was with a paradoxical sanitary quality that he did not quite identify, but that was a mere basis for a complex reek of acquisitions. “What is it?” said Bealby.
“Soap!”
“But what’s it for?”
“I thought you’d arst that.... What’s soap usually for?”