The hobo’s truculence vanished, and he whined: “Nothin’—where we goin’ to eat?”
They led him to a Mexican eating house on Depot Street, where they were joined by Toothpick. Having planked their charge in a chair and ordered food, they settled back to have a little fun with the victim.
“What’s yuhr name?” Windy Sam commenced.
“Jim Anson. What’s yours?” the hobo asked.
“Windy Sam, now——”
The man called Jim Anson interrupted him.
“Is you called that because you talk too much, or because what you say don’t mean nothin’?” he asked innocently.
“Ha-ha!” the others exclaimed, and dug the red-faced Sam in the ribs.
One after the other they plied him with questions, but his answers always left them floundering. He had a way of turning a thrust into a boomerang. He did this with such a guileless, cringing air that they were never sure whether he was secretly laughing at them or if his answers were accidental. Before the meal was over he had them grinning at his absurd tales. In spite of themselves they listened, absorbed, and momentarily almost believed what he said.
“Rise up, liars, and salute yuhr king!” Toothpick shouted.