Winthrop sighed as he again faced the range. Overland heard and smiled. "You said it all," he muttered. "You said it all then."
"You're something of a poet, aren't you?" queried Winthrop.
"You bet! I'm some artist, too. A lady I was figurin' on acceptin' a invite to dinner with, once,—one of them rich kind that always wants to get their money's worth out of anything they do for a poor guy,—happened to come out on the back steps where I was holdin' kind of a coroner's request over a lettuce san'wich. 'My man,' she says, 'I have always been interested to know if you—er—tramps ever think of anything else but food and lodging and loafing. Nothing personal, I assure you. Merely a general interest in social conditions which you seem so well fitted to explode from experience. For instance, now, what are your favorite colors?'
"I couldn't see what that had to do with it, and I got kind of mad. A lettuce san'wich ain't encouragin' to confidence, so I up and says, 'What are me favorite colors, lady? Well, speakin' from experience, they is ham and eggs.'
"She took a tumble to herself and sent me out some of the best—and a bottle of Red Cross beer with it."
On up the slope they toiled, Winthrop half-forgetting his weariness in thinking of Overland's sprightly experiences with what he termed "the hard ole map—this here world."
At the summit they paused again to rest.
"That was the time," began Overland, "when I writ that there pome called 'Heart Throbs of a Hobo.' Listen!"
"Oh, my stummick is jest akein'
For a little bite of bacon,
A slice of bread, a little mug of brew.
I'm tired of seein' scenery,
Jest lead me to a beanery,
Where there's something more than only air to chew."
"The last line sounds like a sneeze," said Winthrop, laughing.