“Where you goin’?”
“Oh, just west, anywhere, everywhere.”
“Got any pennies?”
“No pennies. I’ve got a couple of dollars.” I looked from one to the other. “Do you want any of it, either of you?”
“No,” from both of them. “But,” said the cook, “if we was in the city I’d take fifty cents of it purty pronto and get myself a four-bit micky.”
“A what?” I asked, mystified.
“A four-bit micky, a fifty-cent bottle of alcohol—Dr. Hall, white line,” he translated in disgust. “If you’re goin’ west you better learn to talk west.”
“Yes,” said the other, “and ‘pennies’ don’t mean pennies. It means money, on the road.”
They didn’t talk much between themselves; they had probably compared notes before I arrived at the bridge. They were both past fifty, wore clean overalls, substantial shoes, and clean-looking blue shirts. A month later I could have classified them correctly as professional bums, too old to ride the trains, satisfied to throw their feet along the “star routes,” or country roads, where food was seldom refused, and to sleep in their bindles, or blankets, under the stars.
It was time to “flop.” They took off their shoes and coats. The shoes were neatly placed together on a level spot; the coat was folded and placed on top of them making a fair pillow, and at the same time protecting them from theft. Each of them threw me a piece of blanket. I made a pillow of my coat and shoes, rolled up in the blankets, and was soon asleep.