“Ever been here before?” And, when Baggs had said no: “Thought I hadn't seen you. Most of us here come back in the spring. It's a comfortable dump when it don't rain cold.” He was uncommonly communicative. “The Nursery's here for them that want work; and if not nobody's to ask you reasons.”
A third, in a grimy light overcoat, with a short bristling red mustache and morose countenance, said harshly: “Got any money?”
“Maybe two bits.”
“Let's send him in for beer,” the other proposed; and a new animation stirred the dilapidated one and the talker.
“You can go to hell!” Baggs responded without heat.
“That ain't no nice way to talk,” the second proclaimed. “Peebles, here, meant that them who has divides with all that hasn't.”
Peebles directed a hard animosity at Harry Baggs. His gaze flickered over the latter's heavy-set body and unmoved face. “Want your jaw slapped crooked?” he demanded with a degree of reservation.
“No,” the boy placidly replied.
A stillness enveloped them, accentuated by the minute crackling of the disintegrating wood. The dark increased and the stars came out; the clip-clip of a horse's hoofs passed in the distance and night. Harry Baggs became flooded with sleep.
“I s'pose I can stay in one of these brownstones?” he queried, indicating the huts.