The small man grasped the iron rod attached to the side of one of the moving coal-cars and swung his foot into the iron stirrup beneath. His companion mounted the next car in the same way.
“Are you all right, Kersh?” shouted back the small tramp, standing safe above the “bumpers.”
“All right,” replied the tall tramp, climbing upon the end of a car. “But don't ever call me Kersh any more. After this I'm always Bill the Bum. Bill Kershaw's dead—” and he added to himself, “and decently buried on the hill over there under the moon.”
XI. — UNDER AN AWNING
For ten minutes we had been standing under the awning, driven there at two o'clock at night by a shower that had arisen suddenly.
“A pocket umbrella is one of the unsupplied necessities of the age,” said my companion.
“Yes, and the peculiarity of the age is that while such luxuries as the phonograph and the kinetograph multiply day by day, important necessities remain unsupplied.”
My friend mused for a time, while he watched the reflection of the electric light in the little street pools that were agitated by the falling fine drops of rain.