Recognizing the round, close-cropped bullet head as one belonging not to the circus, but to South Water Street, he leaned over and whispered:
“’Lo, Snowball, what y’ doin’ here?”
“Same’s you, I reckon.” The boy showed all his teeth in a grin. “Jes’ sittin’ an’ a-wishin’, dat’s all.”
“Pork chops, huh?”
“Ain’t it so, Mister? Ain’t dem the grandes’ you ain’t most never smelt?”
“Sh, not so loud,” cautioned Pant. “Maybe there’ll be some for you yet. Sort of reserve rations.”
“Think so, mebby?”
Pant nodded.
Then together they sat in silence while the feast went on; sat till the last bone and potato skin had been thrown upon the fast dulling coals.
“Huh!” sighed Snowball. “Hain’t no mo’.”