Big Hogey got up and staggered around in front of the bus, clutching at it for support, losing his duffle bag.
"Hey, watch the traffic!" The driver warned. With a surge of unwelcome compassion he trotted around after his troublesome passenger, taking his arm as he sagged again. "You crossing?"
"Yah," Hogey muttered. "Lemme alone, I'm okay."
The driver started across the highway with him. The traffic was sparse, but fast and dangerous in the central ninety-mile lane.
"I'm okay," Hogey kept protesting. "I'm a tumbler, ya know? Gravity's got me. Damn gravity. I'm not used to gravity, ya know? I used to be a tumbler—huk!—only now I gotta be a hoofer. 'Count of li'l Hogey. You know about li'l Hogey?"
"Yeah. Your son. Come on."
"Say, you gotta son? I bet you gotta son."
"Two kids," said the driver, catching Hogey's bag as it slipped from his shoulder. "Both girls."
"Say, you oughta be home with them kids. Man oughta stick with his family. You oughta get another job." Hogey eyed him owlishly, waggled a moralistic finger, skidded on the gravel as they stepped onto the opposite shoulder, and sprawled again.
The driver blew a weary breath, looked down at him, and shook his head. Maybe it'd be kinder to find a constable after all. This guy could get himself killed, wandering around loose.