For several days the two continued their leisurely way toward Kansas City. Once they rode a few miles on a freight train, but for the most part they were content to plod joyously along the dusty highways. Billy continued to "rustle grub," while Bridge relieved the monotony by an occasional burst of poetry.
"You know so much of that stuff," said Billy as they were smoking by their camp fire one evening, "that I'd think you'd be able to make some up yourself."
"I've tried," admitted Bridge; "but there always seems to be something lacking in my stuff--it don't get under your belt-- the divine afflatus is not there. I may start out all right, but I always end up where I didn't expect to go, and where nobody wants to be."
"'Member any of it?" asked Billy.
"There was one I wrote about a lake where I camped once," said Bridge, reminiscently; "but I can only recall one stanza."
"Let's have it," urged Billy. "I bet it has Knibbs hangin' to the ropes."
Bridge cleared his throat, and recited: Silver are the ripples, Solemn are the dunes, Happy are the fishes, For they are full of prunes.
He looked up at Billy, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. "How's that?" he asked.
Billy scratched his head.
"It's all right but the last line," said Billy, candidly. "There is something wrong with that last line."
"Yes," agreed Bridge, "there is."
"I guess Knibbs is safe for another round at least," said Billy.
Bridge was eying his companion, noting the broad shoulders, the deep chest, the mighty forearm and biceps which the other's light cotton shirt could not conceal.
"It is none of my business," he said presently; "but from your general appearance, from bits of idiom you occasionally drop, and from the way you handled those two boes the night we met I should rather surmise that at some time or other you had been less than a thousand miles from the w.k. roped arena."
"I seen a prize fight once," admitted Billy.
It was the day before they were due to arrive in Kansas City that Billy earned a hand-out from a restaurant keeper in a small town by doing some odd jobs for the man. The food he gave Billy was wrapped in an old copy of the Kansas City Star. When Billy reached camp he tossed the package to Bridge, who, in addition to his honorable post as poet laureate, was also cook. Then Billy walked down to the stream, near-by, that he might wash away the grime and sweat of honest toil from his hands and face.