Then Billy seized the other attacker by the shoulder and dragged him to his feet.

“Do you want some, too, you big stiff?” he inquired.

The man spluttered and tried to break away, striking at Billy as he did so; but a sudden punch, such a punch as Billy Byrne had once handed the surprised Harlem Hurricane, removed from the mind of the tramp the last vestige of any thought he might have harbored to do the newcomer bodily injury, and with it removed all else from the man’s mind, temporarily.

As the fellow slumped, unconscious, to the ground, the camper rose to his feet.

“Some wallop you have concealed in your sleeve, my friend,” he said; “place it there!” and he extended a slender, shapely hand.

Billy took it and shook it.

“It don’t get under the ribs like those verses of yours, though, bo,” he returned.

“It seems to have insinuated itself beneath this guy’s thick skull,” replied the poetical one, “and it’s a cinch my verses, nor any other would ever get there.”

The tramp who had plumbed the depths of the creek’s foot of water and two feet of soft mud was crawling ashore.

“Whadda you want now?” inquired Billy Byrne.  “A piece o’ soap?”

“I’ll get youse yet,” spluttered the moist one through his watery whiskers.

“Ferget it,” admonished Billy, “an’ hit the trail.”  He pointed toward the railroad right of way.  “An’ you, too, John L,” he added turning to the other victim of his artistic execution, who was now sitting up.  “Hike!”

Mumbling and growling the two unwashed shuffled away, and were presently lost to view along the vanishing track.

The solitary camper had returned to his culinary effort, as unruffled and unconcerned, apparently, as though naught had occurred to disturb his peaceful solitude.

“Sit down,” he said after a moment, looking up at Billy, “and have a bite to eat with me.  Take that leather easy chair.  The Louis Quatorze is too small and spindle-legged for comfort.”  He waved his hand invitingly toward the sward beside the fire.

For a moment he was entirely absorbed in the roasting fowl impaled upon a sharp stick which he held in his right hand.  Then he presently broke again into verse.

  Around the world and back again; we saw it all.  The mist and rain

   In England and the hot old plain from Needles to Berdoo. 
  We kept a-rambling all the time.  I rustled grub, he rustled rhyme—­
   Blind-baggage, hoof it, ride or climb—­we always put it through.

“You’re a good sort,” he broke off, suddenly.  “There ain’t many boes that would have done as much for a fellow.”

“It was two against one,” replied Billy, “an’ I don’t like them odds.  Besides I like your poetry.  Where d’ye get it—­ make it up?”

“Lord, no,” laughed the other.  “If I could do that I wouldn’t be pan-handling.  A guy by the name of Henry Herbert Knibbs did them.  Great, ain’t they?”