Billy laughed and explained, and the other was relieved—­ the red mark around Billy’s wrist persisted in remaining uppermost in Bridge’s mind.

When they had eaten they lay back upon the grass and smoked some more of Bridge’s tobacco.

“Well,” inquired Bridge, “what’s doing now?”

“Let’s be hikin’,” said Billy.

Bridge rose and stretched. “’My feet are tired and need a change.  Come on!  It’s up to you!’” he quoted.

Billy gathered together the food they had not yet eaten, and made two equal-sized packages of it.  He handed one to Bridge.

“We’ll divide the pack,” he explained, “and here, drink the rest o’ this milk, I want the pail.”

“What are you going to do with the pail?” asked Bridge.

“Return it,” said Billy. “‘Maw’ just loaned it to me.”

Bridge elevated his eyebrows a trifle.  He had been mistaken, after all.  At the farmhouse the farmer’s wife greeted them kindly, thanked Billy for returning her pail—­which, if the truth were known, she had not expected to see again—­and gave them each a handful of thick, light, golden-brown cookies, the tops of which were encrusted with sugar.

As they walked away Bridge sighed.  “Nothing on earth like a good woman,” he said.

“‘Maw,’ or ’Penelope’?” asked Billy.

“Either, or both,” replied Bridge.  “I have no Penelope, but I did have a mighty fine ’maw’.”

Billy made no reply.  He was thinking of the slovenly, blear-eyed woman who had brought him into the world.  The memory was far from pleasant.  He tried to shake it off.

“‘Bridge,’” he said, quite suddenly, and apropos of nothing, in an effort to change the subject.  “That’s an odd name.  I’ve heard of Bridges and Bridger; but I never heard Bridge before.”

“Just a name a fellow gave me once up on the Yukon,” explained Bridge.  “I used to use a few words he’d never heard before, so he called me ‘The Unabridged,’ which was too long.  The fellows shortened it to ‘Bridge’ and it stuck.  It has always stuck, and now I haven’t any other.  I even think of myself, now, as Bridge.  Funny, ain’t it?”

“Yes,” agreed Billy, and that was the end of it.  He never thought of asking his companion’s true name, any more than Bridge would have questioned him as to his, or of his past.  The ethics of the roadside fire and the empty tomato tin do not countenance such impertinences.

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.”