“We’ll feed up together tonight, fer the last time.  Then I’ll pull my freight.”  He was silent for a while, and then:  “I hate to do it, bo, fer you’re the whitest guy I ever struck,” which was a great deal for Billy Byrne of Grand Avenue to say.

Bridge finished rolling a brown paper cigarette before he spoke.

“Your words are pure and unadulterated wisdom, my friend,” he said.  “The chances are scarcely even that two gringo hoboes would last the week out afoot and broke in Viva Mexico; but it has been many years since I followed the dictates of wisdom.  Therefore I am going with you.”

Billy grinned.  He could not conceal his pleasure.

“You’re past twenty-one,” he said, “an’ dry behind the ears.  Let’s go an’ eat.  There is still some of that twenty-five left.”

Together they entered a saloon which Bridge remembered as permitting a very large consumption of free lunch upon the purchase of a single schooner of beer.

There were round tables scattered about the floor in front of the bar, and after purchasing their beer they carried it to one of these that stood in a far corner of the room close to a rear door.

Here Bridge sat on guard over the foaming open sesame to food while Billy crossed to the free lunch counter and appropriated all that a zealous attendant would permit him to carry off.

When he returned to the table he took a chair with his back to the wall in conformity to a habit of long standing when, as now, it had stood him in good stead to be in a position to see the other fellow at least as soon as the other fellow saw him.  The other fellow being more often than not a large gentleman with a bit of shiny metal pinned to his left suspender strap.

“That guy’s a tight one,” said Billy, jerking his hand in the direction of the guardian of the free lunch.  “I scoops up about a good, square meal for a canary bird, an’ he makes me cough up half of it.  Wants to know if I t’ink I can go into the restaurant business on a fi’-cent schooner of suds.”

Bridge laughed.

“Well, you didn’t do so badly at that,” he said.  “I know places where they’d indict you for grand larceny if you took much more than you have here.”

“Rotten beer,” commented Billy.

“Always is rotten down here,” replied Bridge.  “I sometimes think they put moth balls in it so it won’t spoil.”

Billy looked up and smiled.  Then he raised his tall glass before him.

“Here’s to,” he started; but he got no further.  His eyes traveling past his companion fell upon the figure of a large man entering the low doorway.

At the same instant the gentleman’s eyes fell upon Billy.  Recognition lit those of each simultaneously.  The big man started across the room on a run, straight toward Billy Byrne.

The latter leaped to his feet.  Bridge, guessing what had happened, rose too.