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."

"I've tried," admitted Bridge; "but there always seems to be

something lacking in my stuff--it don't get under your belt--

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