As we walked to our boarding house I told my father the whole story of my job in the cigar store, my collecting for the milkman, my arrest, and our rescue of Julia. He listened without comment, and when I was done, said: “Well, John, you’ll be what you’ll be, and I cannot help or hinder you. Go back to your job in the morning if you like.”
Those were his last words to me. They were kind, and I have always remembered them and their ring of fatality. I never saw him again. I learned later that he lived out his life orderly and died decently. He went away the next day, and when he returned I was far away, westbound in search of adventure.
I was tired of Tex and his tribe and their smoky back room and cheap cheating. I was sick of the sight of the crabby widow at the boarding house. It was springtime. Sundown found me miles away on a country road, walking westward. Yes, I was going in the right direction. There was the sun going down away off in front of me. Darkness was coming on, but it did not strike me as unusual that I had no supper or no room for the night.
I came to a bridge and stopped when I heard voices below. I looked over the side and a voice came up: “Come on down, kid. Don’t be leery, we’re only a couple of harmless bindle stiffs.”
I picked my way down to the level place beside the small creek where they were. One of them was unrolling a “bindle” of blankets, the other was washing a large tin can in the creek.
“Throw out your feet, kid, and get some wood before it gets too dark. We’ll have a fire and a can of Java, anyway.”
Wood was plentiful. I soon returned with an armful. The other bum came up with the can from the creek and began breaking up some twigs to start the fire. He barely looked at me. “Take a look around the jungle, kid, and see if you can find a pan,” he ordered.