“What in hell do you want a pan for?” asked the one that sent me after wood. “Are you going to fry some water?” The other was on his hands and knees blowing up the weak fire. He stood up and looked at the speaker with a most superior air. “Not so fast, brother, not so fast. I’ve got a gump in my bindle.”

He unrolled his blankets and produced a live chicken, big and fat.

The other bum was humbled. “A gump!” he muttered, “and me carrying a fryin’ pan with me for the last week.” He dived into his bindle and got the pan.

The owner of the chicken took the pan and held it between his eye and the fire looking for holes in it. “It’ll do,” he said. “More wood, kid,” they both ordered.

We were three strangers well met under the bridge; one had a chicken, one coffee and a stale loaf of bread. I had nimble legs and gathered the firewood.