A farmer’s team crossing the bridge woke us at daylight. I got up at once, cold and sore from the hard ground, and made a fire. The other two crawled out of their blankets and went down to the creek to wash. I followed them. They both had soap wrapped in paper. One of them gave me his piece. I washed and returned it. He placed it on a rock till it was dry, then wrapped it up and put it in his coat pocket. They also had pocket combs and small round mirrors.

We went back to the fire and discussed breakfast. “Nothing but Java,” said the bum that had the coffee.

“I’ll go to the farmhouse,” I volunteered, “and buy something.”