“How long you been here?”

“All day.”

“Where you headin’ for?”

“Denver.”

“Got a smoke?”

“No.”

He dug a dirty newspaper out of his back pocket, neatly tore a piece off the border, tearing it downward with the grain, till he had a piece the size of a cigarette paper. A search of his coat pocket yielded a cigar snipe, which he crushed in his hand and then rolled up in the paper he had held in his mouth.

“Got a match?”

“No.”