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.”

“Nix, nix,” said one; “buy nothin’,” said the other, “it’s you kind of cats that make it tough on us, buyin’ chuck. They begin to expect money. You go up to that house,” pointing to a place on a small rise, about fifteen minutes’ walk, “and tell the woman you and two other kids run away from home in the city three days ago and you ain’t had nothin’ but a head of cabbage that fell off a farmer’s wagon between youse since you left. Tell her you are on your way back home and the other two kids are down by the bridge so hungry they can’t walk. On your way up there git a phony name and street number ready in case she asks you questions. She’ll give you a sit-down for yourself, chances are, but bring back a lump for us. You’re a decent-lookin’ kid; she might git worked up about your troubles and ask a lot of dam’ fool questions. Cut her off. Tell her you’re ashamed to be settin’ there wasting time and the other boys starvin’ under the bridge.”