"No."

"Where'd you sleep last night?"

"Boxcar."

"Bindlestiff, huh?" roared the man with laughter.

"No, sir," said Jimmy. "I've no bindle."

The man's roar of laughter stopped abruptly. "You're a pretty wise kid,"
he said thoughtfully.

"I told y' so," said Moe.

"Shut up," snapped the man. "Kid, do you want a flop for the night?"

"Sure."

"Okay. You're in."

"What's your name?" asked Jimmy.

"You call me Jake. Short for Jacob. Er--here's the place."

The "Place" had no other name. It was a junkyard. In it were car parts,
wrecks with parts undamaged, whole motors rusting in the air, axles,
wheels, differential assemblies and transmissions from a thousand cars of
a thousand different parentages. Hubcaps abounded in piles sorted to size
and shape. Jake drove the little pickup truck into an open shed. The tire