Ishmaelite.
Some from the wastes of the sage-brush, some from the orange land,
Some from God's own country, dusty and tattered and tanned.
Why are we? It's idle to tell you--you'd never understand.
To and fro
We come and go.
Old Father Ishmael's band."

He leaned back and laughed in the tramp's puzzled face.

"Well, what's the answer?" scoffed Boston Fat.

The other man talked on, humor in his eyes, plainly enjoying this verbal
skylarking.

"I'm afraid I cannot waste time and breath on you in an attempt to
answer the riddle of the ages, to explain the wanderlust that sent forth
the tribes from the Aryan bowl of the birth of the races, my
corpulent bean-pot. Your blank eyes and your flattened skull suggest a
discouraging incapacity for information."

"I don't know what you're gabbing abut. But there's one thing I do know.
I'll tip 'em off at the next insane-asylum I come to that I met you
headed north." The tramp gathered the articles of clothing from the
bushes and got down on his knees and began to fold them.

The man of the brown eyes stepped forward, laid down his little book,
picked up the frock-coat and pulled it on, the fat man squealing
expostulation. With serene disregard of this protest Farr buttoned the
coat, smoothed it down, and then straightened his shoulders.