ride. I'm too fat for the trucks and they can always see me on the blind
baggage. I'll keep on walking. I never had no luck in all my life."

He rolled upon his hands and knees and then stood up. He started away,
wholly cowed, whining like a quill-pig, bewailing his luck.

"Luck!" the man of the brown eyes shouted after him in a tone which
expressed anger and regret. "What do you know about luck, you animated
lard-pail? A thing like you is in luck when he is in jail where there
is no workshop. Better luck than that is too good for you. Hold on one
minute! Turn around and look at me."

The tramp obeyed. The stranger pounded one of those hard fists on his
own breast.

"I say look at me! No matter what I was once! But to-day you found me
cooking bacon over three sticks and ready to fight for another man's
cast-off clothes. And in between whiles I have hiked every path that the
hobo knows between the oceans. Now jog on and think that over and keep
your jaw shut on luck! I say jog on! Don't look back. Forget that you
ever saw me."

He waved angry gesture and took two steps as though to enforce his
command with his fists.

The tramp jogged on at a brisk pace. He hurried to the highway and set
out on his shuffling pilgrimage, rubbing his aching face and muttering
to himself.