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"'Bridge,'" he said, quite suddenly, and apropos of nothing, in an effort to change
the subject. "That's an odd name. I've heard of Bridges and Bridger; but I never
heard Bridge before."
"Just a name a fellow gave me once up on the Yukon," explained Bridge. "I used
to use a few words he'd never heard before, so he called me 'The Unabridged,'
which was too long. The fellows shortened it to 'Bridge' and it stuck. It has always
stuck, and now I haven't any other. I even think of myself, now, as Bridge. Funny,
ain't it?"
"Yes," agreed Billy, and that was the end of it. He never thought of asking his
companion's true name, any more than Bridge would have questioned him as to
his, or of his past. The ethics of the roadside fire and the empty tomato tin do not
countenance such impertinences.
For several days the two continued their leisurely way toward Kansas City. Once
they rode a few miles on a freight train, but for the most part they were content to
plod joyously along the dusty highways. Billy continued to "rustle grub," while
Bridge relieved the monotony by an occasional burst of poetry.
"You know so much of that stuff," said Billy as they were smoking by their camp
fire one evening, "that I'd think you'd be able to make some up yourself."
"I've tried," admitted Bridge; "but there always seems to be something lacking in
my stuff--it don't get under your belt--the divine afflatus is not there. I may start
out all right, but I always end up where I didn't expect to go, and where nobody
wants to be."
"
"
'Member any of it?" asked Billy.
There was one I wrote about a lake where I camped once," said Bridge,
reminiscently; "but I can only recall one stanza."
"Let's have it," urged Billy. "I bet it has Knibbs hangin' to the ropes."
Bridge cleared his throat, and recited:
Silver are the ripples, Solemn are the dunes, Happy are the fishes, For they
are full of prunes.
He looked up at Billy, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. "How's
that?" he asked.
Billy scratched his head.
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