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Billy repeated the lines half aloud. They renewed his confidence in Bridge, somehow. "Like them?" asked the latter. "Yes," said Billy; "s'more of Knibbs?" "No, Service. Come on, let's go and dine. How about the Midland?" and he grinned at his little joke as he led the way toward the street. It was late afternoon. The sun already had set; but it still was too light for lamps.
"There ain't no track," he said, "an' that 'dobe shack don't look much like a town; but otherwise his Knibbs has got our number all right, all right. We are the birds a-flyin' south, and Flannagan was the shiver in the air. Flannagan is a reg'lar frost. Gee! but I betcha dat guy's sore."
However, they formed themselves into line, all assisting, owing to the importance of the search; the dairyman at the upper end with Mr Clare, who had volunteered to help; then Tess, Marian, Izz Huett, and Retty; then Bill Lewell, Jonathan, and the married dairywomen Beck Knibbs, with her wooly black hair and rolling eyes; and flaxen Frances, consumptive from the winter damps of the water-meads who lived in their respective cottages.
"I guess Knibbs is safe for another round at least," said Billy. Bridge was eying his companion, noting the broad shoulders, the deep chest, the mighty forearm and biceps which the other's light cotton shirt could not conceal.
If I had room, I could relate many amusing anecdotes under this head. "Stag his knibbs" signifies "Look at him." In which is introduced a celebrated Comedian from the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, London. The next morning, bright and early, "two travellers might have been seen" crossing one of the ponderous bridges that lead over the Schuylkill from Philadelphia to the opposite shore.
And you, my sweet Penelope, out there somewhere you wait for me, With buds of roses in your hair and kisses on your mouth. Grayson and his employer both looked up as the words of Knibbs' poem floated in to them through the open window. "I wonder where that blew in from," remarked Grayson, as his eyes discovered Bridge astride the tired pony, looking at him through the window.
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."
"Just lead me to a beanery "Where there's something more than only air to chew." The two looked up, smiling. "You're a funny kind of tramp, to be quoting poetry," said The Oskaloosa Kid, "even if it is Knibbs'." "Almost as funny," replied Bridge, "as a burglar who recognizes Knibbs when he hears him." The Oskaloosa Kid flushed. "He wrote for us of the open road," he replied quickly.
""Just me," filled up my callin' card. "Say, do you know I've learned to love this Knibbs person. I used to think of him as a poor attic prune grinding away in his New York sky parlor, writing his verse of the things he longed for but had never known; until, one day, I met a fellow between Victorville and Cajon pass who knew His Knibbs, and come to find out this Knibbs is a regular fellow.
There was an almost imperceptible raising of the man's eyebrows; but he said nothing to indicate that he had noticed anything out of the ordinary. The two smoked on for many minutes without indulging in conversation. The camper quoted snatches from Service and Kipling, then he came back to Knibbs, who was evidently his favorite. Billy listened and thought.
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