Overland heard and smiled.
"You said it all," he muttered. "You said it all then."
"You're something of a poet, aren't you?" queried Winthrop.
"You bet! I'm some artist, too. A lady I was figurin' on acceptin' a
invite to dinner with, once,--one of them rich kind that always wants to
get their money's worth out of anything they do for a poor
guy,--happened to come out on the back steps where I was holdin' kind of
a coroner's request over a lettuce san'wich. 'My man,' she says, 'I have
always been interested to know if you--er--tramps ever think of
anything else but food and lodging and loafing. Nothing personal, I
assure you. Merely a general interest in social conditions which you
seem so well fitted to explode from experience. For instance, now, what
are your favorite colors?'
"I couldn't see what that had to do with it, and I got kind of mad. A
lettuce san'wich ain't encouragin' to confidence, so I up and says,
'What are me favorite colors, lady? Well, speakin' from experience, they
is _ham_ and _eggs_.'
"She took a tumble to herself and sent me out some of the best--and a
bottle of Red Cross beer with it."
On up the slope they toiled, Winthrop half-forgetting his weariness in
thinking of Overland's sprightly experiences with what he termed "the
hard ole map--this here world.
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