The boy stuffed his loot back into his pockets and
came closer to the fire. Its warmth felt most comfort-
able, for the Spring night was growing chill. He looked
about him at the motley company, some half-spruce in
clothing that suggested a Kuppenmarx label and a not
too far association with a tailor's goose, others in rags,
all but one unshaven and all more or less dirty--for
the open road is close to Nature, which is principally
dirt.
"Shake hands with Dopey Charlie," said The Sky Pi-
lot, whose age and corpulency appeared to stamp him
with the hall mark of authority. The youth did as he
was bid, smiling into the sullen, chalk-white face and
taking the clammy hand extended toward him. Was it a
shudder that passed through the lithe, young figure or
was it merely a subconscious recognition of the final pass-
ing of the bodily cold before the glowing warmth of the
blaze? "And Soup Face," continued The Sky Pilot. A
battered wreck half rose and extended a pudgy hand.
Red whiskers, matted in little tangled wisps which sug-
gested the dried ingredients of an infinite procession
of semi-liquid refreshments, rioted promiscuously over a
scarlet countenance.
"Pleased to meetcha," sprayed Soup Face.
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