he chose to sweep down upon the camp, and clean the
place out. Herein lay the trouble. And in consequence his days and
nights were none too easy.

He had never spoken of the matter before. It was not a subject to be
discussed with anybody. But Bill was different from the rest, and, for
several days, Minky had sought an opportunity of unburdening himself
to his friend. Now, at last, he had done so, and, in return, had
received small enough comfort. Still he felt he had done the best
thing.

CHAPTER IX

THE FORERUNNER OF THE TRUST

Bill passed straight through the store and set out across the town
dumps. And it would have been impossible to guess how far he was
affected by Minky's plaint. His face might have been a stone wall for
all expression it had of what was passing behind it. His cold eyes
were fixed upon the hut ahead of him without apparent interest or
meaning. His thoughts were his own at all times.

As he drew near he heard Sunny's voice raised in song, and he listened
intently, wondering the while if the loafer had any idea of its
quality. It was harsh, nasal and possessed as much tune as a freshly
sharpened "buzz-saw." But his words were distinct. Far too distinct
Bill thought with some irritation.

"A farmer ast the other day if we wanted work.
Sez we, 'Ol' man, the labour?' Sez he, 'It's binding wheat.'
Sez we, 'Ol' man, the figger?' 'A dollar an' a ha'f the sum.'
Sez we, 'Ol' man, go an' tickle yerself, we'd a durned sight sooner
bum!'

'Anythin' at all, marm, we're nearly starvin',
Anything to hel-l-lp the bummers on their wa-ay,
We are three bums an' jolly good chums,
An' we live like Royal Turks,
An' with good luck we bum our chuck,
An' it's a fool of a man wot works.'"

Just as Sunny was about to begin the next verse Bill appeared in the
doorway, and the vocalist was reduced to a pained silence by his harsh
criticism.

"You'd orter be rootin' kebbeges on a hog ranch wi' that voice," he
said icily. "You're sure the worst singer in America."

Then he glanced round for the children. They were nowhere to be seen.
Sunny was at the cookstove boiling milk in a tin "billy." His face was
greasy with perspiration, and, even to Bill's accustomed eyes, he
looked dirtier than ever. He stood now with a spoon poised, just as he
had lifted it out of the pot at the moment of the other's entrance.

"Where's the kids?" the latter demanded sharply.

Sunny shifted his f