We tramps ain’t angels. Plenty of us fucked up somewhere’s ‘long the line. Fucked up one way er the other. But’cha cain’t hold that ‘gainst a man. Damn sure cain’t. Don’t make no difference if you’ve fucked up, er ain’t fucked up; out here yer all the same. The jungle’s the only place I know where ya c’n siddown at a man’s table an’ be welcome most anytime. Cain’t do that out there. Goddamn right ya cain’t. If I walk into a jungle, an’ there’s a pot of coffee goin’, I won’t have to say nothin’; I’ll git some offered to me. It’s sharin’ what’cha got. Mebbe I’ll have some grub on me, an’ mebbe the other guy will too, an’ we might put the two together an’ come up with a damn meal worth eatin’. I might never a laid eyes on the guy b’fore, but we’ll wind up sharin’ a meal together, no questions asked.

A tramp don’t ask any questions. I don’t ask any, an’ I don’t want any asked me. That three-fingered Mexican I been junglin’ with; I don’t know his name, an’ don’t care to know it. Don’t know where he’s been er where he’s goin’. Goddamn don’t matter. Might see him once a year er so, an’ that’s it. We jungle a few days together, an’ don’t run into one anther fer another year.

If ya don’t like the conversation, ya pick up an’ move. Pick up ‘an git her ass out. Git over an’ sit by yerself somewheres . If I don’t like the comp’ny, er one of us don’t like what’s bein’ said, one of us gonna move. Nothin’ holdin’ two guys together but themselves. I”ll tell a guy what I’m thinkin’. I speak my goddamn mind. If he don’t like it, he c’n move along.

109.