ABSTRACT
An old tramp, carrying his gear in a gunny sack, limped toward us and announced his presence with a fl ourish of speedy words: “They call me One-Eyed Jack. Call me Jack, or One-Eye. Lost the other when some goddamned kid threw a rock down into the gondola I was riding. That was years ago, and in the meantime I got it frostbit and messed up some more.” He said he’d like to “help himself to some of our shade, neighbors,” and without waiting for an answer dropped his gear to the ground.
