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diff --git a/old/14658-h/14658-h.htm b/old/14658-h/14658-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..27b8e8e --- /dev/null +++ b/old/14658-h/14658-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5113 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Transitional//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Road, by Jack London</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + .poem span.i14 {display: block; margin-left: 14em;} + .poem span.i15 {display: block; margin-left: 15em;} + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + } + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + .linenum {position: absolute; top: auto; left: 4%;} /* poetry number */ + .blockquot{margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 10%;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; left: 92%; font-size: smaller; text-align: right;} /* page numbers */ + .sidenote {width: 20%; padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em; margin-left: 1em; + float: right; clear: right; margin-top: 1em; + font-size: smaller; background: #eeeeee; border: dashed 1px;} + + .bb {border-bottom: solid 2px;} + .bl {border-left: solid 2px;} + .bt {border-top: solid 2px;} + .br {border-right: solid 2px;} + .bbox {border: solid 2px;} + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .figleft {float: left; clear: left; margin-left: 0; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: + 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .figright {float: right; clear: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; margin-right: 0; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + .footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + .footnote .label {position: absolute; left: 12%; text-align: left;} + + .poem {margin-left:35%; margin-right:10%; text-align: left;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span {display: block; margin: 0; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 2em;} + .poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 4em;} + hr.full { width: 100%; } + a:link {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + link {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + a:visited {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + a:hover {color:red} + pre {font-size: 8pt;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Road, by Jack London</h1> +<pre> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at <a href = "https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p>Title: The Road</p> +<p>Author: Jack London</p> +<p>Release Date: January 10, 2005 [eBook #14658]</p> +<p>Language: English</p> +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ROAD***</p> +<p> </p> +<h3>E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Diane Monico,<br /> + and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> + (www.pgdp.net)</h3> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h1>THE ROAD</h1> + +<h2>By Jack London</h2> + +<h4>1907</h4> + +<p> </p> +<h6>(New York: Macmillan)</h6> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + +<br /><br /> +<p class="center">TO</p> + +<p class="center">JOSIAH FLYNT</p> + +<p class="center"><i>The Real Thing, Blowed in the Glass</i></p> +<p> </p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p> </p> +<h2><a name="Contents" id="Contents" />Contents</h2> + +<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. --> + +<h4> <a href="#Confession"><b>Confession</b></a></h4> +<h4> <a href="#Holding_Her_Down"><b>Holding Her Down</b></a></h4> +<h4> <a href="#Pictures"><b>Pictures</b></a></h4> +<h4> <a href="#Pinchedquot"><b>"Pinched"</b></a></h4> +<h4> <a href="#The_Pen"><b>The Pen</b></a></h4> +<h4> <a href="#Hoboes_That_Pass_in_the_Night"><b>Hoboes That Pass in the Night</b></a></h4> +<h4> <a href="#Road_Kids_and_Gay_Cats"><b>Road-Kids and Gay-Cats</b></a></h4> +<h4> <a href="#Two_Thousand_Stiffs"><b>Two Thousand Stiffs</b></a></h4> +<h4> <a href="#Bulls"><b>Bulls</b></a></h4> + +<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. --> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<br /> +<br /> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span>"Speakin' in general, I 'ave tried 'em all,<br /></span> +<span>The 'appy roads that take you o'er the world.<br /></span> +<span>Speakin' in general, I 'ave found them good<br /></span> +<span>For such as cannot use one bed too long,<br /></span> +<span>But must get 'ence, the same as I 'ave done,<br /></span> +<span>An' go observin' matters till they die."<br /></span> +<p> —<i>Sestina of the Tramp-Royal</i></p> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="Confession" id="Confession" /><i>Confession</i></h2> + + +<p>There is a woman in the state of Nevada to whom I once lied continuously, +consistently, and shamelessly, for the matter of a couple of hours. I +don't want to apologize to her. Far be it from me. But I do want to +explain. Unfortunately, I do not know her name, much less her present +address. If her eyes should chance upon these lines, I hope she will write +to me.</p> + +<p>It was in Reno, Nevada, in the summer of 1892. Also, it was fair-time, and +the town was filled with petty crooks and tin-horns, to say nothing of a +vast and hungry horde of hoboes. It was the hungry hoboes that made the +town a "hungry" town. They "battered" the back doors of the homes of the +citizens until the back doors became unresponsive.</p> + +<p>A hard town for "scoffings," was what the hoboes called it at that time. I +know that I missed many a meal, in spite of the fact that I could "throw +my feet" with the next one when it came to "slamming a gate" for a +"poke-out" or a "set-down," or hitting for a "light piece" on the street. +Why, I was so hard put in that town, one day, that I gave the porter the +slip and invaded the private car of some itinerant millionnaire. The train +started as I made the platform, and I headed for the aforesaid +millionnaire with the porter one jump behind and reaching for me. It was a +dead heat, for I reached the millionnaire at the same instant that the +porter reached me. I had no time for formalities. "Gimme a quarter to eat +on," I blurted out. And as I live, that millionnaire dipped into his +pocket and gave me ... just ... precisely ... a quarter. It is my +conviction that he was so flabbergasted that he obeyed automatically, and +it has been a matter of keen regret ever since, on my part, that I didn't +ask him for a dollar. I know that I'd have got it. I swung off the +platform of that private car with the porter manoeuvring to kick me in the +face. He missed me. One is at a terrible disadvantage when trying to swing +off the lowest step of a car and not break his neck on the right of way, +with, at the same time, an irate Ethiopian on the platform above trying +to land him in the face with a number eleven. But I got the quarter! I got +it!</p> + +<p>But to return to the woman to whom I so shamelessly lied. It was in the +evening of my last day in Reno. I had been out to the race-track watching +the ponies run, and had missed my dinner (<i>i.e.</i> the mid-day meal). I was +hungry, and, furthermore, a committee of public safety had just been +organized to rid the town of just such hungry mortals as I. Already a lot +of my brother hoboes had been gathered in by John Law, and I could hear +the sunny valleys of California calling to me over the cold crests of the +Sierras. Two acts remained for me to perform before I shook the dust of +Reno from my feet. One was to catch the blind baggage on the westbound +overland that night. The other was first to get something to eat. Even +youth will hesitate at an all-night ride, on an empty stomach, outside a +train that is tearing the atmosphere through the snow-sheds, tunnels, and +eternal snows of heaven-aspiring mountains.</p> + +<p>But that something to eat was a hard proposition. I was "turned down" at a +dozen houses. Sometimes I received insulting remarks and was informed of +the barred domicile that should be mine if I had my just deserts. The +worst of it was that such assertions were only too true. That was why I +was pulling west that night. John Law was abroad in the town, seeking +eagerly for the hungry and homeless, for by such was his barred domicile +tenanted.</p> + +<p>At other houses the doors were slammed in my face, cutting short my +politely and humbly couched request for something to eat. At one house +they did not open the door. I stood on the porch and knocked, and they +looked out at me through the window. They even held one sturdy little boy +aloft so that he could see over the shoulders of his elders the tramp who +wasn't going to get anything to eat at their house.</p> + +<p>It began to look as if I should be compelled to go to the very poor for my +food. The very poor constitute the last sure recourse of the hungry tramp. +The very poor can always be depended upon. They never turn away the +hungry. Time and again, all over the United States, have I been refused +food by the big house on the hill; and always have I received food from +the little shack down by the creek or marsh, with its broken windows +stuffed with rags and its tired-faced mother broken with labor. Oh, you +charity-mongers! Go to the poor and learn, for the poor alone are the +charitable. They neither give nor withhold from their excess. They have no +excess. They give, and they withhold never, from what they need for +themselves, and very often from what they cruelly need for themselves. A +bone to the dog is not charity. Charity is the bone shared with the dog +when you are just as hungry as the dog.</p> + +<p>There was one house in particular where I was turned down that evening. +The porch windows opened on the dining room, and through them I saw a man +eating pie—a big meat-pie. I stood in the open door, and while he talked +with me, he went on eating. He was prosperous, and out of his prosperity +had been bred resentment against his less fortunate brothers.</p> + +<p>He cut short my request for something to eat, snapping out, "I don't +believe you want to work."</p> + +<p>Now this was irrelevant. I hadn't said anything about work. The topic of +conversation I had introduced was "food." In fact, I didn't want to work. +I wanted to take the westbound overland that night.</p> + +<p>"You wouldn't work if you had a chance," he bullied.</p> + +<p>I glanced at his meek-faced wife, and knew that but for the presence of +this Cerberus I'd have a whack at that meat-pie myself. But Cerberus +sopped himself in the pie, and I saw that I must placate him if I were to +get a share of it. So I sighed to myself and accepted his work-morality.</p> + +<p>"Of course I want work," I bluffed.</p> + +<p>"Don't believe it," he snorted.</p> + +<p>"Try me," I answered, warming to the bluff.</p> + +<p>"All right," he said. "Come to the corner of blank and blank streets"—(I +have forgotten the address)—"to-morrow morning. You know where that +burned building is, and I'll put you to work tossing bricks."</p> + +<p>"All right, sir; I'll be there."</p> + +<p>He grunted and went on eating. I waited. After a couple of minutes he +looked up with an I-thought-you-were-gone expression on his face, and +demanded:—</p> + +<p>"Well?"</p> + +<p>"I ... I am waiting for something to eat," I said gently.</p> + +<p>"I knew you wouldn't work!" he roared.</p> + +<p>He was right, of course; but his conclusion must have been reached by +mind-reading, for his logic wouldn't bear it out. But the beggar at the +door must be humble, so I accepted his logic as I had accepted his +morality.</p> + +<p>"You see, I am now hungry," I said still gently. "To-morrow morning I +shall be hungrier. Think how hungry I shall be when I have tossed bricks +all day without anything to eat. Now if you will give me something to eat, +I'll be in great shape for those bricks."</p> + +<p>He gravely considered my plea, at the same time going on eating, while his +wife nearly trembled into propitiatory speech, but refrained.</p> + +<p>"I'll tell you what I'll do," he said between mouthfuls. "You come to work +to-morrow, and in the middle of the day I'll advance you enough for your +dinner. That will show whether you are in earnest or not."</p> + +<p>"In the meantime—" I began; but he interrupted.</p> + +<p>"If I gave you something to eat now, I'd never see you again. Oh, I know +your kind. Look at me. I owe no man. I have never descended so low as to +ask any one for food. I have always earned my food. The trouble with you +is that you are idle and dissolute. I can see it in your face. I have +worked and been honest. I have made myself what I am. And you can do the +same, if you work and are honest."</p> + +<p>"Like you?" I queried.</p> + +<p>Alas, no ray of humor had ever penetrated the sombre work-sodden soul of +that man.</p> + +<p>"Yes, like me," he answered.</p> + +<p>"All of us?" I queried.</p> + +<p>"Yes, all of you," he answered, conviction vibrating in his voice.</p> + +<p>"But if we all became like you," I said, "allow me to point out that +there'd be nobody to toss bricks for you."</p> + +<p>I swear there was a flicker of a smile in his wife's eye. As for him, he +was aghast—but whether at the awful possibility of a reformed humanity +that would not enable him to get anybody to toss bricks for him, or at my +impudence, I shall never know.</p> + +<p>"I'll not waste words on you," he roared. "Get out of here, you +ungrateful whelp!"</p> + +<p>I scraped my feet to advertise my intention of going, and queried:—</p> + +<p>"And I don't get anything to eat?"</p> + +<p>He arose suddenly to his feet. He was a large man. I was a stranger in a +strange land, and John Law was looking for me. I went away hurriedly. "But +why ungrateful?" I asked myself as I slammed his gate. "What in the +dickens did he give me to be ungrateful about?" I looked back. I could +still see him through the window. He had returned to his pie.</p> + +<p>By this time I had lost heart. I passed many houses by without venturing +up to them. All houses looked alike, and none looked "good." After walking +half a dozen blocks I shook off my despondency and gathered my "nerve." +This begging for food was all a game, and if I didn't like the cards, I +could always call for a new deal. I made up my mind to tackle the next +house. I approached it in the deepening twilight, going around to the +kitchen door.</p> + +<p>I knocked softly, and when I saw the kind face of the middle-aged woman +who answered, as by inspiration came to me the "story" I was to tell. For +know that upon his ability to tell a good story depends the success of the +beggar. First of all, and on the instant, the beggar must "size up" his +victim. After that, he must tell a story that will appeal to the peculiar +personality and temperament of that particular victim. And right here +arises the great difficulty: in the instant that he is sizing up the +victim he must begin his story. Not a minute is allowed for preparation. +As in a lightning flash he must divine the nature of the victim and +conceive a tale that will hit home. The successful hobo must be an artist. +He must create spontaneously and instantaneously—and not upon a theme +selected from the plenitude of his own imagination, but upon the theme he +reads in the face of the person who opens the door, be it man, woman, or +child, sweet or crabbed, generous or miserly, good-natured or +cantankerous, Jew or Gentile, black or white, race-prejudiced or +brotherly, provincial or universal, or whatever else it may be. I have +often thought that to this training of my tramp days is due much of my +success as a story-writer. In order to get the food whereby I lived, I +was compelled to tell tales that rang true. At the back door, out of +inexorable necessity, is developed the convincingness and sincerity laid +down by all authorities on the art of the short-story. Also, I quite +believe it was my tramp-apprenticeship that made a realist out of me. +Realism constitutes the only goods one can exchange at the kitchen door +for grub.</p> + +<p>After all, art is only consummate artfulness, and artfulness saves many a +"story." I remember lying in a police station at Winnipeg, Manitoba. I was +bound west over the Canadian Pacific. Of course, the police wanted my +story, and I gave it to them—on the spur of the moment. They were +landlubbers, in the heart of the continent, and what better story for them +than a sea story? They could never trip me up on that. And so I told a +tearful tale of my life on the hell-ship <i>Glenmore</i>. (I had once seen the +<i>Glenmore</i> lying at anchor in San Francisco Bay.)</p> + +<p>I was an English apprentice, I said. And they said that I didn't talk like +an English boy. It was up to me to create on the instant. I had been born +and reared in the United States. On the death of my parents, I had been +sent to England to my grandparents. It was they who had apprenticed me on +the <i>Glenmore</i>. I hope the captain of the <i>Glenmore</i> will forgive me, for +I gave him a character that night in the Winnipeg police station. Such +cruelty! Such brutality! Such diabolical ingenuity of torture! It +explained why I had deserted the <i>Glenmore</i> at Montreal.</p> + +<p>But why was I in the middle of Canada going west, when my grandparents +lived in England? Promptly I created a married sister who lived in +California. She would take care of me. I developed at length her loving +nature. But they were not done with me, those hard-hearted policemen. I +had joined the <i>Glenmore</i> in England; in the two years that had elapsed +before my desertion at Montreal, what had the <i>Glenmore</i> done and where +had she been? And thereat I took those landlubbers around the world with +me. Buffeted by pounding seas and stung with flying spray, they fought a +typhoon with me off the coast of Japan. They loaded and unloaded cargo +with me in all the ports of the Seven Seas. I took them to India, and +Rangoon, and China, and had them hammer ice with me around the Horn and +at last come to moorings at Montreal.</p> + +<p>And then they said to wait a moment, and one policeman went forth into the +night while I warmed myself at the stove, all the while racking my brains +for the trap they were going to spring on me.</p> + +<p>I groaned to myself when I saw him come in the door at the heels of the +policeman. No gypsy prank had thrust those tiny hoops of gold through the +ears; no prairie winds had beaten that skin into wrinkled leather; nor had +snow-drift and mountain-slope put in his walk that reminiscent roll. And +in those eyes, when they looked at me, I saw the unmistakable sun-wash of +the sea. Here was a theme, alas! with half a dozen policemen to watch me +read—I who had never sailed the China seas, nor been around the Horn, nor +looked with my eyes upon India and Rangoon.</p> + +<p>I was desperate. Disaster stalked before me incarnate in the form of that +gold-ear-ringed, weather-beaten son of the sea. Who was he? What was he? I +must solve him ere he solved me. I must take a new orientation, or else +those wicked policemen would orientate me to a cell, a police court, and +more cells. If he questioned me first, before I knew how much he knew, I +was lost.</p> + +<p>But did I betray my desperate plight to those lynx-eyed guardians of the +public welfare of Winnipeg? Not I. I met that aged sailorman glad-eyed and +beaming, with all the simulated relief at deliverance that a drowning man +would display on finding a life-preserver in his last despairing clutch. +Here was a man who understood and who would verify my true story to the +faces of those sleuth-hounds who did not understand, or, at least, such +was what I endeavored to play-act. I seized upon him; I volleyed him with +questions about himself. Before my judges I would prove the character of +my savior before he saved me.</p> + +<p>He was a kindly sailorman—an "easy mark." The policemen grew impatient +while I questioned him. At last one of them told me to shut up. I shut up; +but while I remained shut up, I was busy creating, busy sketching the +scenario of the next act. I had learned enough to go on with. He was a +Frenchman. He had sailed always on French merchant vessels, with the one +exception of a voyage on a "lime-juicer." And last of all—blessed +fact!—he had not been on the sea for twenty years.</p> + +<p>The policeman urged him on to examine me.</p> + +<p>"You called in at Rangoon?" he queried.</p> + +<p>I nodded. "We put our third mate ashore there. Fever."</p> + +<p>If he had asked me what kind of fever, I should have answered, "Enteric," +though for the life of me I didn't know what enteric was. But he didn't +ask me. Instead, his next question was:—</p> + +<p>"And how is Rangoon?"</p> + +<p>"All right. It rained a whole lot when we were there."</p> + +<p>"Did you get shore-leave?"</p> + +<p>"Sure," I answered. "Three of us apprentices went ashore together."</p> + +<p>"Do you remember the temple?"</p> + +<p>"Which temple?" I parried.</p> + +<p>"The big one, at the top of the stairway."</p> + +<p>If I remembered that temple, I knew I'd have to describe it. The gulf +yawned for me.</p> + +<p>I shook my head.</p> + +<p>"You can see it from all over the harbor," he informed me. "You don't need +shore-leave to see that temple."</p> + +<p>I never loathed a temple so in my life. But I fixed that particular temple +at Rangoon.</p> + +<p>"You can't see it from the harbor," I contradicted. "You can't see it from +the town. You can't see it from the top of the stairway. Because—" I +paused for the effect. "Because there isn't any temple there."</p> + +<p>"But I saw it with my own eyes!" he cried.</p> + +<p>"That was in—?" I queried.</p> + +<p>"Seventy-one."</p> + +<p>"It was destroyed in the great earthquake of 1887," I explained. "It was +very old."</p> + +<p>There was a pause. He was busy reconstructing in his old eyes the youthful +vision of that fair temple by the sea.</p> + +<p>"The stairway is still there," I aided him. "You can see it from all over +the harbor. And you remember that little island on the right-hand side +coming into the harbor?" I guess there must have been one there (I was +prepared to shift it over to the left-hand side), for he nodded. "Gone," +I said. "Seven fathoms of water there now."</p> + +<p>I had gained a moment for breath. While he pondered on time's changes, I +prepared the finishing touches of my story.</p> + +<p>"You remember the custom-house at Bombay?"</p> + +<p>He remembered it.</p> + +<p>"Burned to the ground," I announced.</p> + +<p>"Do you remember Jim Wan?" he came back at me.</p> + +<p>"Dead," I said; but who the devil Jim Wan was I hadn't the slightest idea.</p> + +<p>I was on thin ice again.</p> + +<p>"Do you remember Billy Harper, at Shanghai?" I queried back at him +quickly.</p> + +<p>That aged sailorman worked hard to recollect, but the Billy Harper of my +imagination was beyond his faded memory.</p> + +<p>"Of course you remember Billy Harper," I insisted. "Everybody knows him. +He's been there forty years. Well, he's still there, that's all."</p> + +<p>And then the miracle happened. The sailorman remembered Billy Harper. +Perhaps there was a Billy Harper, and perhaps he had been in Shanghai for +forty years and was still there; but it was news to me.</p> + +<p>For fully half an hour longer, the sailorman and I talked on in similar +fashion. In the end he told the policemen that I was what I represented +myself to be, and after a night's lodging and a breakfast I was released +to wander on westward to my married sister in San Francisco.</p> + +<p>But to return to the woman in Reno who opened her door to me in the +deepening twilight. At the first glimpse of her kindly face I took my cue. +I became a sweet, innocent, unfortunate lad. I couldn't speak. I opened my +mouth and closed it again. Never in my life before had I asked any one for +food. My embarrassment was painful, extreme. I was ashamed. I, who looked +upon begging as a delightful whimsicality, thumbed myself over into a true +son of Mrs. Grundy, burdened with all her bourgeois morality. Only the +harsh pangs of the belly-need could compel me to do so degraded and +ignoble a thing as beg for food. And into my face I strove to throw all +the wan wistfulness of famished and ingenuous youth unused to mendicancy.</p> + +<p>"You are hungry, my poor boy," she said.</p> + +<p>I had made her speak first.</p> + +<p>I nodded my head and gulped.</p> + +<p>"It is the first time I have ever ... asked," I faltered.</p> + +<p>"Come right in." The door swung open. "We have already finished eating, +but the fire is burning and I can get something up for you."</p> + +<p>She looked at me closely when she got me into the light.</p> + +<p>"I wish my boy were as healthy and strong as you," she said. "But he is +not strong. He sometimes falls down. He just fell down this afternoon and +hurt himself badly, the poor dear."</p> + +<p>She mothered him with her voice, with an ineffable tenderness in it that I +yearned to appropriate. I glanced at him. He sat across the table, slender +and pale, his head swathed in bandages. He did not move, but his eyes, +bright in the lamplight, were fixed upon me in a steady and wondering +stare.</p> + +<p>"Just like my poor father," I said. "He had the falling sickness. Some +kind of vertigo. It puzzled the doctors. They never could make out what +was the matter with him."</p> + +<p>"He is dead?" she queried gently, setting before me half a dozen +soft-boiled eggs.</p> + +<p>"Dead," I gulped. "Two weeks ago. I was with him when it happened. We were +crossing the street together. He fell right down. He was never conscious +again. They carried him into a drug-store. He died there."</p> + +<p>And thereat I developed the pitiful tale of my father—how, after my +mother's death, he and I had gone to San Francisco from the ranch; how his +pension (he was an old soldier), and the little other money he had, was +not enough; and how he had tried book-canvassing. Also, I narrated my own +woes during the few days after his death that I had spent alone and +forlorn on the streets of San Francisco. While that good woman warmed up +biscuits, fried bacon, and cooked more eggs, and while I kept pace with +her in taking care of all that she placed before me, I enlarged the +picture of that poor orphan boy and filled in the details. I became that +poor boy. I believed in him as I believed in the beautiful eggs I was +devouring. I could have wept for myself. I know the tears did get into my +voice at times. It was very effective.</p> + +<p>In fact, with every touch I added to the picture, that kind soul gave me +something also. She made up a lunch for me to carry away. She put in many +boiled eggs, pepper and salt, and other things, and a big apple. She +provided me with three pairs of thick red woollen socks. She gave me clean +handkerchiefs and other things which I have since forgotten. And all the +time she cooked more and more and I ate more and more. I gorged like a +savage; but then it was a far cry across the Sierras on a blind baggage, +and I knew not when nor where I should find my next meal. And all the +while, like a death's-head at the feast, silent and motionless, her own +unfortunate boy sat and stared at me across the table. I suppose I +represented to him mystery, and romance, and adventure—all that was +denied the feeble flicker of life that was in him. And yet I could not +forbear, once or twice, from wondering if he saw through me down to the +bottom of my mendacious heart.</p> + +<p>"But where are you going to?" she asked me.</p> + +<p>"Salt Lake City," said I. "I have a sister there—a married sister." (I +debated if I should make a Mormon out of her, and decided against it.) +"Her husband is a plumber—a contracting plumber."</p> + +<p>Now I knew that contracting plumbers were usually credited with making +lots of money. But I had spoken. It was up to me to qualify.</p> + +<p>"They would have sent me the money for my fare if I had asked for it," I +explained, "but they have had sickness and business troubles. His partner +cheated him. And so I wouldn't write for the money. I knew I could make my +way there somehow. I let them think I had enough to get me to Salt Lake +City. She is lovely, and so kind. She was always kind to me. I guess I'll +go into the shop and learn the trade. She has two daughters. They are +younger than I. One is only a baby."</p> + +<p>Of all my married sisters that I have distributed among the cities of the +United States, that Salt Lake sister is my favorite. She is quite real, +too. When I tell about her, I can see her, and her two little girls, and +her plumber husband. She is a large, motherly woman, just verging on +beneficent stoutness—the kind, you know, that always cooks nice things +and that never gets angry. She is a brunette. Her husband is a quiet, +easy-going fellow. Sometimes I almost know him quite well. And who knows +but some day I may meet him? If that aged sailorman could remember Billy +Harper, I see no reason why I should not some day meet the husband of my +sister who lives in Salt Lake City.</p> + +<p>On the other hand, I have a feeling of certitude within me that I shall +never meet in the flesh my many parents and grandparents—you see, I +invariably killed them off. Heart disease was my favorite way of getting +rid of my mother, though on occasion I did away with her by means of +consumption, pneumonia, and typhoid fever. It is true, as the Winnipeg +policemen will attest, that I have grandparents living in England; but +that was a long time ago and it is a fair assumption that they are dead by +now. At any rate, they have never written to me.</p> + +<p>I hope that woman in Reno will read these lines and forgive me my +gracelessness and unveracity. I do not apologize, for I am unashamed. It +was youth, delight in life, zest for experience, that brought me to her +door. It did me good. It taught me the intrinsic kindliness of human +nature. I hope it did her good. Anyway, she may get a good laugh out of it +now that she learns the real inwardness of the situation.</p> + +<p>To her my story was "true." She believed in me and all my family, and she +was filled with solicitude for the dangerous journey I must make ere I won +to Salt Lake City. This solicitude nearly brought me to grief. Just as I +was leaving, my arms full of lunch and my pockets bulging with fat woollen +socks, she bethought herself of a nephew, or uncle, or relative of some +sort, who was in the railway mail service, and who, moreover, would come +through that night on the very train on which I was going to steal my +ride. The very thing! She would take me down to the depot, tell him my +story, and get him to hide me in the mail car. Thus, without danger or +hardship, I would be carried straight through to Ogden. Salt Lake City was +only a few miles farther on. My heart sank. She grew excited as she +developed the plan and with my sinking heart I had to feign unbounded +gladness and enthusiasm at this solution of my difficulties.</p> + +<p>Solution! Why I was bound west that night, and here was I being trapped +into going east. It <i>was</i> a trap, and I hadn't the heart to tell her that +it was all a miserable lie. And while I made believe that I was delighted, +I was busy cudgelling my brains for some way to escape. But there was no +way. She would see me into the mail-car—she said so herself—and then +that mail-clerk relative of hers would carry me to Ogden. And then I would +have to beat my way back over all those hundreds of miles of desert.</p> + +<p>But luck was with me that night. Just about the time she was getting ready +to put on her bonnet and accompany me, she discovered that she had made a +mistake. Her mail-clerk relative was not scheduled to come through that +night. His run had been changed. He would not come through until two +nights afterward. I was saved, for of course my boundless youth would +never permit me to wait those two days. I optimistically assured her that +I'd get to Salt Lake City quicker if I started immediately, and I departed +with her blessings and best wishes ringing in my ears.</p> + +<p>But those woollen socks were great. I know. I wore a pair of them that +night on the blind baggage of the overland, and that overland went west.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="Holding_Her_Down" id="Holding_Her_Down" /><i>Holding Her Down</i></h2> + + +<p>Barring accidents, a good hobo, with youth and agility, can hold a train +down despite all the efforts of the train-crew to "ditch" him—given, of +course, night-time as an essential condition. When such a hobo, under such +conditions, makes up his mind that he is going to hold her down, either he +does hold her down, or chance trips him up. There is no legitimate way, +short of murder, whereby the train-crew can ditch him. That train-crews +have not stopped short of murder is a current belief in the tramp world. +Not having had that particular experience in my tramp days I cannot vouch +for it personally.</p> + +<p>But this I have heard of the "bad" roads. When a tramp has "gone +underneath," on the rods, and the train is in motion, there is apparently +no way of dislodging him until the train stops. The tramp, snugly +ensconced inside the truck, with the four wheels and all the framework +around him, has the "cinch" on the crew—or so he thinks, until some day +he rides the rods on a bad road. A bad road is usually one on which a +short time previously one or several trainmen have been killed by tramps. +Heaven pity the tramp who is caught "underneath" on such a road—for +caught he is, though the train be going sixty miles an hour.</p> + +<p>The "shack" (brakeman) takes a coupling-pin and a length of bell-cord to +the platform in front of the truck in which the tramp is riding. The shack +fastens the coupling-pin to the bell-cord, drops the former down between +the platforms, and pays out the latter. The coupling-pin strikes the ties +between the rails, rebounds against the bottom of the car, and again +strikes the ties. The shack plays it back and forth, now to this side, now +to the other, lets it out a bit and hauls it in a bit, giving his weapon +opportunity for every variety of impact and rebound. Every blow of that +flying coupling-pin is freighted with death, and at sixty miles an hour it +beats a veritable tattoo of death. The next day the remains of that tramp +are gathered up along the right of way, and a line in the local paper +mentions the unknown man, undoubtedly a tramp, assumably drunk, who had +probably fallen asleep on the track.</p> + +<p>As a characteristic illustration of how a capable hobo can hold her down, +I am minded to give the following experience. I was in Ottawa, bound west +over the Canadian Pacific. Three thousand miles of that road stretched +before me; it was the fall of the year, and I had to cross Manitoba and +the Rocky Mountains. I could expect "crimpy" weather, and every moment of +delay increased the frigid hardships of the journey. Furthermore, I was +disgusted. The distance between Montreal and Ottawa is one hundred and +twenty miles. I ought to know, for I had just come over it and it had +taken me six days. By mistake I had missed the main line and come over a +small "jerk" with only two locals a day on it. And during these six days I +had lived on dry crusts, and not enough of them, begged from the French +peasants.</p> + +<p>Furthermore, my disgust had been heightened by the one day I had spent in +Ottawa trying to get an outfit of clothing for my long journey. Let me put +it on record right here that Ottawa, with one exception, is the hardest +town in the United States and Canada to beg clothes in; the one exception +is Washington, D.C. The latter fair city is the limit. I spent two weeks +there trying to beg a pair of shoes, and then had to go on to Jersey City +before I got them.</p> + +<p>But to return to Ottawa. At eight sharp in the morning I started out after +clothes. I worked energetically all day. I swear I walked forty miles. I +interviewed the housewives of a thousand homes. I did not even knock off +work for dinner. And at six in the afternoon, after ten hours of +unremitting and depressing toil, I was still shy one shirt, while the pair +of trousers I had managed to acquire was tight and, moreover, was showing +all the signs of an early disintegration.</p> + +<p>At six I quit work and headed for the railroad yards, expecting to pick up +something to eat on the way. But my hard luck was still with me. I was +refused food at house after house. Then I got a "hand-out." My spirits +soared, for it was the largest hand-out I had ever seen in a long and +varied experience. It was a parcel wrapped in newspapers and as big as a +mature suit-case. I hurried to a vacant lot and opened it. First, I saw +cake, then more cake, all kinds and makes of cake, and then some. It was +all cake. No bread and butter with thick firm slices of meat +between—nothing but cake; and I who of all things abhorred cake most! In +another age and clime they sat down by the waters of Babylon and wept. And +in a vacant lot in Canada's proud capital, I, too, sat down and wept ... +over a mountain of cake. As one looks upon the face of his dead son, so +looked I upon that multitudinous pastry. I suppose I was an ungrateful +tramp, for I refused to partake of the bounteousness of the house that had +had a party the night before. Evidently the guests hadn't liked cake +either.</p> + +<p>That cake marked the crisis in my fortunes. Than it nothing could be +worse; therefore things must begin to mend. And they did. At the very next +house I was given a "set-down." Now a "set-down" is the height of bliss. +One is taken inside, very often is given a chance to wash, and is then +"set-down" at a table. Tramps love to throw their legs under a table. The +house was large and comfortable, in the midst of spacious grounds and fine +trees, and sat well back from the street. They had just finished eating, +and I was taken right into the dining room—in itself a most unusual +happening, for the tramp who is lucky enough to win a set-down usually +receives it in the kitchen. A grizzled and gracious Englishman, his +matronly wife, and a beautiful young Frenchwoman talked with me while I +ate.</p> + +<p>I wonder if that beautiful young Frenchwoman would remember, at this late +day, the laugh I gave her when I uttered the barbaric phrase, "two-bits." +You see, I was trying delicately to hit them for a "light piece." That was +how the sum of money came to be mentioned. "What?" she said. "Two-bits," +said I. Her mouth was twitching as she again said, "What?" "Two-bits," +said I. Whereat she burst into laughter. "Won't you repeat it?" she said, +when she had regained control of herself. "Two-bits," said I. And once +more she rippled into uncontrollable silvery laughter. "I beg your +pardon," said she; "but what ... what was it you said?" "Two-bits," said +I; "is there anything wrong about it?" "Not that I know of," she gurgled +between gasps; "but what does it mean?" I explained, but I do not remember +now whether or not I got that two-bits out of her; but I have often +wondered since as to which of us was the provincial.</p> + +<p>When I arrived at the depot, I found, much to my disgust, a bunch of at +least twenty tramps that were waiting to ride out the blind baggages of +the overland. Now two or three tramps on the blind baggage are all right. +They are inconspicuous. But a score! That meant trouble. No train-crew +would ever let all of us ride.</p> + +<p>I may as well explain here what a blind baggage is. Some mail-cars are +built without doors in the ends; hence, such a car is "blind." The +mail-cars that possess end doors, have those doors always locked. Suppose, +after the train has started, that a tramp gets on to the platform of one +of these blind cars. There is no door, or the door is locked. No conductor +or brakeman can get to him to collect fare or throw him off. It is clear +that the tramp is safe until the next time the train stops. Then he must +get off, run ahead in the darkness, and when the train pulls by, jump on +to the blind again. But there are ways and ways, as you shall see.</p> + +<p>When the train pulled out, those twenty tramps swarmed upon the three +blinds. Some climbed on before the train had run a car-length. They were +awkward dubs, and I saw their speedy finish. Of course, the train-crew was +"on," and at the first stop the trouble began. I jumped off and ran +forward along the track. I noticed that I was accompanied by a number of +the tramps. They evidently knew their business. When one is beating an +overland, he must always keep well ahead of the train at the stops. I ran +ahead, and as I ran, one by one those that accompanied me dropped out. +This dropping out was the measure of their skill and nerve in boarding a +train.</p> + +<p>For this is the way it works. When the train starts, the shack rides out +the blind. There is no way for him to get back into the train proper +except by jumping off the blind and catching a platform where the car-ends +are not "blind." When the train is going as fast as the shack cares to +risk, he therefore jumps off the blind, lets several cars go by, and gets +on to the train. So it is up to the tramp to run so far ahead that before +the blind is opposite him the shack will have already vacated it.</p> + +<p>I dropped the last tramp by about fifty feet, and waited. The train +started. I saw the lantern of the shack on the first blind. He was riding +her out. And I saw the dubs stand forlornly by the track as the blind went +by. They made no attempt to get on. They were beaten by their own +inefficiency at the very start. After them, in the line-up, came the +tramps that knew a little something about the game. They let the first +blind, occupied by the shack, go by, and jumped on the second and third +blinds. Of course, the shack jumped off the first and on to the second as +it went by, and scrambled around there, throwing off the men who had +boarded it. But the point is that I was so far ahead that when the first +blind came opposite me, the shack had already left it and was tangled up +with the tramps on the second blind. A half dozen of the more skilful +tramps, who had run far enough ahead, made the first blind, too.</p> + +<p>At the next stop, as we ran forward along the track, I counted but fifteen +of us. Five had been ditched. The weeding-out process had begun nobly, and +it continued station by station. Now we were fourteen, now twelve, now +eleven, now nine, now eight. It reminded me of the ten little niggers of +the nursery rhyme. I was resolved that I should be the last little nigger +of all. And why not? Was I not blessed with strength, agility, and youth? +(I was eighteen, and in perfect condition.) And didn't I have my "nerve" +with me? And furthermore, was I not a tramp-royal? Were not these other +tramps mere dubs and "gay-cats" and amateurs alongside of me? If I weren't +the last little nigger, I might as well quit the game and get a job on an +alfalfa farm somewhere.</p> + +<p>By the time our number had been reduced to four, the whole train-crew had +become interested. From then on it was a contest of skill and wits, with +the odds in favor of the crew. One by one the three other survivors turned +up missing, until I alone remained. My, but I was proud of myself! No +Croesus was ever prouder of his first million. I was holding her down in +spite of two brakemen, a conductor, a fireman, and an engineer.</p> + +<p>And here are a few samples of the way I held her down. Out ahead, in the +darkness,—so far ahead that the shack riding out the blind must perforce +get off before it reaches me,—I get on. Very well. I am good for another +station. When that station is reached, I dart ahead again to repeat the +manoeuvre. The train pulls out. I watch her coming. There is no light of a +lantern on the blind. Has the crew abandoned the fight? I do not know. One +never knows, and one must be prepared every moment for anything. As the +first blind comes opposite me, and I run to leap aboard, I strain my eyes +to see if the shack is on the platform. For all I know he may be there, +with his lantern doused, and even as I spring upon the steps that lantern +may smash down upon my head. I ought to know. I have been hit by lanterns +two or three times.</p> + +<p>But no, the first blind is empty. The train is gathering speed. I am safe +for another station. But am I? I feel the train slacken speed. On the +instant I am alert. A manoeuvre is being executed against me, and I do not +know what it is. I try to watch on both sides at once, not forgetting to +keep track of the tender in front of me. From any one, or all, of these +three directions, I may be assailed.</p> + +<p>Ah, there it comes. The shack has ridden out the engine. My first warning +is when his feet strike the steps of the right-hand side of the blind. +Like a flash I am off the blind to the left and running ahead past the +engine. I lose myself in the darkness. The situation is where it has been +ever since the train left Ottawa. I am ahead, and the train must come past +me if it is to proceed on its journey. I have as good a chance as ever for +boarding her.</p> + +<p>I watch carefully. I see a lantern come forward to the engine, and I do +not see it go back from the engine. It must therefore be still on the +engine, and it is a fair assumption that attached to the handle of that +lantern is a shack. That shack was lazy, or else he would have put out his +lantern instead of trying to shield it as he came forward. The train pulls +out. The first blind is empty, and I gain it. As before the train +slackens, the shack from the engine boards the blind from one side, and I +go off the other side and run forward.</p> + +<p>As I wait in the darkness I am conscious of a big thrill of pride. The +overland has stopped twice for me—for me, a poor hobo on the bum. I alone +have twice stopped the overland with its many passengers and coaches, its +government mail, and its two thousand steam horses straining in the +engine. And I weigh only one hundred and sixty pounds, and I haven't a +five-cent piece in my pocket!</p> + +<p>Again I see the lantern come forward to the engine. But this time it comes +conspicuously. A bit too conspicuously to suit me, and I wonder what is +up. At any rate I have something else to be afraid of than the shack on +the engine. The train pulls by. Just in time, before I make my spring, I +see the dark form of a shack, without a lantern, on the first blind. I let +it go by, and prepare to board the second blind. But the shack on the +first blind has jumped off and is at my heels. Also, I have a fleeting +glimpse of the lantern of the shack who rode out the engine. He has jumped +off, and now both shacks are on the ground on the same side with me. The +next moment the second blind comes by and I am aboard it. But I do not +linger. I have figured out my countermove. As I dash across the platform I +hear the impact of the shack's feet against the steps as he boards. I jump +off the other side and run forward with the train. My plan is to run +forward and get on the first blind. It is nip and tuck, for the train is +gathering speed. Also, the shack is behind me and running after me. I +guess I am the better sprinter, for I make the first blind. I stand on the +steps and watch my pursuer. He is only about ten feet back and running +hard; but now the train has approximated his own speed, and, relative to +me, he is standing still. I encourage him, hold out my hand to him; but he +explodes in a mighty oath, gives up and makes the train several cars back.</p> + +<p>The train is speeding along, and I am still chuckling to myself, when, +without warning, a spray of water strikes me. The fireman is playing the +hose on me from the engine. I step forward from the car-platform to the +rear of the tender, where I am sheltered under the overhang. The water +flies harmlessly over my head. My fingers itch to climb up on the tender +and lam that fireman with a chunk of coal; but I know if I do that, I'll +be massacred by him and the engineer, and I refrain.</p> + +<p>At the next stop I am off and ahead in the darkness. This time, when the +train pulls out, both shacks are on the first blind. I divine their game. +They have blocked the repetition of my previous play. I cannot again take +the second blind, cross over, and run forward to the first. As soon as +the first blind passes and I do not get on, they swing off, one on each +side of the train. I board the second blind, and as I do so I know that a +moment later, simultaneously, those two shacks will arrive on both sides +of me. It is like a trap. Both ways are blocked. Yet there is another way +out, and that way is up.</p> + +<p>So I do not wait for my pursuers to arrive. I climb upon the upright +ironwork of the platform and stand upon the wheel of the hand-brake. This +has taken up the moment of grace and I hear the shacks strike the steps on +either side. I don't stop to look. I raise my arms overhead until my hands +rest against the down-curving ends of the roofs of the two cars. One hand, +of course, is on the curved roof of one car, the other hand on the curved +roof of the other car. By this time both shacks are coming up the steps. I +know it, though I am too busy to see them. All this is happening in the +space of only several seconds. I make a spring with my legs and "muscle" +myself up with my arms. As I draw up my legs, both shacks reach for me and +clutch empty air. I know this, for I look down and see them. Also I hear +them swear.</p> + +<p>I am now in a precarious position, riding the ends of the down-curving +roofs of two cars at the same time. With a quick, tense movement, I +transfer both legs to the curve of one roof and both hands to the curve of +the other roof. Then, gripping the edge of that curving roof, I climb over +the curve to the level roof above, where I sit down to catch my breath, +holding on the while to a ventilator that projects above the surface. I am +on top of the train—on the "decks," as the tramps call it, and this +process I have described is by them called "decking her." And let me say +right here that only a young and vigorous tramp is able to deck a +passenger train, and also, that the young and vigorous tramp must have his +nerve with him as well.</p> + +<p>The train goes on gathering speed, and I know I am safe until the next +stop—but only until the next stop. If I remain on the roof after the +train stops, I know those shacks will fusillade me with rocks. A healthy +shack can "dewdrop" a pretty heavy chunk of stone on top of a car—say +anywhere from five to twenty pounds. On the other hand, the chances are +large that at the next stop the shacks will be waiting for me to descend +at the place I climbed up. It is up to me to climb down at some other +platform.</p> + +<p>Registering a fervent hope that there are no tunnels in the next half +mile, I rise to my feet and walk down the train half a dozen cars. And let +me say that one must leave timidity behind him on such a <i>passear</i>. The +roofs of passenger coaches are not made for midnight promenades. And if +any one thinks they are, let me advise him to try it. Just let him walk +along the roof of a jolting, lurching car, with nothing to hold on to but +the black and empty air, and when he comes to the down-curving end of the +roof, all wet and slippery with dew, let him accelerate his speed so as to +step across to the next roof, down-curving and wet and slippery. Believe +me, he will learn whether his heart is weak or his head is giddy.</p> + +<p>As the train slows down for a stop, half a dozen platforms from where I +had decked her I come down. No one is on the platform. When the train +comes to a standstill, I slip off to the ground. Ahead, and between me and +the engine, are two moving lanterns. The shacks are looking for me on the +roofs of the cars. I note that the car beside which I am standing is a +"four-wheeler"—by which is meant that it has only four wheels to each +truck. (When you go underneath on the rods, be sure to avoid the +"six-wheelers,"—they lead to disasters.)</p> + +<p>I duck under the train and make for the rods, and I can tell you I am +mighty glad that the train is standing still. It is the first time I have +ever gone underneath on the Canadian Pacific, and the internal +arrangements are new to me. I try to crawl over the top of the truck, +between the truck and the bottom of the car. But the space is not large +enough for me to squeeze through. This is new to me. Down in the United +States I am accustomed to going underneath on rapidly moving trains, +seizing a gunnel and swinging my feet under to the brake-beam, and from +there crawling over the top of the truck and down inside the truck to a +seat on the cross-rod.</p> + +<p>Feeling with my hands in the darkness, I learn that there is room between +the brake-beam and the ground. It is a tight squeeze. I have to lie flat +and worm my way through. Once inside the truck, I take my seat on the rod +and wonder what the shacks are thinking has become of me. The train gets +under way. They have given me up at last.</p> + +<p>But have they? At the very next stop, I see a lantern thrust under the +next truck to mine at the other end of the car. They are searching the +rods for me. I must make my get-away pretty lively. I crawl on my stomach +under the brake-beam. They see me and run for me, but I crawl on hands and +knees across the rail on the opposite side and gain my feet. Then away I +go for the head of the train. I run past the engine and hide in the +sheltering darkness. It is the same old situation. I am ahead of the +train, and the train must go past me.</p> + +<p>The train pulls out. There is a lantern on the first blind. I lie low, and +see the peering shack go by. But there is also a lantern on the second +blind. That shack spots me and calls to the shack who has gone past on the +first blind. Both jump off. Never mind, I'll take the third blind and deck +her. But heavens, there is a lantern on the third blind, too. It is the +conductor. I let it go by. At any rate I have now the full train-crew in +front of me. I turn and run back in the opposite direction to what the +train is going. I look over my shoulder. All three lanterns are on the +ground and wobbling along in pursuit. I sprint. Half the train has gone +by, and it is going quite fast, when I spring aboard. I know that the two +shacks and the conductor will arrive like ravening wolves in about two +seconds. I spring upon the wheel of the hand-brake, get my hands on the +curved ends of the roofs, and muscle myself up to the decks; while my +disappointed pursuers, clustering on the platform beneath like dogs that +have treed a cat, howl curses up at me and say unsocial things about my +ancestors.</p> + +<p>But what does that matter? It is five to one, including the engineer and +fireman, and the majesty of the law and the might of a great corporation +are behind them, and I am beating them out. I am too far down the train, +and I run ahead over the roofs of the coaches until I am over the fifth or +sixth platform from the engine. I peer down cautiously. A shack is on that +platform. That he has caught sight of me, I know from the way he makes a +swift sneak inside the car; and I know, also, that he is waiting inside +the door, all ready to pounce out on me when I climb down. But I make +believe that I don't know, and I remain there to encourage him in his +error. I do not see him, yet I know that he opens the door once and peeps +up to assure himself that I am still there.</p> + +<p>The train slows down for a station. I dangle my legs down in a tentative +way. The train stops. My legs are still dangling. I hear the door unlatch +softly. He is all ready for me. Suddenly I spring up and run forward over +the roof. This is right over his head, where he lurks inside the door. The +train is standing still; the night is quiet, and I take care to make +plenty of noise on the metal roof with my feet. I don't know, but my +assumption is that he is now running forward to catch me as I descend at +the next platform. But I don't descend there. Halfway along the roof of +the coach, I turn, retrace my way softly and quickly to the platform both +the shack and I have just abandoned. The coast is clear. I descend to the +ground on the off-side of the train and hide in the darkness. Not a soul +has seen me.</p> + +<p>I go over to the fence, at the edge of the right of way, and watch. Ah, +ha! What's that? I see a lantern on top of the train, moving along from +front to rear. They think I haven't come down, and they are searching the +roofs for me. And better than that—on the ground on each side of the +train, moving abreast with the lantern on top, are two other lanterns. It +is a rabbit-drive, and I am the rabbit. When the shack on top flushes me, +the ones on each side will nab me. I roll a cigarette and watch the +procession go by. Once past me, I am safe to proceed to the front of the +train. She pulls out, and I make the front blind without opposition. But +before she is fully under way and just as I am lighting my cigarette, I am +aware that the fireman has climbed over the coal to the back of the tender +and is looking down at me. I am filled with apprehension. From his +position he can mash me to a jelly with lumps of coal. Instead of which he +addresses me, and I note with relief the admiration in his voice.</p> + +<p>"You son-of-a-gun," is what he says.</p> + +<p>It is a high compliment, and I thrill as a schoolboy thrills on receiving +a reward of merit.</p> + +<p>"Say," I call up to him, "don't you play the hose on me any more."</p> + +<p>"All right," he answers, and goes back to his work.</p> + +<p>I have made friends with the engine, but the shacks are still looking for +me. At the next stop, the shacks ride out all three blinds, and as before, +I let them go by and deck in the middle of the train. The crew is on its +mettle by now, and the train stops. The shacks are going to ditch me or +know the reason why. Three times the mighty overland stops for me at that +station, and each time I elude the shacks and make the decks. But it is +hopeless, for they have finally come to an understanding of the situation. +I have taught them that they cannot guard the train from me. They must do +something else.</p> + +<p>And they do it. When the train stops that last time, they take after me +hot-footed. Ah, I see their game. They are trying to run me down. At first +they herd me back toward the rear of the train. I know my peril. Once to +the rear of the train, it will pull out with me left behind. I double, and +twist, and turn, dodge through my pursuers, and gain the front of the +train. One shack still hangs on after me. All right, I'll give him the run +of his life, for my wind is good. I run straight ahead along the track. It +doesn't matter. If he chases me ten miles, he'll nevertheless have to +catch the train, and I can board her at any speed that he can.</p> + +<p>So I run on, keeping just comfortably ahead of him and straining my eyes +in the gloom for cattle-guards and switches that may bring me to grief. +Alas! I strain my eyes too far ahead, and trip over something just under +my feet, I know not what, some little thing, and go down to earth in a +long, stumbling fall. The next moment I am on my feet, but the shack has +me by the collar. I do not struggle. I am busy with breathing deeply and +with sizing him up. He is narrow-shouldered, and I have at least thirty +pounds the better of him in weight. Besides, he is just as tired as I am, +and if he tries to slug me, I'll teach him a few things.</p> + +<p>But he doesn't try to slug me, and that problem is settled. Instead, he +starts to lead me back toward the train, and another possible problem +arises. I see the lanterns of the conductor and the other shack. We are +approaching them. Not for nothing have I made the acquaintance of the New +York police. Not for nothing, in box-cars, by water-tanks, and in +prison-cells, have I listened to bloody tales of man-handling. What if +these three men are about to man-handle me? Heaven knows I have given them +provocation enough. I think quickly. We are drawing nearer and nearer to +the other two trainmen. I line up the stomach and the jaw of my captor, +and plan the right and left I'll give him at the first sign of trouble.</p> + +<p>Pshaw! I know another trick I'd like to work on him, and I almost regret +that I did not do it at the moment I was captured. I could make him sick, +what of his clutch on my collar. His fingers, tight-gripping, are buried +inside my collar. My coat is tightly buttoned. Did you ever see a +tourniquet? Well, this is one. All I have to do is to duck my head under +his arm and begin to twist. I must twist rapidly—very rapidly. I know how +to do it; twisting in a violent, jerky way, ducking my head under his arm +with each revolution. Before he knows it, those detaining fingers of his +will be detained. He will be unable to withdraw them. It is a powerful +leverage. Twenty seconds after I have started revolving, the blood will be +bursting out of his finger-ends, the delicate tendons will be rupturing, +and all the muscles and nerves will be mashing and crushing together in a +shrieking mass. Try it sometime when somebody has you by the collar. But +be quick—quick as lightning. Also, be sure to hug yourself while you are +revolving—hug your face with your left arm and your abdomen with your +right. You see, the other fellow might try to stop you with a punch from +his free arm. It would be a good idea, too, to revolve away from that free +arm rather than toward it. A punch going is never so bad as a punch +coming.</p> + +<p>That shack will never know how near he was to being made very, very sick. +All that saves him is that it is not in their plan to man-handle me. When +we draw near enough, he calls out that he has me, and they signal the +train to come on. The engine passes us, and the three blinds. After that, +the conductor and the other shack swing aboard. But still my captor holds +on to me. I see the plan. He is going to hold me until the rear of the +train goes by. Then he will hop on, and I shall be left behind—ditched.</p> + +<p>But the train has pulled out fast, the engineer trying to make up for lost +time. Also, it is a long train. It is going very lively, and I know the +shack is measuring its speed with apprehension.</p> + +<p>"Think you can make it?" I query innocently.</p> + +<p>He releases my collar, makes a quick run, and swings aboard. A number of +coaches are yet to pass by. He knows it, and remains on the steps, his +head poked out and watching me. In that moment my next move comes to me. +I'll make the last platform. I know she's going fast and faster, but I'll +only get a roll in the dirt if I fail, and the optimism of youth is mine. +I do not give myself away. I stand with a dejected droop of shoulder, +advertising that I have abandoned hope. But at the same time I am feeling +with my feet the good gravel. It is perfect footing. Also I am watching +the poked-out head of the shack. I see it withdrawn. He is confident that +the train is going too fast for me ever to make it.</p> + +<p>And the train <i>is</i> going fast—faster than any train I have ever tackled. +As the last coach comes by I sprint in the same direction with it. It is a +swift, short sprint. I cannot hope to equal the speed of the train, but I +can reduce the difference of our speed to the minimum, and, hence, reduce +the shock of impact, when I leap on board. In the fleeting instant of +darkness I do not see the iron hand-rail of the last platform; nor is +there time for me to locate it. I reach for where I think it ought to be, +and at the same instant my feet leave the ground. It is all in the toss. +The next moment I may be rolling in the gravel with broken ribs, or arms, +or head. But my fingers grip the hand-hold, there is a jerk on my arms +that slightly pivots my body, and my feet land on the steps with sharp +violence.</p> + +<p>I sit down, feeling very proud of myself. In all my hoboing it is the best +bit of train-jumping I have done. I know that late at night one is always +good for several stations on the last platform, but I do not care to trust +myself at the rear of the train. At the first stop I run forward on the +off-side of the train, pass the Pullmans, and duck under and take a rod +under a day-coach. At the next stop I run forward again and take another +rod.</p> + +<p>I am now comparatively safe. The shacks think I am ditched. But the long +day and the strenuous night are beginning to tell on me. Also, it is not +so windy nor cold underneath, and I begin to doze. This will never do. +Sleep on the rods spells death, so I crawl out at a station and go forward +to the second blind. Here I can lie down and sleep; and here I do +sleep—how long I do not know—for I am awakened by a lantern thrust into +my face. The two shacks are staring at me. I scramble up on the defensive, +wondering as to which one is going to make the first "pass" at me. But +slugging is far from their minds.</p> + +<p>"I thought you was ditched," says the shack who had held me by the collar.</p> + +<p>"If you hadn't let go of me when you did, you'd have been ditched along +with me," I answer.</p> + +<p>"How's that?" he asks.</p> + +<p>"I'd have gone into a clinch with you, that's all," is my reply.</p> + +<p>They hold a consultation, and their verdict is summed up in:—</p> + +<p>"Well, I guess you can ride, Bo. There's no use trying to keep you off."</p> + +<p>And they go away and leave me in peace to the end of their division.</p> + +<p>I have given the foregoing as a sample of what "holding her down" means. +Of course, I have selected a fortunate night out of my experiences, and +said nothing of the nights—and many of them—when I was tripped up by +accident and ditched.</p> + +<p>In conclusion, I want to tell of what happened when I reached the end of +the division. On single-track, transcontinental lines, the freight trains +wait at the divisions and follow out after the passenger trains. When the +division was reached, I left my train, and looked for the freight that +would pull out behind it. I found the freight, made up on a side-track and +waiting. I climbed into a box-car half full of coal and lay down. In no +time I was asleep.</p> + +<p>I was awakened by the sliding open of the door. Day was just dawning, cold +and gray, and the freight had not yet started. A "con" (conductor) was +poking his head inside the door.</p> + +<p>"Get out of that, you blankety-blank-blank!" he roared at me.</p> + +<p>I got, and outside I watched him go down the line inspecting every car in +the train. When he got out of sight I thought to myself that he would +never think I'd have the nerve to climb back into the very car out of +which he had fired me. So back I climbed and lay down again.</p> + +<p>Now that con's mental processes must have been paralleling mine, for he +reasoned that it was the very thing I would do. For back he came and fired +me out.</p> + +<p>Now, surely, I reasoned, he will never dream that I'd do it a third time. +Back I went, into the very same car. But I decided to make sure. Only one +side-door could be opened. The other side-door was nailed up. Beginning at +the top of the coal, I dug a hole alongside of that door and lay down in +it. I heard the other door open. The con climbed up and looked in over the +top of the coal. He couldn't see me. He called to me to get out. I tried +to fool him by remaining quiet. But when he began tossing chunks of coal +into the hole on top of me, I gave up and for the third time was fired +out. Also, he informed me in warm terms of what would happen to me if he +caught me in there again.</p> + +<p>I changed my tactics. When a man is paralleling your mental processes, +ditch him. Abruptly break off your line of reasoning, and go off on a new +line. This I did. I hid between some cars on an adjacent side-track, and +watched. Sure enough, that con came back again to the car. He opened the +door, he climbed up, he called, he threw coal into the hole I had made. He +even crawled over the coal and looked into the hole. That satisfied him. +Five minutes later the freight was pulling out, and he was not in sight. I +ran alongside the car, pulled the door open, and climbed in. He never +looked for me again, and I rode that coal-car precisely one thousand and +twenty-two miles, sleeping most of the time and getting out at divisions +(where the freights always stop for an hour or so) to beg my food. And at +the end of the thousand and twenty-two miles I lost that car through a +happy incident. I got a "set-down," and the tramp doesn't live who won't +miss a train for a set-down any time.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="Pictures" id="Pictures" /><i>Pictures</i></h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span>"What do it matter where or 'ow we die,<br /></span> +<span>So long as we've our 'ealth to watch it all?"<br /></span> +<p> —<i>Sestina of the Tramp-Royal</i></p> +</div></div> + + +<p>Perhaps the greatest charm of tramp-life is the absence of monotony. In +Hobo Land the face of life is protean—an ever changing phantasmagoria, +where the impossible happens and the unexpected jumps out of the bushes at +every turn of the road. The hobo never knows what is going to happen the +next moment; hence, he lives only in the present moment. He has learned +the futility of telic endeavor, and knows the delight of drifting along +with the whimsicalities of Chance.</p> + +<p>Often I think over my tramp days, and ever I marvel at the swift +succession of pictures that flash up in my memory. It matters not where I +begin to think; any day of all the days is a day apart, with a record of +swift-moving pictures all its own. For instance, I remember a sunny summer +morning in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, and immediately comes to my mind the +auspicious beginning of the day—a "set-down" with two maiden ladies, and +not in their kitchen, but in their dining room, with them beside me at the +table. We ate eggs, out of egg-cups! It was the first time I had ever seen +egg-cups, or heard of egg-cups! I was a bit awkward at first, I'll +confess; but I was hungry and unabashed. I mastered the egg-cup, and I +mastered the eggs in a way that made those two maiden ladies sit up.</p> + +<p>Why, they ate like a couple of canaries, dabbling with the one egg each +they took, and nibbling at tiny wafers of toast. Life was low in their +bodies; their blood ran thin; and they had slept warm all night. I had +been out all night, consuming much fuel of my body to keep warm, beating +my way down from a place called Emporium, in the northern part of the +state. Wafers of toast! Out of sight! But each wafer was no more than a +mouthful to me—nay, no more than a bite. It is tedious to have to reach +for another piece of toast each bite when one is potential with many +bites.</p> + +<p>When I was a very little lad, I had a very little dog called Punch. I saw +to his feeding myself. Some one in the household had shot a lot of ducks, +and we had a fine meat dinner. When I had finished, I prepared Punch's +dinner—a large plateful of bones and tidbits. I went outside to give it +to him. Now it happened that a visitor had ridden over from a neighboring +ranch, and with him had come a Newfoundland dog as big as a calf. I set +the plate on the ground. Punch wagged his tail and began. He had before +him a blissful half-hour at least. There was a sudden rush. Punch was +brushed aside like a straw in the path of a cyclone, and that Newfoundland +swooped down upon the plate. In spite of his huge maw he must have been +trained to quick lunches, for, in the fleeting instant before he received +the kick in the ribs I aimed at him, he completely engulfed the contents +of the plate. He swept it clean. One last lingering lick of his tongue +removed even the grease stains.</p> + +<p>As that big Newfoundland behaved at the plate of my dog Punch, so behaved +I at the table of those two maiden ladies of Harrisburg. I swept it bare. +I didn't break anything, but I cleaned out the eggs and the toast and the +coffee. The servant brought more, but I kept her busy, and ever she +brought more and more. The coffee was delicious, but it needn't have been +served in such tiny cups. What time had I to eat when it took all my time +to prepare the many cups of coffee for drinking?</p> + +<p>At any rate, it gave my tongue time to wag. Those two maiden ladies, with +their pink-and-white complexions and gray curls, had never looked upon the +bright face of adventure. As the "Tramp-Royal" would have it, they had +worked all their lives "on one same shift." Into the sweet scents and +narrow confines of their uneventful existence I brought the large airs of +the world, freighted with the lusty smells of sweat and strife, and with +the tangs and odors of strange lands and soils. And right well I scratched +their soft palms with the callous on my own palms—the half-inch horn that +comes of pull-and-haul of rope and long and arduous hours of caressing +shovel-handles. This I did, not merely in the braggadocio of youth, but to +prove, by toil performed, the claim I had upon their charity.</p> + +<p>Ah, I can see them now, those dear, sweet ladies, just as I sat at their +breakfast table twelve years ago, discoursing upon the way of my feet in +the world, brushing aside their kindly counsel as a real devilish fellow +should, and thrilling them, not alone with my own adventures, but with the +adventures of all the other fellows with whom I had rubbed shoulders and +exchanged confidences. I appropriated them all, the adventures of the +other fellows, I mean; and if those maiden ladies had been less trustful +and guileless, they could have tangled me up beautifully in my chronology. +Well, well, and what of it? It was fair exchange. For their many cups of +coffee, and eggs, and bites of toast, I gave full value. Right royally I +gave them entertainment. My coming to sit at their table was their +adventure, and adventure is beyond price anyway.</p> + +<p>Coming along the street, after parting from the maiden ladies, I gathered +in a newspaper from the doorway of some late-riser, and in a grassy park +lay down to get in touch with the last twenty-four hours of the world. +There, in the park, I met a fellow-hobo who told me his life-story and who +wrestled with me to join the United States Army. He had given in to the +recruiting officer and was just about to join, and he couldn't see why I +shouldn't join with him. He had been a member of Coxey's Army in the march +to Washington several months before, and that seemed to have given him a +taste for army life. I, too, was a veteran, for had I not been a private +in Company L of the Second Division of Kelly's Industrial Army?—said +Company L being commonly known as the "Nevada push." But my army +experience had had the opposite effect on me; so I left that hobo to go +his way to the dogs of war, while I "threw my feet" for dinner.</p> + +<p>This duty performed, I started to walk across the bridge over the +Susquehanna to the west shore. I forget the name of the railroad that ran +down that side, but while lying in the grass in the morning the idea had +come to me to go to Baltimore; so to Baltimore I was going on that +railroad, whatever its name was. It was a warm afternoon, and part way +across the bridge I came to a lot of fellows who were in swimming off one +of the piers. Off went my clothes and in went I. The water was fine; but +when I came out and dressed, I found I had been robbed. Some one had gone +through my clothes. Now I leave it to you if being robbed isn't in itself +adventure enough for one day. I have known men who have been robbed and +who have talked all the rest of their lives about it. True, the thief that +went through my clothes didn't get much—some thirty or forty cents in +nickels and pennies, and my tobacco and cigarette papers; but it was all I +had, which is more than most men can be robbed of, for they have something +left at home, while I had no home. It was a pretty tough gang in swimming +there. I sized up, and knew better than to squeal. So I begged "the +makings," and I could have sworn it was one of my own papers I rolled the +tobacco in.</p> + +<p>Then on across the bridge I hiked to the west shore. Here ran the railroad +I was after. No station was in sight. How to catch a freight without +walking to a station was the problem. I noticed that the track came up a +steep grade, culminating at the point where I had tapped it, and I knew +that a heavy freight couldn't pull up there any too lively. But how +lively? On the opposite side of the track rose a high bank. On the edge, +at the top, I saw a man's head sticking up from the grass. Perhaps he knew +how fast the freights took the grade, and when the next one went south. I +called out my questions to him, and he motioned to me to come up.</p> + +<p>I obeyed, and when I reached the top, I found four other men lying in the +grass with him. I took in the scene and knew them for what they +were—American gypsies. In the open space that extended back among the +trees from the edge of the bank were several nondescript wagons. Ragged, +half-naked children swarmed over the camp, though I noticed that they took +care not to come near and bother the men-folk. Several lean, unbeautiful, +and toil-degraded women were pottering about with camp-chores, and one I +noticed who sat by herself on the seat of one of the wagons, her head +drooped forward, her knees drawn up to her chin and clasped limply by her +arms. She did not look happy. She looked as if she did not care for +anything—in this I was wrong, for later I was to learn that there was +something for which she did care. The full measure of human suffering was +in her face, and, in addition, there was the tragic expression of +incapacity for further suffering. Nothing could hurt any more, was what +her face seemed to portray; but in this, too, I was wrong.</p> + +<p>I lay in the grass on the edge of the steep and talked with the men-folk. +We were kin—brothers. I was the American hobo, and they were the American +gypsy. I knew enough of their argot for conversation, and they knew enough +of mine. There were two more in their gang, who were across the river +"mushing" in Harrisburg. A "musher" is an itinerant fakir. This word is +not to be confounded with the Klondike "musher," though the origin of both +terms may be the same; namely, the corruption of the French <i>marche ons</i>, +to march, to walk, to "mush." The particular graft of the two mushers who +had crossed the river was umbrella-mending; but what real graft lay behind +their umbrella-mending, I was not told, nor would it have been polite to +ask.</p> + +<p>It was a glorious day. Not a breath of wind was stirring, and we basked in +the shimmering warmth of the sun. From everywhere arose the drowsy hum of +insects, and the balmy air was filled with scents of the sweet earth and +the green growing things. We were too lazy to do more than mumble on in +intermittent conversation. And then, all abruptly, the peace and quietude +was jarred awry by man.</p> + +<p>Two bare-legged boys of eight or nine in some minor way broke some rule of +the camp—what it was I did not know; and a man who lay beside me suddenly +sat up and called to them. He was chief of the tribe, a man with narrow +forehead and narrow-slitted eyes, whose thin lips and twisted sardonic +features explained why the two boys jumped and tensed like startled deer +at the sound of his voice. The alertness of fear was in their faces, and +they turned, in a panic, to run. He called to them to come back, and one +boy lagged behind reluctantly, his meagre little frame portraying in +pantomime the struggle within him between fear and reason. He wanted to +come back. His intelligence and past experience told him that to come back +was a lesser evil than to run on; but lesser evil that it was, it was +great enough to put wings to his fear and urge his feet to flight.</p> + +<p>Still he lagged and struggled until he reached the shelter of the trees, +where he halted. The chief of the tribe did not pursue. He sauntered over +to a wagon and picked up a heavy whip. Then he came back to the centre of +the open space and stood still. He did not speak. He made no gestures. He +was the Law, pitiless and omnipotent. He merely stood there and waited. +And I knew, and all knew, and the two boys in the shelter of the trees +knew, for what he waited.</p> + +<p>The boy who had lagged slowly came back. His face was stamped with +quivering resolution. He did not falter. He had made up his mind to take +his punishment. And mark you, the punishment was not for the original +offence, but for the offence of running away. And in this, that tribal +chieftain but behaved as behaves the exalted society in which he lived. We +punish our criminals, and when they escape and run away, we bring them +back and add to their punishment.</p> + +<p>Straight up to the chief the boy came, halting at the proper distance for +the swing of the lash. The whip hissed through the air, and I caught +myself with a start of surprise at the weight of the blow. The thin little +leg was so very thin and little. The flesh showed white where the lash had +curled and bitten, and then, where the white had shown, sprang up the +savage welt, with here and there along its length little scarlet oozings +where the skin had broken. Again the whip swung, and the boy's whole body +winced in anticipation of the blow, though he did not move from the spot. +His will held good. A second welt sprang up, and a third. It was not until +the fourth landed that the boy screamed. Also, he could no longer stand +still, and from then on, blow after blow, he danced up and down in his +anguish, screaming; but he did not attempt to run away. If his involuntary +dancing took him beyond the reach of the whip, he danced back into range +again. And when it was all over—a dozen blows—he went away, whimpering +and squealing, among the wagons.</p> + +<p>The chief stood still and waited. The second boy came out from the trees. +But he did not come straight. He came like a cringing dog, obsessed by +little panics that made him turn and dart away for half a dozen steps. But +always he turned and came back, circling nearer and nearer to the man, +whimpering, making inarticulate animal-noises in his throat. I saw that he +never looked at the man. His eyes always were fixed upon the whip, and in +his eyes was a terror that made me sick—the frantic terror of an +inconceivably maltreated child. I have seen strong men dropping right and +left out of battle and squirming in their death-throes, I have seen them +by scores blown into the air by bursting shells and their bodies torn +asunder; believe me, the witnessing was as merrymaking and laughter and +song to me in comparison with the way the sight of that poor child +affected me.</p> + +<p>The whipping began. The whipping of the first boy was as play compared +with this one. In no time the blood was running down his thin little legs. +He danced and squirmed and doubled up till it seemed almost that he was +some grotesque marionette operated by strings. I say "seemed," for his +screaming gave the lie to the seeming and stamped it with reality. His +shrieks were shrill and piercing; within them no hoarse notes, but only +the thin sexlessness of the voice of a child. The time came when the boy +could stand it no more. Reason fled, and he tried to run away. But now the +man followed up, curbing his flight, herding him with blows back always +into the open space.</p> + +<p>Then came interruption. I heard a wild smothered cry. The woman who sat in +the wagon seat had got out and was running to interfere. She sprang +between the man and boy.</p> + +<p>"You want some, eh?" said he with the whip. "All right, then."</p> + +<p>He swung the whip upon her. Her skirts were long, so he did not try for +her legs. He drove the lash for her face, which she shielded as best she +could with her hands and forearms, drooping her head forward between her +lean shoulders, and on the lean shoulders and arms receiving the blows. +Heroic mother! She knew just what she was doing. The boy, still shrieking, +was making his get-away to the wagons.</p> + +<p>And all the while the four men lay beside me and watched and made no move. +Nor did I move, and without shame I say it; though my reason was compelled +to struggle hard against my natural impulse to rise up and interfere. I +knew life. Of what use to the woman, or to me, would be my being beaten to +death by five men there on the bank of the Susquehanna? I once saw a man +hanged, and though my whole soul cried protest, my mouth cried not. Had it +cried, I should most likely have had my skull crushed by the butt of a +revolver, for it was the law that the man should hang. And here, in this +gypsy group, it was the law that the woman should be whipped.</p> + +<p>Even so, the reason in both cases that I did not interfere was not that it +was the law, but that the law was stronger than I. Had it not been for +those four men beside me in the grass, right gladly would I have waded +into the man with the whip. And, barring the accident of the landing on me +with a knife or a club in the hands of some of the various women of the +camp, I am confident that I should have beaten him into a mess. But the +four men <i>were</i> beside me in the grass. They made their law stronger than +I.</p> + +<p>Oh, believe me, I did my own suffering. I had seen women beaten before, +often, but never had I seen such a beating as this. Her dress across the +shoulders was cut into shreds. One blow that had passed her guard, had +raised a bloody welt from cheek to chin. Not one blow, nor two, not one +dozen, nor two dozen, but endlessly, infinitely, that whip-lash smote and +curled about her. The sweat poured from me, and I breathed hard, clutching +at the grass with my hands until I strained it out by the roots. And all +the time my reason kept whispering, "Fool! Fool!" That welt on the face +nearly did for me. I started to rise to my feet; but the hand of the man +next to me went out to my shoulder and pressed me down.</p> + +<p>"Easy, pardner, easy," he warned me in a low voice. I looked at him. His +eyes met mine unwaveringly. He was a large man, broad-shouldered and +heavy-muscled; and his face was lazy, phlegmatic, slothful, withal kindly, +yet without passion, and quite soulless—a dim soul, unmalicious, unmoral, +bovine, and stubborn. Just an animal he was, with no more than a faint +flickering of intelligence, a good-natured brute with the strength and +mental caliber of a gorilla. His hand pressed heavily upon me, and I knew +the weight of the muscles behind. I looked at the other brutes, two of +them unperturbed and incurious, and one of them that gloated over the +spectacle; and my reason came back to me, my muscles relaxed, and I sank +down in the grass.</p> + +<p>My mind went back to the two maiden ladies with whom I had had breakfast +that morning. Less than two miles, as the crow flies, separated them from +this scene. Here, in the windless day, under a beneficent sun, was a +sister of theirs being beaten by a brother of mine. Here was a page of +life they could never see—and better so, though for lack of seeing they +would never be able to understand their sisterhood, nor themselves, nor +know the clay of which they were made. For it is not given to woman to +live in sweet-scented, narrow rooms and at the same time be a little +sister to all the world.</p> + +<p>The whipping was finished, and the woman, no longer screaming, went back +to her seat in the wagon. Nor did the other women come to her—just then. +They were afraid. But they came afterward, when a decent interval had +elapsed. The man put the whip away and rejoined us, flinging himself down +on the other side of me. He was breathing hard from his exertions. He +wiped the sweat from his eyes on his coat-sleeve, and looked challengingly +at me. I returned his look carelessly; what he had done was no concern of +mine. I did not go away abruptly. I lay there half an hour longer, which, +under the circumstances, was tact and etiquette. I rolled cigarettes from +tobacco I borrowed from them, and when I slipped down the bank to the +railroad, I was equipped with the necessary information for catching the +next freight bound south.</p> + +<p>Well, and what of it? It was a page out of life, that's all; and there are +many pages worse, far worse, that I have seen. I have sometimes held forth +(facetiously, so my listeners believed) that the chief distinguishing +trait between man and the other animals is that man is the only animal +that maltreats the females of his kind. It is something of which no wolf +nor cowardly coyote is ever guilty. It is something that even the dog, +degenerated by domestication, will not do. The dog still retains the wild +instinct in this matter, while man has lost most of his wild instincts—at +least, most of the good ones.</p> + +<p>Worse pages of life than what I have described? Read the reports on child +labor in the United States,—east, west, north, and south, it doesn't +matter where,—and know that all of us, profit-mongers that we are, are +typesetters and printers of worse pages of life than that mere page of +wife-beating on the Susquehanna.</p> + +<p>I went down the grade a hundred yards to where the footing beside the +track was good. Here I could catch my freight as it pulled slowly up the +hill, and here I found half a dozen hoboes waiting for the same purpose. +Several were playing seven-up with an old pack of cards. I took a hand. A +coon began to shuffle the deck. He was fat, and young, and moon-faced. He +beamed with good-nature. It fairly oozed from him. As he dealt the first +card to me, he paused and said:—</p> + +<p>"Say, Bo, ain't I done seen you befo'?"</p> + +<p>"You sure have," I answered. "An' you didn't have those same duds on, +either."</p> + +<p>He was puzzled.</p> + +<p>"D'ye remember Buffalo?" I queried.</p> + +<p>Then he knew me, and with laughter and ejaculation hailed me as a comrade; +for at Buffalo his clothes had been striped while he did his bit of time +in the Erie County Penitentiary. For that matter, my clothes had been +likewise striped, for I had been doing my bit of time, too.</p> + +<p>The game proceeded, and I learned the stake for which we played. Down the +bank toward the river descended a steep and narrow path that led to a +spring some twenty-five feet beneath. We played on the edge of the bank. +The man who was "stuck" had to take a small condensed-milk can, and with +it carry water to the winners.</p> + +<p>The first game was played and the coon was stuck. He took the small +milk-tin and climbed down the bank, while we sat above and guyed him. We +drank like fish. Four round trips he had to make for me alone, and the +others were equally lavish with their thirst. The path was very steep, and +sometimes the coon slipped when part way up, spilled the water, and had to +go back for more. But he didn't get angry. He laughed as heartily as any +of us; that was why he slipped so often. Also, he assured us of the +prodigious quantities of water he would drink when some one else got +stuck.</p> + +<p>When our thirst was quenched, another game was started. Again the coon was +stuck, and again we drank our fill. A third game and a fourth ended the +same way, and each time that moon-faced darky nearly died with delight at +appreciation of the fate that Chance was dealing out to him. And we nearly +died with him, what of our delight. We laughed like careless children, or +gods, there on the edge of the bank. I know that I laughed till it seemed +the top of my head would come off, and I drank from the milk-tin till I +was nigh waterlogged. Serious discussion arose as to whether we could +successfully board the freight when it pulled up the grade, what of the +weight of water secreted on our persons. This particular phase of the +situation just about finished the coon. He had to break off from +water-carrying for at least five minutes while he lay down and rolled with +laughter.</p> + +<p>The lengthening shadows stretched farther and farther across the river, +and the soft, cool twilight came on, and ever we drank water, and ever our +ebony cup-bearer brought more and more. Forgotten was the beaten woman of +the hour before. That was a page read and turned over; I was busy now with +this new page, and when the engine whistled on the grade, this page would +be finished and another begun; and so the book of life goes on, page after +page and pages without end—when one is young.</p> + +<p>And then we played a game in which the coon failed to be stuck. The victim +was a lean and dyspeptic-looking hobo, the one who had laughed least of +all of us. We said we didn't want any water—which was the truth. Not the +wealth of Ormuz and of Ind, nor the pressure of a pneumatic ram, could +have forced another drop into my saturated carcass. The coon looked +disappointed, then rose to the occasion and guessed he'd have some. He +meant it, too. He had some, and then some, and then some. Ever the +melancholy hobo climbed down and up the steep bank, and ever the coon +called for more. He drank more water than all the rest of us put together. +The twilight deepened into night, the stars came out, and he still drank +on. I do believe that if the whistle of the freight hadn't sounded, he'd +be there yet, swilling water and revenge while the melancholy hobo toiled +down and up.</p> + +<p>But the whistle sounded. The page was done. We sprang to our feet and +strung out alongside the track. There she came, coughing and spluttering +up the grade, the headlight turning night into day and silhouetting us in +sharp relief. The engine passed us, and we were all running with the +train, some boarding on the side-ladders, others "springing" the +side-doors of empty box-cars and climbing in. I caught a flat-car loaded +with mixed lumber and crawled away into a comfortable nook. I lay on my +back with a newspaper under my head for a pillow. Above me the stars were +winking and wheeling in squadrons back and forth as the train rounded the +curves, and watching them I fell asleep. The day was done—one day of all +my days. To-morrow would be another day, and I was young.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="Pinchedquot" id="Pinchedquot" /><i>"Pinched"</i></h2> + + +<p>I rode into Niagara Falls in a "side-door Pullman," or, in common +parlance, a box-car. A flat-car, by the way, is known amongst the +fraternity as a "gondola," with the second syllable emphasized and +pronounced long. But to return. I arrived in the afternoon and headed +straight from the freight train to the falls. Once my eyes were filled +with that wonder-vision of down-rushing water, I was lost. I could not +tear myself away long enough to "batter" the "privates" (domiciles) for my +supper. Even a "set-down" could not have lured me away. Night came on, a +beautiful night of moonlight, and I lingered by the falls until after +eleven. Then it was up to me to hunt for a place to "kip."</p> + +<p>"Kip," "doss," "flop," "pound your ear," all mean the same thing; namely, +to sleep. Somehow, I had a "hunch" that Niagara Falls was a "bad" town for +hoboes, and I headed out into the country. I climbed a fence and "flopped" +in a field. John Law would never find me there, I flattered myself. I lay +on my back in the grass and slept like a babe. It was so balmy warm that I +woke up not once all night. But with the first gray daylight my eyes +opened, and I remembered the wonderful falls. I climbed the fence and +started down the road to have another look at them. It was early—not more +than five o'clock—and not until eight o'clock could I begin to batter for +my breakfast. I could spend at least three hours by the river. Alas! I was +fated never to see the river nor the falls again.</p> + +<p>The town was asleep when I entered it. As I came along the quiet street, I +saw three men coming toward me along the sidewalk. They were walking +abreast. Hoboes, I decided, like myself, who had got up early. In this +surmise I was not quite correct. I was only sixty-six and two-thirds per +cent correct. The men on each side were hoboes all right, but the man in +the middle wasn't. I directed my steps to the edge of the sidewalk in +order to let the trio go by. But it didn't go by. At some word from the +man in the centre, all three halted, and he of the centre addressed me.</p> + +<p>I piped the lay on the instant. He was a "fly-cop" and the two hoboes +were his prisoners. John Law was up and out after the early worm. I was a +worm. Had I been richer by the experiences that were to befall me in the +next several months, I should have turned and run like the very devil. He +might have shot at me, but he'd have had to hit me to get me. He'd have +never run after me, for two hoboes in the hand are worth more than one on +the get-away. But like a dummy I stood still when he halted me. Our +conversation was brief.</p> + +<p>"What hotel are you stopping at?" he queried.</p> + +<p>He had me. I wasn't stopping at any hotel, and, since I did not know the +name of a hotel in the place, I could not claim residence in any of them. +Also, I was up too early in the morning. Everything was against me.</p> + +<p>"I just arrived," I said.</p> + +<p>"Well, you turn around and walk in front of me, and not too far in front. +There's somebody wants to see you."</p> + +<p>I was "pinched." I knew who wanted to see me. With that "fly-cop" and the +two hoboes at my heels, and under the direction of the former, I led the +way to the city jail. There we were searched and our names registered. I +have forgotten, now, under which name I was registered. I gave the name of +Jack Drake, but when they searched me, they found letters addressed to +Jack London. This caused trouble and required explanation, all of which +has passed from my mind, and to this day I do not know whether I was +pinched as Jack Drake or Jack London. But one or the other, it should be +there to-day in the prison register of Niagara Falls. Reference can bring +it to light. The time was somewhere in the latter part of June, 1894. It +was only a few days after my arrest that the great railroad strike began.</p> + +<p>From the office we were led to the "Hobo" and locked in. The "Hobo" is +that part of a prison where the minor offenders are confined together in a +large iron cage. Since hoboes constitute the principal division of the +minor offenders, the aforesaid iron cage is called the Hobo. Here we met +several hoboes who had already been pinched that morning, and every little +while the door was unlocked and two or three more were thrust in on us. At +last, when we totalled sixteen, we were led upstairs into the court-room. +And now I shall faithfully describe what took place in that court-room, +for know that my patriotic American citizenship there received a shock +from which it has never fully recovered.</p> + +<p>In the court-room were the sixteen prisoners, the judge, and two bailiffs. +The judge seemed to act as his own clerk. There were no witnesses. There +were no citizens of Niagara Falls present to look on and see how justice +was administered in their community. The judge glanced at the list of +cases before him and called out a name. A hobo stood up. The judge glanced +at a bailiff. "Vagrancy, your Honor," said the bailiff. "Thirty days," +said his Honor. The hobo sat down, and the judge was calling another name +and another hobo was rising to his feet.</p> + +<p>The trial of that hobo had taken just about fifteen seconds. The trial of +the next hobo came off with equal celerity. The bailiff said, "Vagrancy, +your Honor," and his Honor said, "Thirty days." Thus it went like +clockwork, fifteen seconds to a hobo—and thirty days.</p> + +<p>They are poor dumb cattle, I thought to myself. But wait till my turn +comes; I'll give his Honor a "spiel." Part way along in the performance, +his Honor, moved by some whim, gave one of us an opportunity to speak. As +chance would have it, this man was not a genuine hobo. He bore none of the +ear-marks of the professional "stiff." Had he approached the rest of us, +while waiting at a water-tank for a freight, we should have unhesitatingly +classified him as a "gay-cat." Gay-cat is the synonym for tenderfoot in +Hobo Land. This gay-cat was well along in years—somewhere around +forty-five, I should judge. His shoulders were humped a trifle, and his +face was seamed by weather-beat.</p> + +<p>For many years, according to his story, he had driven team for some firm +in (if I remember rightly) Lockport, New York. The firm had ceased to +prosper, and finally, in the hard times of 1893, had gone out of business. +He had been kept on to the last, though toward the last his work had been +very irregular. He went on and explained at length his difficulties in +getting work (when so many were out of work) during the succeeding months. +In the end, deciding that he would find better opportunities for work on +the Lakes, he had started for Buffalo. Of course he was "broke," and +there he was. That was all.</p> + +<p>"Thirty days," said his Honor, and called another hobo's name.</p> + +<p>Said hobo got up. "Vagrancy, your Honor," said the bailiff, and his Honor +said, "Thirty days."</p> + +<p>And so it went, fifteen seconds and thirty days to each hobo. The machine +of justice was grinding smoothly. Most likely, considering how early it +was in the morning, his Honor had not yet had his breakfast and was in a +hurry.</p> + +<p>But my American blood was up. Behind me were the many generations of my +American ancestry. One of the kinds of liberty those ancestors of mine had +fought and died for was the right of trial by jury. This was my heritage, +stained sacred by their blood, and it devolved upon me to stand up for it. +All right, I threatened to myself; just wait till he gets to me.</p> + +<p>He got to me. My name, whatever it was, was called, and I stood up. The +bailiff said, "Vagrancy, your Honor," and I began to talk. But the judge +began talking at the same time, and he said, "Thirty days." I started to +protest, but at that moment his Honor was calling the name of the next +hobo on the list. His Honor paused long enough to say to me, "Shut up!" +The bailiff forced me to sit down. And the next moment that next hobo had +received thirty days and the succeeding hobo was just in process of +getting his.</p> + +<p>When we had all been disposed of, thirty days to each stiff, his Honor, +just as he was about to dismiss us, suddenly turned to the teamster from +Lockport—the one man he had allowed to talk.</p> + +<p>"Why did you quit your job?" his Honor asked.</p> + +<p>Now the teamster had already explained how his job had quit him, and the +question took him aback.</p> + +<p>"Your Honor," he began confusedly, "isn't that a funny question to ask?"</p> + +<p>"Thirty days more for quitting your job," said his Honor, and the court +was closed. That was the outcome. The teamster got sixty days all +together, while the rest of us got thirty days.</p> + +<p>We were taken down below, locked up, and given breakfast. It was a pretty +good breakfast, as prison breakfasts go, and it was the best I was to get +for a month to come.</p> + +<p>As for me, I was dazed. Here was I, under sentence, after a farce of a +trial wherein I was denied not only my right of trial by jury, but my +right to plead guilty or not guilty. Another thing my fathers had fought +for flashed through my brain—habeas corpus. I'd show them. But when I +asked for a lawyer, I was laughed at. Habeas corpus was all right, but of +what good was it to me when I could communicate with no one outside the +jail? But I'd show them. They couldn't keep me in jail forever. Just wait +till I got out, that was all. I'd make them sit up. I knew something about +the law and my own rights, and I'd expose their maladministration of +justice. Visions of damage suits and sensational newspaper headlines were +dancing before my eyes when the jailers came in and began hustling us out +into the main office.</p> + +<p>A policeman snapped a handcuff on my right wrist. (Ah, ha, thought I, a +new indignity. Just wait till I get out.) On the left wrist of a negro he +snapped the other handcuff of that pair. He was a very tall negro, well +past six feet—so tall was he that when we stood side by side his hand +lifted mine up a trifle in the manacles. Also, he was the happiest and the +raggedest negro I have ever seen.</p> + +<p>We were all handcuffed similarly, in pairs. This accomplished, a bright +nickel-steel chain was brought forth, run down through the links of all +the handcuffs, and locked at front and rear of the double-line. We were +now a chain-gang. The command to march was given, and out we went upon the +street, guarded by two officers. The tall negro and I had the place of +honor. We led the procession.</p> + +<p>After the tomb-like gloom of the jail, the outside sunshine was dazzling. +I had never known it to be so sweet as now, a prisoner with clanking +chains, I knew that I was soon to see the last of it for thirty days. Down +through the streets of Niagara Falls we marched to the railroad station, +stared at by curious passers-by, and especially by a group of tourists on +the veranda of a hotel that we marched past.</p> + +<p>There was plenty of slack in the chain, and with much rattling and +clanking we sat down, two and two, in the seats of the smoking-car. Afire +with indignation as I was at the outrage that had been perpetrated on me +and my forefathers, I was nevertheless too prosaically practical to lose +my head over it. This was all new to me. Thirty days of mystery were +before me, and I looked about me to find somebody who knew the ropes. For +I had already learned that I was not bound for a petty jail with a hundred +or so prisoners in it, but for a full-grown penitentiary with a couple of +thousand prisoners in it, doing anywhere from ten days to ten years.</p> + +<p>In the seat behind me, attached to the chain by his wrist, was a squat, +heavily-built, powerfully-muscled man. He was somewhere between +thirty-five and forty years of age. I sized him up. In the corners of his +eyes I saw humor and laughter and kindliness. As for the rest of him, he +was a brute-beast, wholly unmoral, and with all the passion and turgid +violence of the brute-beast. What saved him, what made him possible for +me, were those corners of his eyes—the humor and laughter and kindliness +of the beast when unaroused.</p> + +<p>He was my "meat." I "cottoned" to him. While my cuff-mate, the tall negro, +mourned with chucklings and laughter over some laundry he was sure to lose +through his arrest, and while the train rolled on toward Buffalo, I talked +with the man in the seat behind me. He had an empty pipe. I filled it for +him with my precious tobacco—enough in a single filling to make a dozen +cigarettes. Nay, the more we talked the surer I was that he was my meat, +and I divided all my tobacco with him.</p> + +<p>Now it happens that I am a fluid sort of an organism, with sufficient +kinship with life to fit myself in 'most anywhere. I laid myself out to +fit in with that man, though little did I dream to what extraordinary good +purpose I was succeeding. He had never been in the particular penitentiary +to which we were going, but he had done "one-," "two-," and "five-spots" +in various other penitentiaries (a "spot" is a year), and he was filled +with wisdom. We became pretty chummy, and my heart bounded when he +cautioned me to follow his lead. He called me "Jack," and I called him +"Jack."</p> + +<p>The train stopped at a station about five miles from Buffalo, and we, the +chain-gang, got off. I do not remember the name of this station, but I am +confident that it is some one of the following: Rocklyn, Rockwood, Black +Rock, Rockcastle, or Newcastle. But whatever the name of the place, we +were walked a short distance and then put on a street-car. It was an +old-fashioned car, with a seat, running the full length, on each side. All +the passengers who sat on one side were asked to move over to the other +side, and we, with a great clanking of chain, took their places. We sat +facing them, I remember, and I remember, too, the awed expression on the +faces of the women, who took us, undoubtedly, for convicted murderers and +bank-robbers. I tried to look my fiercest, but that cuff-mate of mine, the +too happy negro, insisted on rolling his eyes, laughing, and reiterating, +"O Lawdy! Lawdy!"</p> + +<p>We left the car, walked some more, and were led into the office of the +Erie County Penitentiary. Here we were to register, and on that register +one or the other of my names will be found. Also, we were informed that we +must leave in the office all our valuables: money, tobacco, matches, +pocketknives, and so forth.</p> + +<p>My new pal shook his head at me.</p> + +<p>"If you do not leave your things here, they will be confiscated inside," +warned the official.</p> + +<p>Still my pal shook his head. He was busy with his hands, hiding his +movements behind the other fellows. (Our handcuffs had been removed.) I +watched him, and followed suit, wrapping up in a bundle in my handkerchief +all the things I wanted to take in. These bundles the two of us thrust +into our shirts. I noticed that our fellow-prisoners, with the exception +of one or two who had watches, did not turn over their belongings to the +man in the office. They were determined to smuggle them in somehow, +trusting to luck; but they were not so wise as my pal, for they did not +wrap their things in bundles.</p> + +<p>Our erstwhile guardians gathered up the handcuffs and chain and departed +for Niagara Falls, while we, under new guardians, were led away into the +prison. While we were in the office, our number had been added to by other +squads of newly arrived prisoners, so that we were now a procession forty +or fifty strong.</p> + +<p>Know, ye unimprisoned, that traffic is as restricted inside a large prison +as commerce was in the Middle Ages. Once inside a penitentiary, one cannot +move about at will. Every few steps are encountered great steel doors or +gates which are always kept locked. We were bound for the barber-shop, but +we encountered delays in the unlocking of doors for us. We were thus +delayed in the first "hall" we entered. A "hall" is not a corridor. +Imagine an oblong cube, built out of bricks and rising six stories high, +each story a row of cells, say fifty cells in a row—in short, imagine a +cube of colossal honeycomb. Place this cube on the ground and enclose it +in a building with a roof overhead and walls all around. Such a cube and +encompassing building constitute a "hall" in the Erie County Penitentiary. +Also, to complete the picture, see a narrow gallery, with steel railing, +running the full length of each tier of cells and at the ends of the +oblong cube see all these galleries, from both sides, connected by a +fire-escape system of narrow steel stairways.</p> + +<p>We were halted in the first hall, waiting for some guard to unlock a door. +Here and there, moving about, were convicts, with close-cropped heads and +shaven faces, and garbed in prison stripes. One such convict I noticed +above us on the gallery of the third tier of cells. He was standing on the +gallery and leaning forward, his arms resting on the railing, himself +apparently oblivious of our presence. He seemed staring into vacancy. My +pal made a slight hissing noise. The convict glanced down. Motioned +signals passed between them. Then through the air soared the handkerchief +bundle of my pal. The convict caught it, and like a flash it was out of +sight in his shirt and he was staring into vacancy. My pal had told me to +follow his lead. I watched my chance when the guard's back was turned, and +my bundle followed the other one into the shirt of the convict.</p> + +<p>A minute later the door was unlocked, and we filed into the barber-shop. +Here were more men in convict stripes. They were the prison barbers. Also, +there were bath-tubs, hot water, soap, and scrubbing-brushes. We were +ordered to strip and bathe, each man to scrub his neighbor's back—a +needless precaution, this compulsory bath, for the prison swarmed with +vermin. After the bath, we were each given a canvas clothes-bag.</p> + +<p>"Put all your clothes in the bags," said the guard. "It's no good trying +to smuggle anything in. You've got to line up naked for inspection. Men +for thirty days or less keep their shoes and suspenders. Men for more than +thirty days keep nothing."</p> + +<p>This announcement was received with consternation. How could naked men +smuggle anything past an inspection? Only my pal and I were safe. But it +was right here that the convict barbers got in their work. They passed +among the poor newcomers, kindly volunteering to take charge of their +precious little belongings, and promising to return them later in the day. +Those barbers were philanthropists—to hear them talk. As in the case of +Fra Lippo Lippi, never was there such prompt disemburdening. Matches, +tobacco, rice-paper, pipes, knives, money, everything, flowed into the +capacious shirts of the barbers. They fairly bulged with the spoil, and +the guards made believe not to see. To cut the story short, nothing was +ever returned. The barbers never had any intention of returning what they +had taken. They considered it legitimately theirs. It was the barber-shop +graft. There were many grafts in that prison, as I was to learn; and I, +too, was destined to become a grafter—thanks to my new pal.</p> + +<p>There were several chairs, and the barbers worked rapidly. The quickest +shaves and hair-cuts I have ever seen were given in that shop. The men +lathered themselves, and the barbers shaved them at the rate of a minute +to a man. A hair-cut took a trifle longer. In three minutes the down of +eighteen was scraped from my face, and my head was as smooth as a +billiard-ball just sprouting a crop of bristles. Beards, mustaches, like +our clothes and everything, came off. Take my word for it, we were a +villainous-looking gang when they got through with us. I had not realized +before how really altogether bad we were.</p> + +<p>Then came the line-up, forty or fifty of us, naked as Kipling's heroes who +stormed Lungtungpen. To search us was easy. There were only our shoes and +ourselves. Two or three rash spirits, who had doubted the barbers, had the +goods found on them—which goods, namely, tobacco, pipes, matches, and +small change, were quickly confiscated. This over, our new clothes were +brought to us—stout prison shirts, and coats and trousers conspicuously +striped. I had always lingered under the impression that the convict +stripes were put on a man only after he had been convicted of a felony. I +lingered no longer, but put on the insignia of shame and got my first +taste of marching the lock-step.</p> + +<p>In single file, close together, each man's hands on the shoulders of the +man in front, we marched on into another large hall. Here we were ranged +up against the wall in a long line and ordered to strip our left arms. A +youth, a medical student who was getting in his practice on cattle such as +we, came down the line. He vaccinated just about four times as rapidly as +the barbers shaved. With a final caution to avoid rubbing our arms against +anything, and to let the blood dry so as to form the scab, we were led +away to our cells. Here my pal and I parted, but not before he had time to +whisper to me, "Suck it out."</p> + +<p>As soon as I was locked in, I sucked my arm clean. And afterward I saw men +who had not sucked and who had horrible holes in their arms into which I +could have thrust my fist. It was their own fault. They could have sucked.</p> + +<p>In my cell was another man. We were to be cell-mates. He was a young, +manly fellow, not talkative, but very capable, indeed as splendid a fellow +as one could meet with in a day's ride, and this in spite of the fact that +he had just recently finished a two-year term in some Ohio penitentiary.</p> + +<p>Hardly had we been in our cell half an hour, when a convict sauntered down +the gallery and looked in. It was my pal. He had the freedom of the hall, +he explained. He was unlocked at six in the morning and not locked up +again till nine at night. He was in with the "push" in that hall, and had +been promptly appointed a trusty of the kind technically known as +"hall-man." The man who had appointed him was also a prisoner and a +trusty, and was known as "First Hall-man." There were thirteen hall-men in +that hall. Ten of them had charge each of a gallery of cells, and over +them were the First, Second, and Third Hall-men.</p> + +<p>We newcomers were to stay in our cells for the rest of the day, my pal +informed me, so that the vaccine would have a chance to take. Then next +morning we would be put to hard labor in the prison-yard.</p> + +<p>"But I'll get you out of the work as soon as I can," he promised. "I'll +get one of the hall-men fired and have you put in his place."</p> + +<p>He put his hand into his shirt, drew out the handkerchief containing my +precious belongings, passed it in to me through the bars, and went on down +the gallery.</p> + +<p>I opened the bundle. Everything was there. Not even a match was missing. I +shared the makings of a cigarette with my cell-mate. When I started to +strike a match for a light, he stopped me. A flimsy, dirty comforter lay +in each of our bunks for bedding. He tore off a narrow strip of the thin +cloth and rolled it tightly and telescopically into a long and slender +cylinder. This he lighted with a precious match. The cylinder of +tight-rolled cotton cloth did not flame. On the end a coal of fire slowly +smouldered. It would last for hours, and my cell-mate called it a "punk." +And when it burned short, all that was necessary was to make a new punk, +put the end of it against the old, blow on them, and so transfer the +glowing coal. Why, we could have given Prometheus pointers on the +conserving of fire.</p> + +<p>At twelve o'clock dinner was served. At the bottom of our cage door was a +small opening like the entrance of a runway in a chicken-yard. Through +this were thrust two hunks of dry bread and two pannikins of "soup." A +portion of soup consisted of about a quart of hot water with floating on +its surface a lonely drop of grease. Also, there was some salt in that +water.</p> + +<p>We drank the soup, but we did not eat the bread. Not that we were not +hungry, and not that the bread was uneatable. It was fairly good bread. +But we had reasons. My cell-mate had discovered that our cell was alive +with bed-bugs. In all the cracks and interstices between the bricks where +the mortar had fallen out flourished great colonies. The natives even +ventured out in the broad daylight and swarmed over the walls and ceiling +by hundreds. My cell-mate was wise in the ways of the beasts. Like Childe +Roland, dauntless the slug-horn to his lips he bore. Never was there such +a battle. It lasted for hours. It was shambles. And when the last +survivors fled to their brick-and-mortar fastnesses, our work was only +half done. We chewed mouthfuls of our bread until it was reduced to the +consistency of putty. When a fleeing belligerent escaped into a crevice +between the bricks, we promptly walled him in with a daub of the chewed +bread. We toiled on until the light grew dim and until every hole, nook, +and cranny was closed. I shudder to think of the tragedies of starvation +and cannibalism that must have ensued behind those bread-plastered +ramparts.</p> + +<p>We threw ourselves on our bunks, tired out and hungry, to wait for supper. +It was a good day's work well done. In the weeks to come we at least +should not suffer from the hosts of vermin. We had foregone our dinner, +saved our hides at the expense of our stomachs; but we were content. Alas +for the futility of human effort! Scarcely was our long task completed +when a guard unlocked our door. A redistribution of prisoners was being +made, and we were taken to another cell and locked in two galleries higher +up.</p> + +<p>Early next morning our cells were unlocked, and down in the hall the +several hundred prisoners of us formed the lock-step and marched out into +the prison-yard to go to work. The Erie Canal runs right by the back yard +of the Erie County Penitentiary. Our task was to unload canal-boats, +carrying huge stay-bolts on our shoulders, like railroad ties, into the +prison. As I worked I sized up the situation and studied the chances for a +get-away. There wasn't the ghost of a show. Along the tops of the walls +marched guards armed with repeating rifles, and I was told, furthermore, +that there were machine-guns in the sentry-towers.</p> + +<p>I did not worry. Thirty days were not so long. I'd stay those thirty days, +and add to the store of material I intended to use, when I got out, +against the harpies of justice. I'd show what an American boy could do +when his rights and privileges had been trampled on the way mine had. I +had been denied my right of trial by jury; I had been denied my right to +plead guilty or not guilty; I had been denied a trial even (for I couldn't +consider that what I had received at Niagara Falls was a trial); I had not +been allowed to communicate with a lawyer nor any one, and hence had been +denied my right of suing for a writ of habeas corpus; my face had been +shaved, my hair cropped close, convict stripes had been put upon my body; +I was forced to toil hard on a diet of bread and water and to march the +shameful lock-step with armed guards over me—and all for what? What had +I done? What crime had I committed against the good citizens of Niagara +Falls that all this vengeance should be wreaked upon me? I had not even +violated their "sleeping-out" ordinance. I had slept outside their +jurisdiction, in the country, that night. I had not even begged for a +meal, or battered for a "light piece" on their streets. All that I had +done was to walk along their sidewalk and gaze at their picayune +waterfall. And what crime was there in that? Technically I was guilty of +no misdemeanor. All right, I'd show them when I got out.</p> + +<p>The next day I talked with a guard. I wanted to send for a lawyer. The +guard laughed at me. So did the other guards. I really was <i>incommunicado</i> +so far as the outside world was concerned. I tried to write a letter out, +but I learned that all letters were read, and censured or confiscated, by +the prison authorities, and that "short-timers" were not allowed to write +letters anyway. A little later I tried smuggling letters out by men who +were released, but I learned that they were searched and the letters found +and destroyed. Never mind. It all helped to make it a blacker case when I +did get out.</p> + +<p>But as the prison days went by (which I shall describe in the next +chapter), I "learned a few." I heard tales of the police, and +police-courts, and lawyers, that were unbelievable and monstrous. Men, +prisoners, told me of personal experiences with the police of great cities +that were awful. And more awful were the hearsay tales they told me +concerning men who had died at the hands of the police and who therefore +could not testify for themselves. Years afterward, in the report of the +Lexow Committee, I was to read tales true and more awful than those told +to me. But in the meantime, during the first days of my imprisonment, I +scoffed at what I heard.</p> + +<p>As the days went by, however, I began to grow convinced. I saw with my own +eyes, there in that prison, things unbelievable and monstrous. And the +more convinced I became, the profounder grew the respect in me for the +sleuth-hounds of the law and for the whole institution of criminal +justice.</p> + +<p>My indignation ebbed away, and into my being rushed the tides of fear. I +saw at last, clear-eyed, what I was up against. I grew meek and lowly. +Each day I resolved more emphatically to make no rumpus when I got out. +All I asked, when I got out, was a chance to fade away from the landscape. +And that was just what I did do when I was released. I kept my tongue +between my teeth, walked softly, and sneaked for Pennsylvania, a wiser and +a humbler man.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="The_Pen" id="The_Pen" /><i>The Pen</i></h2> + + +<p>For two days I toiled in the prison-yard. It was heavy work, and, in spite +of the fact that I malingered at every opportunity, I was played out. This +was because of the food. No man could work hard on such food. Bread and +water, that was all that was given us. Once a week we were supposed to get +meat; but this meat did not always go around, and since all nutriment had +first been boiled out of it in the making of soup, it didn't matter +whether one got a taste of it once a week or not.</p> + +<p>Furthermore, there was one vital defect in the bread-and-water diet. While +we got plenty of water, we did not get enough of the bread. A ration of +bread was about the size of one's two fists, and three rations a day were +given to each prisoner. There was one good thing, I must say, about the +water—it was hot. In the morning it was called "coffee," at noon it was +dignified as "soup," and at night it masqueraded as "tea." But it was the +same old water all the time. The prisoners called it "water bewitched." In +the morning it was black water, the color being due to boiling it with +burnt bread-crusts. At noon it was served minus the color, with salt and a +drop of grease added. At night it was served with a purplish-auburn hue +that defied all speculation; it was darn poor tea, but it was dandy hot +water.</p> + +<p>We were a hungry lot in the Erie County Pen. Only the "long-timers" knew +what it was to have enough to eat. The reason for this was that they would +have died after a time on the fare we "short-timers" received. I know that +the long-timers got more substantial grub, because there was a whole row +of them on the ground floor in our hall, and when I was a trusty, I used +to steal from their grub while serving them. Man cannot live on bread +alone and not enough of it.</p> + +<p>My pal delivered the goods. After two days of work in the yard I was taken +out of my cell and made a trusty, a "hall-man." At morning and night we +served the bread to the prisoners in their cells; but at twelve o'clock a +different method was used. The convicts marched in from work in a long +line. As they entered the door of our hall, they broke the lock-step and +took their hands down from the shoulders of their line-mates. Just inside +the door were piled trays of bread, and here also stood the First Hall-man +and two ordinary hall-men. I was one of the two. Our task was to hold the +trays of bread as the line of convicts filed past. As soon as the tray, +say, that I was holding was emptied, the other hall-man took my place with +a full tray. And when his was emptied, I took his place with a full tray. +Thus the line tramped steadily by, each man reaching with his right hand +and taking one ration of bread from the extended tray.</p> + +<p>The task of the First Hall-man was different. He used a club. He stood +beside the tray and watched. The hungry wretches could never get over the +delusion that sometime they could manage to get two rations of bread out +of the tray. But in my experience that sometime never came. The club of +the First Hall-man had a way of flashing out—quick as the stroke of a +tiger's claw—to the hand that dared ambitiously. The First Hall-man was a +good judge of distance, and he had smashed so many hands with that club +that he had become infallible. He never missed, and he usually punished +the offending convict by taking his one ration away from him and sending +him to his cell to make his meal off of hot water.</p> + +<p>And at times, while all these men lay hungry in their cells, I have seen a +hundred or so extra rations of bread hidden away in the cells of the +hall-men. It would seem absurd, our retaining this bread. But it was one +of our grafts. We were economic masters inside our hall, turning the trick +in ways quite similar to the economic masters of civilization. We +controlled the food-supply of the population, and, just like our brother +bandits outside, we made the people pay through the nose for it. We +peddled the bread. Once a week, the men who worked in the yard received a +five-cent plug of chewing tobacco. This chewing tobacco was the coin of +the realm. Two or three rations of bread for a plug was the way we +exchanged, and they traded, not because they loved tobacco less, but +because they loved bread more. Oh, I know, it was like taking candy from a +baby, but what would you? We had to live. And certainly there should be +some reward for initiative and enterprise. Besides, we but patterned +ourselves after our betters outside the walls, who, on a larger scale, +and under the respectable disguise of merchants, bankers, and captains of +industry, did precisely what we were doing. What awful things would have +happened to those poor wretches if it hadn't been for us, I can't imagine. +Heaven knows we put bread into circulation in the Erie County Pen. Ay, and +we encouraged frugality and thrift ... in the poor devils who forewent +their tobacco. And then there was our example. In the breast of every +convict there we implanted the ambition to become even as we and run a +graft. Saviours of society—I guess yes.</p> + +<p>Here was a hungry man without any tobacco. Maybe he was a profligate and +had used it all up on himself. Very good; he had a pair of suspenders. I +exchanged half a dozen rations of bread for it—or a dozen rations if the +suspenders were very good. Now I never wore suspenders, but that didn't +matter. Around the corner lodged a long-timer, doing ten years for +manslaughter. He wore suspenders, and he wanted a pair. I could trade them +to him for some of his meat. Meat was what I wanted. Or perhaps he had a +tattered, paper-covered novel. That was treasure-trove. I could read it +and then trade it off to the bakers for cake, or to the cooks for meat and +vegetables, or to the firemen for decent coffee, or to some one or other +for the newspaper that occasionally filtered in, heaven alone knows how. +The cooks, bakers, and firemen were prisoners like myself, and they lodged +in our hall in the first row of cells over us.</p> + +<p>In short, a full-grown system of barter obtained in the Erie County Pen. +There was even money in circulation. This money was sometimes smuggled in +by the short-timers, more frequently came from the barber-shop graft, +where the newcomers were mulcted, but most of all flowed from the cells of +the long-timers—though how they got it I don't know.</p> + +<p>What of his preeminent position, the First Hall-man was reputed to be +quite wealthy. In addition to his miscellaneous grafts, he grafted on us. +We farmed the general wretchedness, and the First Hall-man was +Farmer-General over all of us. We held our particular grafts by his +permission, and we had to pay for that permission. As I say, he was +reputed to be wealthy; but we never saw his money, and he lived in a cell +all to himself in solitary grandeur.</p> + +<p>But that money was made in the Pen I had direct evidence, for I was +cell-mate quite a time with the Third Hall-man. He had over sixteen +dollars. He used to count his money every night after nine o'clock, when +we were locked in. Also, he used to tell me each night what he would do to +me if I gave away on him to the other hall-men. You see, he was afraid of +being robbed, and danger threatened him from three different directions. +There were the guards. A couple of them might jump upon him, give him a +good beating for alleged insubordination, and throw him into the +"solitaire" (the dungeon); and in the mix-up that sixteen dollars of his +would take wings. Then again, the First Hall-man could have taken it all +away from him by threatening to dismiss him and fire him back to hard +labor in the prison-yard. And yet again, there were the ten of us who were +ordinary hall-men. If we got an inkling of his wealth, there was a large +liability, some quiet day, of the whole bunch of us getting him into a +corner and dragging him down. Oh, we were wolves, believe me—just like +the fellows who do business in Wall Street.</p> + +<p>He had good reason to be afraid of us, and so had I to be afraid of him. +He was a huge, illiterate brute, an ex-Chesapeake-Bay-oyster-pirate, an +"ex-con" who had done five years in Sing Sing, and a general all-around +stupidly carnivorous beast. He used to trap sparrows that flew into our +hall through the open bars. When he made a capture, he hurried away with +it into his cell, where I have seen him crunching bones and spitting out +feathers as he bolted it raw. Oh, no, I never gave away on him to the +other hall-men. This is the first time I have mentioned his sixteen +dollars.</p> + +<p>But I grafted on him just the same. He was in love with a woman prisoner +who was confined in the "female department." He could neither read nor +write, and I used to read her letters to him and write his replies. And I +made him pay for it, too. But they were good letters. I laid myself out on +them, put in my best licks, and furthermore, I won her for him; though I +shrewdly guess that she was in love, not with him, but with the humble +scribe. I repeat, those letters were great.</p> + +<p>Another one of our grafts was "passing the punk." We were the celestial +messengers, the fire-bringers, in that iron world of bolt and bar. When +the men came in from work at night and were locked in their cells, they +wanted to smoke. Then it was that we restored the divine spark, running +the galleries, from cell to cell, with our smouldering punks. Those who +were wise, or with whom we did business, had their punks all ready to +light. Not every one got divine sparks, however. The guy who refused to +dig up, went sparkless and smokeless to bed. But what did we care? We had +the immortal cinch on him, and if he got fresh, two or three of us would +pitch on him and give him "what-for."</p> + +<p>You see, this was the working-theory of the hall-men. There were thirteen +of us. We had something like half a thousand prisoners in our hall. We +were supposed to do the work, and to keep order. The latter was the +function of the guards, which they turned over to us. It was up to us to +keep order; if we didn't, we'd be fired back to hard labor, most probably +with a taste of the dungeon thrown in. But so long as we maintained order, +that long could we work our own particular grafts.</p> + +<p>Bear with me a moment and look at the problem. Here were thirteen beasts +of us over half a thousand other beasts. It was a living hell, that +prison, and it was up to us thirteen there to rule. It was impossible, +considering the nature of the beasts, for us to rule by kindness. We ruled +by fear. Of course, behind us, backing us up, were the guards. In +extremity we called upon them for help; but it would bother them if we +called upon them too often, in which event we could depend upon it that +they would get more efficient trusties to take our places. But we did not +call upon them often, except in a quiet sort of way, when we wanted a cell +unlocked in order to get at a refractory prisoner inside. In such cases +all the guard did was to unlock the door and walk away so as not to be a +witness of what happened when half a dozen hall-men went inside and did a +bit of man-handling.</p> + +<p>As regards the details of this man-handling I shall say nothing. And after +all, man-handling was merely one of the very minor unprintable horrors of +the Erie County Pen. I say "unprintable"; and in justice I must also say +"unthinkable." They were unthinkable to me until I saw them, and I was no +spring chicken in the ways of the world and the awful abysses of human +degradation. It would take a deep plummet to reach bottom in the Erie +County Pen, and I do but skim lightly and facetiously the surface of +things as I there saw them.</p> + +<p>At times, say in the morning when the prisoners came down to wash, the +thirteen of us would be practically alone in the midst of them, and every +last one of them had it in for us. Thirteen against five hundred, and we +ruled by fear. We could not permit the slightest infraction of rules, the +slightest insolence. If we did, we were lost. Our own rule was to hit a +man as soon as he opened his mouth—hit him hard, hit him with anything. A +broom-handle, end-on, in the face, had a very sobering effect. But that +was not all. Such a man must be made an example of; so the next rule was +to wade right in and follow him up. Of course, one was sure that every +hall-man in sight would come on the run to join in the chastisement; for +this also was a rule. Whenever any hall-man was in trouble with a +prisoner, the duty of any other hall-man who happened to be around was to +lend a fist. Never mind the merits of the case—wade in and hit, and hit +with anything; in short, lay the man out.</p> + +<p>I remember a handsome young mulatto of about twenty who got the insane +idea into his head that he should stand for his rights. And he did have +the right of it, too; but that didn't help him any. He lived on the +topmost gallery. Eight hall-men took the conceit out of him in just about +a minute and a half—for that was the length of time required to travel +along his gallery to the end and down five flights of steel stairs. He +travelled the whole distance on every portion of his anatomy except his +feet, and the eight hall-men were not idle. The mulatto struck the +pavement where I was standing watching it all. He regained his feet and +stood upright for a moment. In that moment he threw his arms wide apart +and omitted an awful scream of terror and pain and heartbreak. At the same +instant, as in a transformation scene, the shreds of his stout prison +clothes fell from him, leaving him wholly naked and streaming blood from +every portion of the surface of his body. Then he collapsed in a heap, +unconscious. He had learned his lesson, and every convict within those +walls who heard him scream had learned a lesson. So had I learned mine. +It is not a nice thing to see a man's heart broken in a minute and a half.</p> + +<p>The following will illustrate how we drummed up business in the graft of +passing the punk. A row of newcomers is installed in your cells. You pass +along before the bars with your punk. "Hey, Bo, give us a light," some one +calls to you. Now this is an advertisement that that particular man has +tobacco on him. You pass in the punk and go your way. A little later you +come back and lean up casually against the bars. "Say, Bo, can you let us +have a little tobacco?" is what you say. If he is not wise to the game, +the chances are that he solemnly avers that he hasn't any more tobacco. +All very well. You condole with him and go your way. But you know that his +punk will last him only the rest of that day. Next day you come by, and he +says again, "Hey, Bo, give us a light." And you say, "You haven't any +tobacco and you don't need a light." And you don't give him any, either. +Half an hour after, or an hour or two or three hours, you will be passing +by and the man will call out to you in mild tones, "Come here, Bo." And +you come. You thrust your hand between the bars and have it filled with +precious tobacco. Then you give him a light.</p> + +<p>Sometimes, however, a newcomer arrives, upon whom no grafts are to be +worked. The mysterious word is passed along that he is to be treated +decently. Where this word originated I could never learn. The one thing +patent is that the man has a "pull." It may be with one of the superior +hall-men; it may be with one of the guards in some other part of the +prison; it may be that good treatment has been purchased from grafters +higher up; but be it as it may, we know that it is up to us to treat him +decently if we want to avoid trouble.</p> + +<p>We hall-men were middle-men and common carriers. We arranged trades +between convicts confined in different parts of the prison, and we put +through the exchange. Also, we took our commissions coming and going. +Sometimes the objects traded had to go through the hands of half a dozen +middle-men, each of whom took his whack, or in some way or another was +paid for his service.</p> + +<p>Sometimes one was in debt for services, and sometimes one had others in +his debt. Thus, I entered the prison in debt to the convict who smuggled +in my things for me. A week or so afterward, one of the firemen passed a +letter into my hand. It had been given to him by a barber. The barber had +received it from the convict who had smuggled in my things. Because of my +debt to him I was to carry the letter on. But he had not written the +letter. The original sender was a long-timer in his hall. The letter was +for a woman prisoner in the female department. But whether it was intended +for her, or whether she, in turn, was one of the chain of go-betweens, I +did not know. All that I knew was her description, and that it was up to +me to get it into her hands.</p> + +<p>Two days passed, during which time I kept the letter in my possession; +then the opportunity came. The women did the mending of all the clothes +worn by the convicts. A number of our hall-men had to go to the female +department to bring back huge bundles of clothes. I fixed it with the +First Hall-man that I was to go along. Door after door was unlocked for us +as we threaded our way across the prison to the women's quarters. We +entered a large room where the women sat working at their mending. My eyes +were peeled for the woman who had been described to me. I located her and +worked near to her. Two eagle-eyed matrons were on watch. I held the +letter in my palm, and I looked my intention at the woman. She knew I had +something for her; she must have been expecting it, and had set herself to +divining, at the moment we entered, which of us was the messenger. But one +of the matrons stood within two feet of her. Already the hall-men were +picking up the bundles they were to carry away. The moment was passing. I +delayed with my bundle, making believe that it was not tied securely. +Would that matron ever look away? Or was I to fail? And just then another +woman cut up playfully with one of the hall-men—stuck out her foot and +tripped him, or pinched him, or did something or other. The matron looked +that way and reprimanded the woman sharply. Now I do not know whether or +not this was all planned to distract the matron's attention, but I did +know that it was my opportunity. My particular woman's hand dropped from +her lap down by her side. I stooped to pick up my bundle. From my stooping +position I slipped the letter into her hand, and received another in +exchange. The next moment the bundle was on my shoulder, the matron's +gaze had returned to me because I was the last hall-man, and I was +hastening to catch up with my companions. The letter I had received from +the woman I turned over to the fireman, and thence it passed through the +hands of the barber, of the convict who had smuggled in my things, and on +to the long-timer at the other end.</p> + +<p>Often we conveyed letters, the chain of communication of which was so +complex that we knew neither sender nor sendee. We were but links in the +chain. Somewhere, somehow, a convict would thrust a letter into my hand +with the instruction to pass it on to the next link. All such acts were +favors to be reciprocated later on, when I should be acting directly with +a principal in transmitting letters, and from whom I should be receiving +my pay. The whole prison was covered by a network of lines of +communication. And we who were in control of the system of communication, +naturally, since we were modelled after capitalistic society, exacted +heavy tolls from our customers. It was service for profit with a +vengeance, though we were at times not above giving service for love.</p> + +<p>And all the time I was in the Pen I was making myself solid with my pal. +He had done much for me, and in return he expected me to do as much for +him. When we got out, we were to travel together, and, it goes without +saying, pull off "jobs" together. For my pal was a criminal—oh, not a +jewel of the first water, merely a petty criminal who would steal and rob, +commit burglary, and, if cornered, not stop short of murder. Many a quiet +hour we sat and talked together. He had two or three jobs in view for the +immediate future, in which my work was cut out for me, and in which I +joined in planning the details. I had been with and seen much of +criminals, and my pal never dreamed that I was only fooling him, giving +him a string thirty days long. He thought I was the real goods, liked me +because I was not stupid, and liked me a bit, too, I think, for myself. Of +course I had not the slightest intention of joining him in a life of +sordid, petty crime; but I'd have been an idiot to throw away all the good +things his friendship made possible. When one is on the hot lava of hell, +he cannot pick and choose his path, and so it was with me in the Erie +County Pen. I had to stay in with the "push," or do hard labor on bread +and water; and to stay in with the push I had to make good with my pal.</p> + +<p>Life was not monotonous in the Pen. Every day something was happening: men +were having fits, going crazy, fighting, or the hall-men were getting +drunk. Rover Jack, one of the ordinary hall-men, was our star "oryide." He +was a true "profesh," a "blowed-in-the-glass" stiff, and as such received +all kinds of latitude from the hall-men in authority. Pittsburg Joe, who +was Second Hall-man, used to join Rover Jack in his jags; and it was a +saying of the pair that the Erie County Pen was the only place where a man +could get "slopped" and not be arrested. I never knew, but I was told that +bromide of potassium, gained in devious ways from the dispensary, was the +dope they used. But I do know, whatever their dope was, that they got good +and drunk on occasion.</p> + +<p>Our hall was a common stews, filled with the ruck and the filth, the scum +and dregs, of society—hereditary inefficients, degenerates, wrecks, +lunatics, addled intelligences, epileptics, monsters, weaklings, in short, +a very nightmare of humanity. Hence, fits flourished with us. These fits +seemed contagious. When one man began throwing a fit, others followed his +lead. I have seen seven men down with fits at the same time, making the +air hideous with their cries, while as many more lunatics would be raging +and gibbering up and down. Nothing was ever done for the men with fits +except to throw cold water on them. It was useless to send for the medical +student or the doctor. They were not to be bothered with such trivial and +frequent occurrences.</p> + +<p>There was a young Dutch boy, about eighteen years of age, who had fits +most frequently of all. He usually threw one every day. It was for that +reason that we kept him on the ground floor farther down in the row of +cells in which we lodged. After he had had a few fits in the prison-yard, +the guards refused to be bothered with him any more, and so he remained +locked up in his cell all day with a Cockney cell-mate, to keep him +company. Not that the Cockney was of any use. Whenever the Dutch boy had a +fit, the Cockney became paralyzed with terror.</p> + +<p>The Dutch boy could not speak a word of English. He was a farmer's boy, +serving ninety days as punishment for having got into a scrap with some +one. He prefaced his fits with howling. He howled like a wolf. Also, he +took his fits standing up, which was very inconvenient for him, for his +fits always culminated in a headlong pitch to the floor. Whenever I heard +the long wolf-howl rising, I used to grab a broom and run to his cell. Now +the trusties were not allowed keys to the cells, so I could not get in to +him. He would stand up in the middle of his narrow cell, shivering +convulsively, his eyes rolled backward till only the whites were visible, +and howling like a lost soul. Try as I would, I could never get the +Cockney to lend him a hand. While he stood and howled, the Cockney +crouched and trembled in the upper bunk, his terror-stricken gaze fixed on +that awful figure, with eyes rolled back, that howled and howled. It was +hard on him, too, the poor devil of a Cockney. His own reason was not any +too firmly seated, and the wonder is that he did not go mad.</p> + +<p>All that I could do was my best with the broom. I would thrust it through +the bars, train it on Dutchy's chest, and wait. As the crisis approached +he would begin swaying back and forth. I followed this swaying with the +broom, for there was no telling when he would take that dreadful forward +pitch. But when he did, I was there with the broom, catching him and +easing him down. Contrive as I would, he never came down quite gently, and +his face was usually bruised by the stone floor. Once down and writhing in +convulsions, I'd throw a bucket of water over him. I don't know whether +cold water was the right thing or not, but it was the custom in the Erie +County Pen. Nothing more than that was ever done for him. He would lie +there, wet, for an hour or so, and then crawl into his bunk. I knew better +than to run to a guard for assistance. What was a man with a fit, anyway?</p> + +<p>In the adjoining cell lived a strange character—a man who was doing sixty +days for eating swill out of Barnum's swill-barrel, or at least that was +the way he put it. He was a badly addled creature, and, at first, very +mild and gentle. The facts of his case were as he had stated them. He had +strayed out to the circus ground, and, being hungry, had made his way to +the barrel that contained the refuse from the table of the circus people. +"And it was good bread," he often assured me; "and the meat was out of +sight." A policeman had seen him and arrested him, and there he was.</p> + +<p>Once I passed his cell with a piece of stiff thin wire in my hand. He +asked me for it so earnestly that I passed it through the bars to him. +Promptly, and with no tool but his fingers, he broke it into short lengths +and twisted them into half a dozen very creditable safety pins. He +sharpened the points on the stone floor. Thereafter I did quite a trade in +safety pins. I furnished the raw material and peddled the finished +product, and he did the work. As wages, I paid him extra rations of bread, +and once in a while a chunk of meat or a piece of soup-bone with some +marrow inside.</p> + +<p>But his imprisonment told on him, and he grew violent day by day. The +hall-men took delight in teasing him. They filled his weak brain with +stories of a great fortune that had been left him. It was in order to rob +him of it that he had been arrested and sent to jail. Of course, as he +himself knew, there was no law against eating out of a barrel. Therefore +he was wrongly imprisoned. It was a plot to deprive him of his fortune.</p> + +<p>The first I knew of it, I heard the hall-men laughing about the string +they had given him. Next he held a serious conference with me, in which he +told me of his millions and the plot to deprive him of them, and in which +he appointed me his detective. I did my best to let him down gently, +speaking vaguely of a mistake, and that it was another man with a similar +name who was the rightful heir. I left him quite cooled down; but I +couldn't keep the hall-men away from him, and they continued to string him +worse than ever. In the end, after a most violent scene, he threw me down, +revoked my private detectiveship, and went on strike. My trade in safety +pins ceased. He refused to make any more safety pins, and he peppered me +with raw material through the bars of his cell when I passed by.</p> + +<p>I could never make it up with him. The other hall-men told him that I was +a detective in the employ of the conspirators. And in the meantime the +hall-men drove him mad with their stringing. His fictitious wrongs preyed +upon his mind, and at last he became a dangerous and homicidal lunatic. +The guards refused to listen to his tale of stolen millions, and he +accused them of being in the plot. One day he threw a pannikin of hot tea +over one of them, and then his case was investigated. The warden talked +with him a few minutes through the bars of his cell. Then he was taken +away for examination before the doctors. He never came back, and I often +wonder if he is dead, or if he still gibbers about his millions in some +asylum for the insane.</p> + +<p>At last came the day of days, my release. It was the day of release for +the Third Hall-man as well, and the short-timer girl I had won for him was +waiting for him outside the wall. They went away blissfully together. My +pal and I went out together, and together we walked down into Buffalo. +Were we not to be together always? We begged together on the "main-drag" +that day for pennies, and what we received was spent for "shupers" of +beer—I don't know how they are spelled, but they are pronounced the way I +have spelled them, and they cost three cents. I was watching my chance all +the time for a get-away. From some bo on the drag I managed to learn what +time a certain freight pulled out. I calculated my time accordingly. When +the moment came, my pal and I were in a saloon. Two foaming shupers were +before us. I'd have liked to say good-by. He had been good to me. But I +did not dare. I went out through the rear of the saloon and jumped the +fence. It was a swift sneak, and a few minutes later I was on board a +freight and heading south on the Western New York and Pennsylvania +Railroad.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="Hoboes_That_Pass_in_the_Night" id="Hoboes_That_Pass_in_the_Night" /><i>Hoboes That Pass in the Night</i></h2> + + +<p>In the course of my tramping I encountered hundreds of hoboes, whom I +hailed or who hailed me, and with whom I waited at water-tanks, +"boiled-up," cooked "mulligans," "battered" the "drag" or "privates," and +beat trains, and who passed and were seen never again. On the other hand, +there were hoboes who passed and repassed with amazing frequency, and +others, still, who passed like ghosts, close at hand, unseen, and never +seen.</p> + +<p>It was one of the latter that I chased clear across Canada over three +thousand miles of railroad, and never once did I lay eyes on him. His +"monica" was Skysail Jack. I first ran into it at Montreal. Carved with a +jack-knife was the skysail-yard of a ship. It was perfectly executed. +Under it was "Skysail Jack." Above was "B.W. 9-15-94." This latter +conveyed the information that he had passed through Montreal bound west, +on October 15, 1894. He had one day the start of me. "Sailor Jack" was my +monica at that particular time, and promptly I carved it alongside of his, +along with the date and the information that I, too, was bound west.</p> + +<p>I had misfortune in getting over the next hundred miles, and eight days +later I picked up Skysail Jack's trail three hundred miles west of Ottawa. +There it was, carved on a water-tank, and by the date I saw that he +likewise had met with delay. He was only two days ahead of me. I was a +"comet" and "tramp-royal," so was Skysail Jack; and it was up to my pride +and reputation to catch up with him. I "railroaded" day and night, and I +passed him; then turn about he passed me. Sometimes he was a day or so +ahead, and sometimes I was. From hoboes, bound east, I got word of him +occasionally, when he happened to be ahead; and from them I learned that +he had become interested in Sailor Jack and was making inquiries about me.</p> + +<p>We'd have made a precious pair, I am sure, if we'd ever got together; but +get together we couldn't. I kept ahead of him clear across Manitoba, but +he led the way across Alberta, and early one bitter gray morning, at the +end of a division just east of Kicking Horse Pass, I learned that he had +been seen the night before between Kicking Horse Pass and Rogers' Pass. It +was rather curious the way the information came to me. I had been riding +all night in a "side-door Pullman" (box-car), and nearly dead with cold +had crawled out at the division to beg for food. A freezing fog was +drifting past, and I "hit" some firemen I found in the round-house. They +fixed me up with the leavings from their lunch-pails, and in addition I +got out of them nearly a quart of heavenly "Java" (coffee). I heated the +latter, and, as I sat down to eat, a freight pulled in from the west. I +saw a side-door open and a road-kid climb out. Through the drifting fog he +limped over to me. He was stiff with cold, his lips blue. I shared my Java +and grub with him, learned about Skysail Jack, and then learned about him. +Behold, he was from my own town, Oakland, California, and he was a member +of the celebrated Boo Gang—a gang with which I had affiliated at rare +intervals. We talked fast and bolted the grub in the half-hour that +followed. Then my freight pulled out, and I was on it, bound west on the +trail of Skysail Jack.</p> + +<p>I was delayed between the passes, went two days without food, and walked +eleven miles on the third day before I got any, and yet I succeeded in +passing Skysail Jack along the Fraser River in British Columbia. I was +riding "passengers" then and making time; but he must have been riding +passengers, too, and with more luck or skill than I, for he got into +Mission ahead of me.</p> + +<p>Now Mission was a junction, forty miles east of Vancouver. From the +junction one could proceed south through Washington and Oregon over the +Northern Pacific. I wondered which way Skysail Jack would go, for I +thought I was ahead of him. As for myself I was still bound west to +Vancouver. I proceeded to the water-tank to leave that information, and +there, freshly carved, with that day's date upon it, was Skysail Jack's +monica. I hurried on into Vancouver. But he was gone. He had taken ship +immediately and was still flying west on his world-adventure. Truly, +Skysail Jack, you were a tramp-royal, and your mate was the "wind that +tramps the world." I take off my hat to you. You were +"blowed-in-the-glass" all right. A week later I, too, got my ship, and on +board the steamship Umatilla, in the forecastle, was working my way down +the coast to San Francisco. Skysail Jack and Sailor Jack—gee! if we'd +ever got together.</p> + +<p>Water-tanks are tramp directories. Not all in idle wantonness do tramps +carve their monicas, dates, and courses. Often and often have I met hoboes +earnestly inquiring if I had seen anywhere such and such a "stiff" or his +monica. And more than once I have been able to give the monica of recent +date, the water-tank, and the direction in which he was then bound. And +promptly the hobo to whom I gave the information lit out after his pal. I +have met hoboes who, in trying to catch a pal, had pursued clear across +the continent and back again, and were still going.</p> + +<p>"Monicas" are the nom-de-rails that hoboes assume or accept when thrust +upon them by their fellows. Leary Joe, for instance, was timid, and was so +named by his fellows. No self-respecting hobo would select Stew Bum for +himself. Very few tramps care to remember their pasts during which they +ignobly worked, so monicas based upon trades are very rare, though I +remember having met the following: Moulder Blackey, Painter Red, Chi +Plumber, Boiler-Maker, Sailor Boy, and Printer Bo. "Chi" (pronounced shy), +by the way, is the argot for "Chicago."</p> + +<p>A favorite device of hoboes is to base their monicas on the localities +from which they hail, as: New York Tommy, Pacific Slim, Buffalo Smithy, +Canton Tim, Pittsburg Jack, Syracuse Shine, Troy Mickey, K.L. Bill, and +Connecticut Jimmy. Then there was "Slim Jim from Vinegar Hill, who never +worked and never will." A "shine" is always a negro, so called, possibly, +from the high lights on his countenance. Texas Shine or Toledo Shine +convey both race and nativity.</p> + +<p>Among those that incorporated their race, I recollect the following: +Frisco Sheeny, New York Irish, Michigan French, English Jack, Cockney Kid, +and Milwaukee Dutch. Others seem to take their monicas in part from the +color-schemes stamped upon them at birth, such as: Chi Whitey, New Jersey +Red, Boston Blackey, Seattle Browney, and Yellow Dick and Yellow +Belly—the last a Creole from Mississippi, who, I suspect, had his monica +thrust upon him.</p> + +<p>Texas Royal, Happy Joe, Bust Connors, Burley Bo, Tornado Blackey, and +Touch McCall used more imagination in rechristening themselves. Others, +with less fancy, carry the names of their physical peculiarities, such as: +Vancouver Slim, Detroit Shorty, Ohio Fatty, Long Jack, Big Jim, Little +Joe, New York Blink, Chi Nosey, and Broken-backed Ben.</p> + +<p>By themselves come the road-kids, sporting an infinite variety of monicas. +For example, the following, whom here and there I have encountered: Buck +Kid, Blind Kid, Midget Kid, Holy Kid, Bat Kid, Swift Kid, Cookey Kid, +Monkey Kid, Iowa Kid, Corduroy Kid, Orator Kid (who could tell how it +happened), and Lippy Kid (who was insolent, depend upon it).</p> + +<p>On the water-tank at San Marcial, New Mexico, a dozen years ago, was the +following hobo bill of fare:—</p> + +<p class="blockquot"> +(1) Main-drag fair.<br /> +(2) Bulls not hostile.<br /> +(3) Round-house good for kipping.<br /> +(4) North-bound trains no good.<br /> +(5) Privates no good.<br /> +(6) Restaurants good for cooks only.<br /> +(7) Railroad House good for night-work only.<br /> +</p> + +<p>Number one conveys the information that begging for money on the main +street is fair; number two, that the police will not bother hoboes; number +three, that one can sleep in the round-house. Number four, however, is +ambiguous. The north-bound trains may be no good to beat, and they may be +no good to beg. Number five means that the residences are not good to +beggars, and number six means that only hoboes that have been cooks can +get grub from the restaurants. Number seven bothers me. I cannot make out +whether the Railroad House is a good place for any hobo to beg at night, +or whether it is good only for hobo-cooks to beg at night, or whether any +hobo, cook or non-cook, can lend a hand at night, helping the cooks of the +Railroad House with their dirty work and getting something to eat in +payment.</p> + +<p>But to return to the hoboes that pass in the night. I remember one I met +in California. He was a Swede, but he had lived so long in the United +States that one couldn't guess his nationality. He had to tell it on +himself. In fact, he had come to the United States when no more than a +baby. I ran into him first at the mountain town of Truckee. "Which way, +Bo?" was our greeting, and "Bound east" was the answer each of us gave. +Quite a bunch of "stiffs" tried to ride out the overland that night, and I +lost the Swede in the shuffle. Also, I lost the overland.</p> + +<p>I arrived in Reno, Nevada, in a box-car that was promptly side-tracked. It +was a Sunday morning, and after I threw my feet for breakfast, I wandered +over to the Piute camp to watch the Indians gambling. And there stood the +Swede, hugely interested. Of course we got together. He was the only +acquaintance I had in that region, and I was his only acquaintance. We +rushed together like a couple of dissatisfied hermits, and together we +spent the day, threw our feet for dinner, and late in the afternoon tried +to "nail" the same freight. But he was ditched, and I rode her out alone, +to be ditched myself in the desert twenty miles beyond.</p> + +<p>Of all desolate places, the one at which I was ditched was the limit. It +was called a flag-station, and it consisted of a shanty dumped +inconsequentially into the sand and sagebrush. A chill wind was blowing, +night was coming on, and the solitary telegraph operator who lived in the +shanty was afraid of me. I knew that neither grub nor bed could I get out +of him. It was because of his manifest fear of me that I did not believe +him when he told me that east-bound trains never stopped there. Besides, +hadn't I been thrown off of an east-bound train right at that very spot +not five minutes before? He assured me that it had stopped under orders, +and that a year might go by before another was stopped under orders. He +advised me that it was only a dozen or fifteen miles on to Wadsworth and +that I'd better hike. I elected to wait, however, and I had the pleasure +of seeing two west-bound freights go by without stopping, and one +east-bound freight. I wondered if the Swede was on the latter. It was up +to me to hit the ties to Wadsworth, and hit them I did, much to the +telegraph operator's relief, for I neglected to burn his shanty and murder +him. Telegraph operators have much to be thankful for. At the end of half +a dozen miles, I had to get off the ties and let the east-bound overland +go by. She was going fast, but I caught sight of a dim form on the first +"blind" that looked like the Swede.</p> + +<p>That was the last I saw of him for weary days. I hit the high places +across those hundreds of miles of Nevada desert, riding the overlands at +night, for speed, and in the day-time riding in box-cars and getting my +sleep. It was early in the year, and it was cold in those upland pastures. +Snow lay here and there on the level, all the mountains were shrouded in +white, and at night the most miserable wind imaginable blew off from them. +It was not a land in which to linger. And remember, gentle reader, the +hobo goes through such a land, without shelter, without money, begging his +way and sleeping at night without blankets. This last is something that +can be realized only by experience.</p> + +<p>In the early evening I came down to the depot at Ogden. The overland of +the Union Pacific was pulling east, and I was bent on making connections. +Out in the tangle of tracks ahead of the engine I encountered a figure +slouching through the gloom. It was the Swede. We shook hands like +long-lost brothers, and discovered that our hands were gloved. "Where'd ye +glahm 'em?" I asked. "Out of an engine-cab," he answered; "and where did +you?" "They belonged to a fireman," said I; "he was careless."</p> + +<p>We caught the blind as the overland pulled out, and mighty cold we found +it. The way led up a narrow gorge between snow-covered mountains, and we +shivered and shook and exchanged confidences about how we had covered the +ground between Reno and Ogden. I had closed my eyes for only an hour or so +the previous night, and the blind was not comfortable enough to suit me +for a snooze. At a stop, I went forward to the engine. We had on a +"double-header" (two engines) to take us over the grade.</p> + +<p>The pilot of the head engine, because it "punched the wind," I knew would +be too cold; so I selected the pilot of the second engine, which was +sheltered by the first engine. I stepped on the cowcatcher and found the +pilot occupied. In the darkness I felt out the form of a young boy. He was +sound asleep. By squeezing, there was room for two on the pilot, and I +made the boy budge over and crawled up beside him. It was a "good" night; +the "shacks" (brakemen) didn't bother us, and in no time we were asleep. +Once in a while hot cinders or heavy jolts aroused me, when I snuggled +closer to the boy and dozed off to the coughing of the engines and the +screeching of the wheels.</p> + +<p>The overland made Evanston, Wyoming, and went no farther. A wreck ahead +blocked the line. The dead engineer had been brought in, and his body +attested the peril of the way. A tramp, also, had been killed, but his +body had not been brought in. I talked with the boy. He was thirteen years +old. He had run away from his folks in some place in Oregon, and was +heading east to his grandmother. He had a tale of cruel treatment in the +home he had left that rang true; besides, there was no need for him to lie +to me, a nameless hobo on the track.</p> + +<p>And that boy was going some, too. He couldn't cover the ground fast +enough. When the division superintendents decided to send the overland +back over the way it had come, then up on a cross "jerk" to the Oregon +Short Line, and back along that road to tap the Union Pacific the other +side of the wreck, that boy climbed upon the pilot and said he was going +to stay with it. This was too much for the Swede and me. It meant +travelling the rest of that frigid night in order to gain no more than a +dozen miles or so. We said we'd wait till the wreck was cleared away, and +in the meantime get a good sleep.</p> + +<p>Now it is no snap to strike a strange town, broke, at midnight, in cold +weather, and find a place to sleep. The Swede hadn't a penny. My total +assets consisted of two dimes and a nickel. From some of the town boys we +learned that beer was five cents, and that the saloons kept open all +night. There was our meat. Two glasses of beer would cost ten cents, there +would be a stove and chairs, and we could sleep it out till morning. We +headed for the lights of a saloon, walking briskly, the snow crunching +under our feet, a chill little wind blowing through us.</p> + +<p>Alas, I had misunderstood the town boys. Beer was five cents in one saloon +only in the whole burg, and we didn't strike that saloon. But the one we +entered was all right. A blessed stove was roaring white-hot; there were +cosey, cane-bottomed arm-chairs, and a none-too-pleasant-looking barkeeper +who glared suspiciously at us as we came in. A man cannot spend continuous +days and nights in his clothes, beating trains, fighting soot and +cinders, and sleeping anywhere, and maintain a good "front." Our fronts +were decidedly against us; but what did we care? I had the price in my +jeans.</p> + +<p>"Two beers," said I nonchalantly to the barkeeper, and while he drew them, +the Swede and I leaned against the bar and yearned secretly for the +arm-chairs by the stove.</p> + +<p>The barkeeper set the two foaming glasses before us, and with pride I +deposited the ten cents. Now I was dead game. As soon as I learned my +error in the price I'd have dug up another ten cents. Never mind if it did +leave me only a nickel to my name, a stranger in a strange land. I'd have +paid it all right. But that barkeeper never gave me a chance. As soon as +his eyes spotted the dime I had laid down, he seized the two glasses, one +in each hand, and dumped the beer into the sink behind the bar. At the +same time, glaring at us malevolently, he said:—</p> + +<p>"You've got scabs on your nose. You've got scabs on your nose. You've got +scabs on your nose. See!"</p> + +<p>I hadn't either, and neither had the Swede. Our noses were all right. The +direct bearing of his words was beyond our comprehension, but the indirect +bearing was clear as print: he didn't like our looks, and beer was +evidently ten cents a glass.</p> + +<p>I dug down and laid another dime on the bar, remarking carelessly, "Oh, I +thought this was a five-cent joint."</p> + +<p>"Your money's no good here," he answered, shoving the two dimes across the +bar to me.</p> + +<p>Sadly I dropped them back into my pocket, sadly we yearned toward the +blessed stove and the arm-chairs, and sadly we went out the door into the +frosty night.</p> + +<p>But as we went out the door, the barkeeper, still glaring, called after +us, "You've got scabs on your nose, see!"</p> + +<p>I have seen much of the world since then, journeyed among strange lands +and peoples, opened many books, sat in many lecture-halls; but to this +day, though I have pondered long and deep, I have been unable to divine +the meaning in the cryptic utterance of that barkeeper in Evanston, +Wyoming. Our noses <i>were</i> all right.</p> + +<p>We slept that night over the boilers in an electric-lighting plant. How we +discovered that "kipping" place I can't remember. We must have just headed +for it, instinctively, as horses head for water or carrier-pigeons head +for the home-cote. But it was a night not pleasant to remember. A dozen +hoboes were ahead of us on top the boilers, and it was too hot for all of +us. To complete our misery, the engineer would not let us stand around +down below. He gave us our choice of the boilers or the outside snow.</p> + +<p>"You said you wanted to sleep, and so, damn you, sleep," said he to me, +when, frantic and beaten out by the heat, I came down into the fire-room.</p> + +<p>"Water," I gasped, wiping the sweat from my eyes, "water."</p> + +<p>He pointed out of doors and assured me that down there somewhere in the +blackness I'd find the river. I started for the river, got lost in the +dark, fell into two or three drifts, gave it up, and returned half-frozen +to the top of the boilers. When I had thawed out, I was thirstier than +ever. Around me the hoboes were moaning, groaning, sobbing, sighing, +gasping, panting, rolling and tossing and floundering heavily in their +torment. We were so many lost souls toasting on a griddle in hell, and the +engineer, Satan Incarnate, gave us the sole alternative of freezing in the +outer cold. The Swede sat up and anathematized passionately the wanderlust +in man that sent him tramping and suffering hardships such as that.</p> + +<p>"When I get back to Chicago," he perorated, "I'm going to get a job and +stick to it till hell freezes over. Then I'll go tramping again."</p> + +<p>And, such is the irony of fate, next day, when the wreck ahead was +cleared, the Swede and I pulled out of Evanston in the ice-boxes of an +"orange special," a fast freight laden with fruit from sunny California. +Of course, the ice-boxes were empty on account of the cold weather, but +that didn't make them any warmer for us. We entered them through hatchways +in the top of the car; the boxes were constructed of galvanized iron, and +in that biting weather were not pleasant to the touch. We lay there, +shivered and shook, and with chattering teeth held a council wherein we +decided that we'd stay by the ice-boxes day and night till we got out of +the inhospitable plateau region and down into the Mississippi Valley.</p> + +<p>But we must eat, and we decided that at the next division we would throw +our feet for grub and make a rush back to our ice-boxes. We arrived in the +town of Green River late in the afternoon, but too early for supper. +Before meal-time is the worst time for "battering" back-doors; but we put +on our nerve, swung off the side-ladders as the freight pulled into the +yards, and made a run for the houses. We were quickly separated; but we +had agreed to meet in the ice-boxes. I had bad luck at first; but in the +end, with a couple of "hand-outs" poked into my shirt, I chased for the +train. It was pulling out and going fast. The particular refrigerator-car +in which we were to meet had already gone by, and half a dozen cars down +the train from it I swung on to the side-ladders, went up on top +hurriedly, and dropped down into an ice-box.</p> + +<p>But a shack had seen me from the caboose, and at the next stop a few miles +farther on, Rock Springs, the shack stuck his head into my box and said: +"Hit the grit, you son of a toad! Hit the grit!" Also he grabbed me by the +heels and dragged me out. I hit the grit all right, and the orange special +and the Swede rolled on without me.</p> + +<p>Snow was beginning to fall. A cold night was coming on. After dark I +hunted around in the railroad yards until I found an empty refrigerator +car. In I climbed—not into the ice-boxes, but into the car itself. I +swung the heavy doors shut, and their edges, covered with strips of +rubber, sealed the car air-tight. The walls were thick. There was no way +for the outside cold to get in. But the inside was just as cold as the +outside. How to raise the temperature was the problem. But trust a +"profesh" for that. Out of my pockets I dug up three or four newspapers. +These I burned, one at a time, on the floor of the car. The smoke rose to +the top. Not a bit of the heat could escape, and, comfortable and warm, I +passed a beautiful night. I didn't wake up once.</p> + +<p>In the morning it was still snowing. While throwing my feet for breakfast, +I missed an east-bound freight. Later in the day I nailed two other +freights and was ditched from both of them. All afternoon no east-bound +trains went by. The snow was falling thicker than ever, but at twilight I +rode out on the first blind of the overland. As I swung aboard the blind +from one side, somebody swung aboard from the other. It was the boy who +had run away from Oregon.</p> + +<p>Now the first blind of a fast train in a driving snow-storm is no summer +picnic. The wind goes right through one, strikes the front of the car, and +comes back again. At the first stop, darkness having come on, I went +forward and interviewed the fireman. I offered to "shove" coal to the end +of his run, which was Rawlins, and my offer was accepted. My work was out +on the tender, in the snow, breaking the lumps of coal with a sledge and +shovelling it forward to him in the cab. But as I did not have to work all +the time, I could come into the cab and warm up now and again.</p> + +<p>"Say," I said to the fireman, at my first breathing spell, "there's a +little kid back there on the first blind. He's pretty cold."</p> + +<p>The cabs on the Union Pacific engines are quite spacious, and we fitted +the kid into a warm nook in front of the high seat of the fireman, where +the kid promptly fell asleep. We arrived at Rawlins at midnight. The snow +was thicker than ever. Here the engine was to go into the round-house, +being replaced by a fresh engine. As the train came to a stop, I dropped +off the engine steps plump into the arms of a large man in a large +overcoat. He began asking me questions, and I promptly demanded who he +was. Just as promptly he informed me that he was the sheriff. I drew in my +horns and listened and answered.</p> + +<p>He began describing the kid who was still asleep in the cab. I did some +quick thinking. Evidently the family was on the trail of the kid, and the +sheriff had received telegraphed instructions from Oregon. Yes, I had seen +the kid. I had met him first in Ogden. The date tallied with the sheriff's +information. But the kid was still behind somewhere, I explained, for he +had been ditched from that very overland that night when it pulled out of +Rock Springs. And all the time I was praying that the kid wouldn't wake +up, come down out of the cab, and put the "kibosh" on me.</p> + +<p>The sheriff left me in order to interview the shacks, but before he left +he said:—</p> + +<p>"Bo, this town is no place for you. Understand? You ride this train out, +and make no mistake about it. If I catch you after it's gone ..."</p> + +<p>I assured him that it was not through desire that I was in his town; that +the only reason I was there was that the train had stopped there; and that +he wouldn't see me for smoke the way I'd get out of his darn town.</p> + +<p>While he went to interview the shacks, I jumped back into the cab. The kid +was awake and rubbing his eyes. I told him the news and advised him to +ride the engine into the round-house. To cut the story short, the kid made +the same overland out, riding the pilot, with instructions to make an +appeal to the fireman at the first stop for permission to ride in the +engine. As for myself, I got ditched. The new fireman was young and not +yet lax enough to break the rules of the Company against having tramps in +the engine; so he turned down my offer to shove coal. I hope the kid +succeeded with him, for all night on the pilot in that blizzard would have +meant death.</p> + +<p>Strange to say, I do not at this late day remember a detail of how I was +ditched at Rawlins. I remember watching the train as it was immediately +swallowed up in the snow-storm, and of heading for a saloon to warm up. +Here was light and warmth. Everything was in full blast and wide open. +Faro, roulette, craps, and poker tables were running, and some mad +cow-punchers were making the night merry. I had just succeeded in +fraternizing with them and was downing my first drink at their expense, +when a heavy hand descended on my shoulder. I looked around and sighed. It +was the sheriff.</p> + +<p>Without a word he led me out into the snow.</p> + +<p>"There's an orange special down there in the yards," said he.</p> + +<p>"It's a damn cold night," said I.</p> + +<p>"It pulls out in ten minutes," said he.</p> + +<p>That was all. There was no discussion. And when that orange special pulled +out, I was in the ice-boxes. I thought my feet would freeze before +morning, and the last twenty miles into Laramie I stood upright in the +hatchway and danced up and down. The snow was too thick for the shacks to +see me, and I didn't care if they did.</p> + +<p>My quarter of a dollar bought me a hot breakfast at Laramie, and +immediately afterward I was on board the blind baggage of an overland that +was climbing to the pass through the backbone of the Rockies. One does not +ride blind baggages in the daytime; but in this blizzard at the top of +the Rocky Mountains I doubted if the shacks would have the heart to put me +off. And they didn't. They made a practice of coming forward at every stop +to see if I was frozen yet.</p> + +<p>At Ames' Monument, at the summit of the Rockies,—I forget the +altitude,—the shack came forward for the last time.</p> + +<p>"Say, Bo," he said, "you see that freight side-tracked over there to let +us go by?"</p> + +<p>I saw. It was on the next track, six feet away. A few feet more in that +storm and I could not have seen it.</p> + +<p>"Well, the 'after-push' of Kelly's Army is in one of them cars. They've +got two feet of straw under them, and there's so many of them that they +keep the car warm."</p> + +<p>His advice was good, and I followed it, prepared, however, if it was a +"con game" the shack had given me, to take the blind as the overland +pulled out. But it was straight goods. I found the car—a big refrigerator +car with the leeward door wide open for ventilation. Up I climbed and in. +I stepped on a man's leg, next on some other man's arm. The light was dim, +and all I could make out was arms and legs and bodies inextricably +confused. Never was there such a tangle of humanity. They were all lying +in the straw, and over, and under, and around one another. Eighty-four +husky hoboes take up a lot of room when they are stretched out. The men I +stepped on were resentful. Their bodies heaved under me like the waves of +the sea, and imparted an involuntary forward movement to me. I could not +find any straw to step upon, so I stepped upon more men. The resentment +increased, so did my forward movement. I lost my footing and sat down with +sharp abruptness. Unfortunately, it was on a man's head. The next moment +he had risen on his hands and knees in wrath, and I was flying through the +air. What goes up must come down, and I came down on another man's head.</p> + +<p>What happened after that is very vague in my memory. It was like going +through a threshing-machine. I was bandied about from one end of the car +to the other. Those eighty-four hoboes winnowed me out till what little +was left of me, by some miracle, found a bit of straw to rest upon. I was +initiated, and into a jolly crowd. All the rest of that day we rode +through the blizzard, and to while the time away it was decided that each +man was to tell a story. It was stipulated that each story must be a good +one, and, furthermore, that it must be a story no one had ever heard +before. The penalty for failure was the threshing-machine. Nobody failed. +And I want to say right here that never in my life have I sat at so +marvellous a story-telling debauch. Here were eighty-four men from all the +world—I made eighty-five; and each man told a masterpiece. It had to be, +for it was either masterpiece or threshing-machine.</p> + +<p>Late in the afternoon we arrived in Cheyenne. The blizzard was at its +height, and though the last meal of all of us had been breakfast, no man +cared to throw his feet for supper. All night we rolled on through the +storm, and next day found us down on the sweet plains of Nebraska and +still rolling. We were out of the storm and the mountains. The blessed sun +was shining over a smiling land, and we had eaten nothing for twenty-four +hours. We found out that the freight would arrive about noon at a town, if +I remember right, that was called Grand Island.</p> + +<p>We took up a collection and sent a telegram to the authorities of that +town. The text of the message was that eighty-five healthy, hungry hoboes +would arrive about noon and that it would be a good idea to have dinner +ready for them. The authorities of Grand Island had two courses open to +them. They could feed us, or they could throw us in jail. In the latter +event they'd have to feed us anyway, and they decided wisely that one meal +would be the cheaper way.</p> + +<p>When the freight rolled into Grand Island at noon, we were sitting on the +tops of the cars and dangling our legs in the sunshine. All the police in +the burg were on the reception committee. They marched us in squads to the +various hotels and restaurants, where dinners were spread for us. We had +been thirty-six hours without food, and we didn't have to be taught what +to do. After that we were marched back to the railroad station. The police +had thoughtfully compelled the freight to wait for us. She pulled out +slowly, and the eighty-five of us, strung out along the track, swarmed up +the side-ladders. We "captured" the train.</p> + +<p>We had no supper that evening—at least the "push" didn't, but I did. Just +at supper time, as the freight was pulling out of a small town, a man +climbed into the car where I was playing pedro with three other stiffs. +The man's shirt was bulging suspiciously. In his hand he carried a +battered quart-measure from which arose steam. I smelled "Java." I turned +my cards over to one of the stiffs who was looking on, and excused myself. +Then, in the other end of the car, pursued by envious glances, I sat down +with the man who had climbed aboard and shared his "Java" and the +hand-outs that had bulged his shirt. It was the Swede.</p> + +<p>At about ten o'clock in the evening, we arrived at Omaha.</p> + +<p>"Let's shake the push," said the Swede to me.</p> + +<p>"Sure," said I.</p> + +<p>As the freight pulled into Omaha, we made ready to do so. But the people +of Omaha were also ready. The Swede and I hung upon the side-ladders, +ready to drop off. But the freight did not stop. Furthermore, long rows of +policemen, their brass buttons and stars glittering in the electric +lights, were lined up on each side of the track. The Swede and I knew what +would happen to us if we ever dropped off into their arms. We stuck by the +side-ladders, and the train rolled on across the Missouri River to Council +Bluffs.</p> + +<p>"General" Kelly, with an army of two thousand hoboes, lay in camp at +Chautauqua Park, several miles away. The after-push we were with was +General Kelly's rear-guard, and, detraining at Council Bluffs, it started +to march to camp. The night had turned cold, and heavy wind-squalls, +accompanied by rain, were chilling and wetting us. Many police were +guarding us and herding us to the camp. The Swede and I watched our chance +and made a successful get-away.</p> + +<p>The rain began coming down in torrents, and in the darkness, unable to see +our hands in front of our faces, like a pair of blind men we fumbled about +for shelter. Our instinct served us, for in no time we stumbled upon a +saloon—not a saloon that was open and doing business, not merely a saloon +that was closed for the night, and not even a saloon with a permanent +address, but a saloon propped up on big timbers, with rollers underneath, +that was being moved from somewhere to somewhere. The doors were locked. A +squall of wind and rain drove down upon us. We did not hesitate. Smash +went the door, and in we went.</p> + +<p>I have made some tough camps in my time, "carried the banner" in infernal +metropolises, bedded in pools of water, slept in the snow under two +blankets when the spirit thermometer registered seventy-four degrees below +zero (which is a mere trifle of one hundred and six degrees of frost); but +I want to say right here that never did I make a tougher camp, pass a more +miserable night, than that night I passed with the Swede in the itinerant +saloon at Council Bluffs. In the first place, the building, perched up as +it was in the air, had exposed a multitude of openings in the floor +through which the wind whistled. In the second place, the bar was empty; +there was no bottled fire-water with which we could warm ourselves and +forget our misery. We had no blankets, and in our wet clothes, wet to the +skin, we tried to sleep. I rolled under the bar, and the Swede rolled +under the table. The holes and crevices in the floor made it impossible, +and at the end of half an hour I crawled up on top the bar. A little later +the Swede crawled up on top his table.</p> + +<p>And there we shivered and prayed for daylight. I know, for one, that I +shivered until I could shiver no more, till the shivering muscles +exhausted themselves and merely ached horribly. The Swede moaned and +groaned, and every little while, through chattering teeth, he muttered, +"Never again; never again." He muttered this phrase repeatedly, +ceaselessly, a thousand times; and when he dozed, he went on muttering it +in his sleep.</p> + +<p>At the first gray of dawn we left our house of pain, and outside, found +ourselves in a mist, dense and chill. We stumbled on till we came to the +railroad track. I was going back to Omaha to throw my feet for breakfast; +my companion was going on to Chicago. The moment for parting had come. Our +palsied hands went out to each other. We were both shivering. When we +tried to speak, our teeth chattered us back into silence. We stood alone, +shut off from the world; all that we could see was a short length of +railroad track, both ends of which were lost in the driving mist. We +stared dumbly at each other, our clasped hands shaking sympathetically. +The Swede's face was blue with the cold, and I know mine must have been.</p> + +<p>"Never again what?" I managed to articulate.</p> + +<p>Speech strove for utterance in the Swede's throat; then faint and +distant, in a thin whisper from the very bottom of his frozen soul, came +the words:—</p> + +<p>"Never again a hobo."</p> + +<p>He paused, and, as he went on again, his voice gathered strength and +huskiness as it affirmed his will.</p> + +<p>"Never again a hobo. I'm going to get a job. You'd better do the same. +Nights like this make rheumatism."</p> + +<p>He wrung my hand.</p> + +<p>"Good-by, Bo," said he.</p> + +<p>"Good-by, Bo," said I.</p> + +<p>The next we were swallowed up from each other by the mist. It was our +final passing. But here's to you, Mr. Swede, wherever you are. I hope you +got that job.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="Road_Kids_and_Gay_Cats" id="Road_Kids_and_Gay_Cats" /><i>Road-Kids and Gay-Cats</i></h2> + + +<p>Every once in a while, in newspapers, magazines, and biographical +dictionaries, I run upon sketches of my life, wherein, delicately phrased, +I learn that it was in order to study sociology that I became a tramp. +This is very nice and thoughtful of the biographers, but it is inaccurate. +I became a tramp—well, because of the life that was in me, of the +wanderlust in my blood that would not let me rest. Sociology was merely +incidental; it came afterward, in the same manner that a wet skin follows +a ducking. I went on "The Road" because I couldn't keep away from it; +because I hadn't the price of the railroad fare in my jeans; because I was +so made that I couldn't work all my life on "one same shift"; +because—well, just because it was easier to than not to.</p> + +<p>It happened in my own town, in Oakland, when I was sixteen. At that time I +had attained a dizzy reputation in my chosen circle of adventurers, by +whom I was known as the Prince of the Oyster Pirates. It is true, those +immediately outside my circle, such as honest bay-sailors, longshoremen, +yachtsmen, and the legal owners of the oysters, called me "tough," +"hoodlum," "smoudge," "thief," "robber," and various other not nice +things—all of which was complimentary and but served to increase the +dizziness of the high place in which I sat. At that time I had not read +"Paradise Lost," and later, when I read Milton's "Better to reign in hell +than serve in heaven," I was fully convinced that great minds run in the +same channels.</p> + +<p>It was at this time that the fortuitous concatenation of events sent me +upon my first adventure on The Road. It happened that there was nothing +doing in oysters just then; that at Benicia, forty miles away, I had some +blankets I wanted to get; and that at Port Costa, several miles from +Benicia, a stolen boat lay at anchor in charge of the constable. Now this +boat was owned by a friend of mine, by name Dinny McCrea. It had been +stolen and left at Port Costa by Whiskey Bob, another friend of mine. +(Poor Whiskey Bob! Only last winter his body was picked up on the beach +shot full of holes by nobody knows whom.) I had come down from "up river" +some time before, and reported to Dinny McCrea the whereabouts of his +boat; and Dinny McCrea had promptly offered ten dollars to me if I should +bring it down to Oakland to him.</p> + +<p>Time was heavy on my hands. I sat on the dock and talked it over with +Nickey the Greek, another idle oyster pirate. "Let's go," said I, and +Nickey was willing. He was "broke." I possessed fifty cents and a small +skiff. The former I invested and loaded into the latter in the form of +crackers, canned corned beef, and a ten-cent bottle of French mustard. (We +were keen on French mustard in those days.) Then, late in the afternoon, +we hoisted our small spritsail and started. We sailed all night, and next +morning, on the first of a glorious flood-tide, a fair wind behind us, we +came booming up the Carquinez Straits to Port Costa. There lay the stolen +boat, not twenty-five feet from the wharf. We ran alongside and doused our +little spritsail. I sent Nickey forward to lift the anchor, while I began +casting off the gaskets.</p> + +<p>A man ran out on the wharf and hailed us. It was the constable. It +suddenly came to me that I had neglected to get a written authorization +from Dinny McCrea to take possession of his boat. Also, I knew that +constable wanted to charge at least twenty-five dollars in fees for +capturing the boat from Whiskey Bob and subsequently taking care of it. +And my last fifty cents had been blown in for corned beef and French +mustard, and the reward was only ten dollars anyway. I shot a glance +forward to Nickey. He had the anchor up-and-down and was straining at it. +"Break her out," I whispered to him, and turned and shouted back to the +constable. The result was that he and I were talking at the same time, our +spoken thoughts colliding in mid-air and making gibberish.</p> + +<p>The constable grew more imperative, and perforce I had to listen. Nickey +was heaving on the anchor till I thought he'd burst a blood-vessel. When +the constable got done with his threats and warnings, I asked him who he +was. The time he lost in telling me enabled Nickey to break out the +anchor. I was doing some quick calculating. At the feet of the constable a +ladder ran down the dock to the water, and to the ladder was moored a +skiff. The oars were in it. But it was padlocked. I gambled everything on +that padlock. I felt the breeze on my cheek, saw the surge of the tide, +looked at the remaining gaskets that confined the sail, ran my eyes up the +halyards to the blocks and knew that all was clear, and then threw off all +dissimulation.</p> + +<p>"In with her!" I shouted to Nickey, and sprang to the gaskets, casting +them loose and thanking my stars that Whiskey Bob had tied them in +square-knots instead of "grannies."</p> + +<p>The constable had slid down the ladder and was fumbling with a key at the +padlock. The anchor came aboard and the last gasket was loosed at the same +instant that the constable freed the skiff and jumped to the oars.</p> + +<p>"Peak-halyards!" I commanded my crew, at the same time swinging on to the +throat-halyards. Up came the sail on the run. I belayed and ran aft to the +tiller.</p> + +<p>"Stretch her!" I shouted to Nickey at the peak. The constable was just +reaching for our stern. A puff of wind caught us, and we shot away. It was +great. If I'd had a black flag, I know I'd have run it up in triumph. The +constable stood up in the skiff, and paled the glory of the day with the +vividness of his language. Also, he wailed for a gun. You see, that was +another gamble we had taken.</p> + +<p>Anyway, we weren't stealing the boat. It wasn't the constable's. We were +merely stealing his fees, which was his particular form of graft. And we +weren't stealing the fees for ourselves, either; we were stealing them for +my friend, Dinny McCrea.</p> + +<p>Benicia was made in a few minutes, and a few minutes later my blankets +were aboard. I shifted the boat down to the far end of Steamboat Wharf, +from which point of vantage we could see anybody coming after us. There +was no telling. Maybe the Port Costa constable would telephone to the +Benicia constable. Nickey and I held a council of war. We lay on deck in +the warm sun, the fresh breeze on our cheeks, the flood-tide rippling and +swirling past. It was impossible to start back to Oakland till afternoon, +when the ebb would begin to run. But we figured that the constable would +have an eye out on the Carquinez Straits when the ebb started, and that +nothing remained for us but to wait for the following ebb, at two o'clock +next morning, when we could slip by Cerberus in the darkness.</p> + +<p>So we lay on deck, smoked cigarettes, and were glad that we were alive. I +spat over the side and gauged the speed of the current.</p> + +<p>"With this wind, we could run this flood clear to Rio Vista," I said.</p> + +<p>"And it's fruit-time on the river," said Nickey.</p> + +<p>"And low water on the river," said I. "It's the best time of the year to +make Sacramento."</p> + +<p>We sat up and looked at each other. The glorious west wind was pouring +over us like wine. We both spat over the side and gauged the current. Now +I contend that it was all the fault of that flood-tide and fair wind. They +appealed to our sailor instinct. If it had not been for them, the whole +chain of events that was to put me upon The Road would have broken down.</p> + +<p>We said no word, but cast off our moorings and hoisted sail. Our +adventures up the Sacramento River are no part of this narrative. We +subsequently made the city of Sacramento and tied up at a wharf. The water +was fine, and we spent most of our time in swimming. On the sand-bar above +the railroad bridge we fell in with a bunch of boys likewise in swimming. +Between swims we lay on the bank and talked. They talked differently from +the fellows I had been used to herding with. It was a new vernacular. They +were road-kids, and with every word they uttered the lure of The Road laid +hold of me more imperiously.</p> + +<p>"When I was down in Alabama," one kid would begin; or, another, "Coming up +on the C. & A. from K.C."; whereat, a third kid, "On the C. & A. there +ain't no steps to the 'blinds.'" And I would lie silently in the sand and +listen. "It was at a little town in Ohio on the Lake Shore and Michigan +Southern," a kid would start; and another, "Ever ride the Cannonball on +the Wabash?"; and yet another, "Nope, but I've been on the White Mail out +of Chicago." "Talk about railroadin'—wait till you hit the Pennsylvania, +four tracks, no water tanks, take water on the fly, that's goin' some." +"The Northern Pacific's a bad road now." "Salinas is on the 'hog,' the +'bulls' is 'horstile.'" "I got 'pinched' at El Paso, along with Moke Kid." +"Talkin' of 'poke-outs,' wait till you hit the French country out of +Montreal—not a word of English—you say, 'Mongee, Madame, mongee, no +spika da French,' an' rub your stomach an' look hungry, an' she gives you +a slice of sow-belly an' a chunk of dry 'punk.'"</p> + +<p>And I continued to lie in the sand and listen. These wanderers made my +oyster-piracy look like thirty cents. A new world was calling to me in +every word that was spoken—a world of rods and gunnels, blind baggages +and "side-door Pullmans," "bulls" and "shacks," "floppings" and +"chewin's," "pinches" and "get-aways," "strong arms" and "bindle-stiffs," +"punks" and "profesh." And it all spelled Adventure. Very well; I would +tackle this new world. I "lined" myself up alongside those road-kids. I +was just as strong as any of them, just as quick, just as nervy, and my +brain was just as good.</p> + +<p>After the swim, as evening came on, they dressed and went up town. I went +along. The kids began "battering" the "main-stem" for "light pieces," or, +in other words, begging for money on the main street. I had never begged +in my life, and this was the hardest thing for me to stomach when I first +went on The Road. I had absurd notions about begging. My philosophy, up to +that time, was that it was finer to steal than to beg; and that robbery +was finer still because the risk and the penalty were proportionately +greater. As an oyster pirate I had already earned convictions at the hands +of justice, which, if I had tried to serve them, would have required a +thousand years in state's prison. To rob was manly; to beg was sordid and +despicable. But I developed in the days to come all right, all right, till +I came to look upon begging as a joyous prank, a game of wits, a +nerve-exerciser.</p> + +<p>That first night, however, I couldn't rise to it; and the result was that +when the kids were ready to go to a restaurant and eat, I wasn't. I was +broke. Meeny Kid, I think it was, gave me the price, and we all ate +together. But while I ate, I meditated. The receiver, it was said, was as +bad as the thief; Meeny Kid had done the begging, and I was profiting by +it. I decided that the receiver was a whole lot worse than the thief, and +that it shouldn't happen again. And it didn't. I turned out next day and +threw my feet as well as the next one.</p> + +<p>Nickey the Greek's ambition didn't run to The Road. He was not a success +at throwing his feet, and he stowed away one night on a barge and went +down river to San Francisco. I met him, only a week ago, at a pugilistic +carnival. He has progressed. He sat in a place of honor at the ring-side. +He is now a manager of prize-fighters and proud of it. In fact, in a small +way, in local sportdom, he is quite a shining light.</p> + +<p>"No kid is a road-kid until he has gone over 'the hill'"—such was the law +of The Road I heard expounded in Sacramento. All right, I'd go over the +hill and matriculate. "The hill," by the way, was the Sierra Nevadas. The +whole gang was going over the hill on a jaunt, and of course I'd go along. +It was French Kid's first adventure on The Road. He had just run away from +his people in San Francisco. It was up to him and me to deliver the goods. +In passing, I may remark that my old title of "Prince" had vanished. I had +received my "monica." I was now "Sailor Kid," later to be known as +"'Frisco Kid," when I had put the Rockies between me and my native state.</p> + +<p>At 10.20 P.M. the Central Pacific overland pulled out of the depot at +Sacramento for the East—that particular item of time-table is indelibly +engraved on my memory. There were about a dozen in our gang, and we strung +out in the darkness ahead of the train ready to take her out. All the +local road-kids that we knew came down to see us off—also, to "ditch" us +if they could. That was their idea of a joke, and there were only about +forty of them to carry it out. Their ring-leader was a crackerjack +road-kid named Bob. Sacramento was his home town, but he'd hit The Road +pretty well everywhere over the whole country. He took French Kid and me +aside and gave us advice something like this: "We're goin' to try an' +ditch your bunch, see? Youse two are weak. The rest of the push can take +care of itself. So, as soon as youse two nail a blind, deck her. An' stay +on the decks till youse pass Roseville Junction, at which burg the +constables are horstile, sloughin' in everybody on sight."</p> + +<p>The engine whistled and the overland pulled out. There were three blinds +on her—room for all of us. The dozen of us who were trying to make her +out would have preferred to slip aboard quietly; but our forty friends +crowded on with the most amazing and shameless publicity and +advertisement. Following Bob's advice, I immediately "decked her," that +is, climbed up on top of the roof of one of the mail-cars. There I lay +down, my heart jumping a few extra beats, and listened to the fun. The +whole train crew was forward, and the ditching went on fast and furious. +After the train had run half a mile, it stopped, and the crew came forward +again and ditched the survivors. I, alone, had made the train out.</p> + +<p>Back at the depot, about him two or three of the push that had witnessed +the accident, lay French Kid with both legs off. French Kid had slipped or +stumbled—that was all, and the wheels had done the rest. Such was my +initiation to The Road. It was two years afterward when I next saw French +Kid and examined his "stumps." This was an act of courtesy. "Cripples" +always like to have their stumps examined. One of the entertaining sights +on The Road is to witness the meeting of two cripples. Their common +disability is a fruitful source of conversation; and they tell how it +happened, describe what they know of the amputation, pass critical +judgment on their own and each other's surgeons, and wind up by +withdrawing to one side, taking off bandages and wrappings, and comparing +stumps.</p> + +<p>But it was not until several days later, over in Nevada, when the push +caught up with me, that I learned of French Kid's accident. The push +itself arrived in bad condition. It had gone through a train-wreck in the +snow-sheds; Happy Joe was on crutches with two mashed legs, and the rest +were nursing skins and bruises.</p> + +<p>In the meantime, I lay on the roof of the mail-car, trying to remember +whether Roseville Junction, against which burg Bob had warned me, was the +first stop or the second stop. To make sure, I delayed descending to the +platform of the blind until after the second stop. And then I didn't +descend. I was new to the game, and I felt safer where I was. But I never +told the push that I held down the decks the whole night, clear across the +Sierras, through snow-sheds and tunnels, and down to Truckee on the other +side, where I arrived at seven in the morning. Such a thing was +disgraceful, and I'd have been a common laughing-stock. This is the first +time I have confessed the truth about that first ride over the hill. As +for the push, it decided that I was all right, and when I came back over +the hill to Sacramento, I was a full-fledged road-kid.</p> + +<p>Yet I had much to learn. Bob was my mentor, and he was all right. I +remember one evening (it was fair-time in Sacramento, and we were knocking +about and having a good time) when I lost my hat in a fight. There was I +bare-headed in the street, and it was Bob to the rescue. He took me to one +side from the push and told me what to do. I was a bit timid of his +advice. I had just come out of jail, where I had been three days, and I +knew that if the police "pinched" me again, I'd get good and "soaked." On +the other hand, I couldn't show the white feather. I'd been over the hill, +I was running full-fledged with the push, and it was up to me to deliver +the goods. So I accepted Bob's advice, and he came along with me to see +that I did it up brown.</p> + +<p>We took our position on K Street, on the corner, I think, of Fifth. It was +early in the evening and the street was crowded. Bob studied the head-gear +of every Chinaman that passed. I used to wonder how the road-kids all +managed to wear "five-dollar Stetson stiff-rims," and now I knew. They got +them, the way I was going to get mine, from the Chinese. I was +nervous—there were so many people about; but Bob was cool as an iceberg. +Several times, when I started forward toward a Chinaman, all nerved and +keyed up, Bob dragged me back. He wanted me to get a good hat, and one +that fitted. Now a hat came by that was the right size but not new; and, +after a dozen impossible hats, along would come one that was new but not +the right size. And when one did come by that was new and the right size, +the rim was too large or not large enough. My, Bob was finicky. I was so +wrought up that I'd have snatched any kind of a head-covering.</p> + +<p>At last came the hat, the one hat in Sacramento for me. I knew it was a +winner as soon as I looked at it. I glanced at Bob. He sent a sweeping +look-about for police, then nodded his head. I lifted the hat from the +Chinaman's head and pulled it down on my own. It was a perfect fit. Then I +started. I heard Bob crying out, and I caught a glimpse of him blocking +the irate Mongolian and tripping him up. I ran on. I turned up the next +corner, and around the next. This street was not so crowded as K, and I +walked along in quietude, catching my breath and congratulating myself +upon my hat and my get-away.</p> + +<p>And then, suddenly, around the corner at my back, came the bare-headed +Chinaman. With him were a couple more Chinamen, and at their heels were +half a dozen men and boys. I sprinted to the next corner, crossed the +street, and rounded the following corner. I decided that I had surely +played him out, and I dropped into a walk again. But around the corner at +my heels came that persistent Mongolian. It was the old story of the hare +and the tortoise. He could not run so fast as I, but he stayed with it, +plodding along at a shambling and deceptive trot, and wasting much good +breath in noisy imprecations. He called all Sacramento to witness the +dishonor that had been done him, and a goodly portion of Sacramento heard +and flocked at his heels. And I ran on like the hare, and ever that +persistent Mongolian, with the increasing rabble, overhauled me. But +finally, when a policeman had joined his following, I let out all my +links. I twisted and turned, and I swear I ran at least twenty blocks on +the straight away. And I never saw that Chinaman again. The hat was a +dandy, a brand-new Stetson, just out of the shop, and it was the envy of +the whole push. Furthermore, it was the symbol that I had delivered the +goods. I wore it for over a year.</p> + +<p>Road-kids are nice little chaps—when you get them alone and they are +telling you "how it happened"; but take my word for it, watch out for them +when they run in pack. Then they are wolves, and like wolves they are +capable of dragging down the strongest man. At such times they are not +cowardly. They will fling themselves upon a man and hold on with every +ounce of strength in their wiry bodies, till he is thrown and helpless. +More than once have I seen them do it, and I know whereof I speak. Their +motive is usually robbery. And watch out for the "strong arm." Every kid +in the push I travelled with was expert at it. Even French Kid mastered it +before he lost his legs.</p> + +<p>I have strong upon me now a vision of what I once saw in "The Willows." +The Willows was a clump of trees in a waste piece of land near the railway +depot and not more than five minutes walk from the heart of Sacramento. +It is night-time and the scene is illumined by the thin light of stars. I +see a husky laborer in the midst of a pack of road-kids. He is infuriated +and cursing them, not a bit afraid, confident of his own strength. He +weighs about one hundred and eighty pounds, and his muscles are hard; but +he doesn't know what he is up against. The kids are snarling. It is not +pretty. They make a rush from all sides, and he lashes out and whirls. +Barber Kid is standing beside me. As the man whirls, Barber Kid leaps +forward and does the trick. Into the man's back goes his knee; around the +man's neck, from behind, passes his right hand, the bone of the wrist +pressing against the jugular vein. Barber Kid throws his whole weight +backward. It is a powerful leverage. Besides, the man's wind has been shut +off. It is the strong arm.</p> + +<p>The man resists, but he is already practically helpless. The road-kids are +upon him from every side, clinging to arms and legs and body, and like a +wolf at the throat of a moose Barber Kid hangs on and drags backward. Over +the man goes, and down under the heap. Barber Kid changes the position of +his own body, but never lets go. While some of the kids are "going +through" the victim, others are holding his legs so that he cannot kick +and thresh about. They improve the opportunity by taking off the man's +shoes. As for him, he has given in. He is beaten. Also, what of the strong +arm at his throat, he is short of wind. He is making ugly choking noises, +and the kids hurry. They really don't want to kill him. All is done. At a +word all holds are released at once, and the kids scatter, one of them +lugging the shoes—he knows where he can get half a dollar for them. The +man sits up and looks about him, dazed and helpless. Even if he wanted to, +barefooted pursuit in the darkness would be hopeless. I linger a moment +and watch him. He is feeling at his throat, making dry, hawking noises, +and jerking his head in a quaint way as though to assure himself that the +neck is not dislocated. Then I slip away to join the push, and see that +man no more—though I shall always see him, sitting there in the +starlight, somewhat dazed, a bit frightened, greatly dishevelled, and +making quaint jerking movements of head and neck.</p> + +<p>Drunken men are the especial prey of the road-kids. Robbing a drunken man +they call "rolling a stiff"; and wherever they are, they are on the +constant lookout for drunks. The drunk is their particular meat, as the +fly is the particular meat of the spider. The rolling of a stiff is +ofttimes an amusing sight, especially when the stiff is helpless and when +interference is unlikely. At the first swoop the stiff's money and +jewellery go. Then the kids sit around their victim in a sort of pow-wow. +A kid generates a fancy for the stiff's necktie. Off it comes. Another kid +is after underclothes. Off they come, and a knife quickly abbreviates arms +and legs. Friendly hoboes may be called in to take the coat and trousers, +which are too large for the kids. And in the end they depart, leaving +beside the stiff the heap of their discarded rags.</p> + +<p>Another vision comes to me. It is a dark night. My push is coming along +the sidewalk in the suburbs. Ahead of us, under an electric light, a man +crosses the street diagonally. There is something tentative and desultory +in his walk. The kids scent the game on the instant. The man is drunk. He +blunders across the opposite sidewalk and is lost in the darkness as he +takes a short-cut through a vacant lot. No hunting cry is raised, but the +pack flings itself forward in quick pursuit. In the middle of the vacant +lot it comes upon him. But what is this?—snarling and strange forms, +small and dim and menacing, are between the pack and its prey. It is +another pack of road-kids, and in the hostile pause we learn that it is +their meat, that they have been trailing it a dozen blocks and more and +that we are butting in. But it is the world primeval. These wolves are +baby wolves. (As a matter of fact, I don't think one of them was over +twelve or thirteen years of age. I met some of them afterward, and learned +that they had just arrived that day over the hill, and that they hailed +from Denver and Salt Lake City.) Our pack flings forward. The baby wolves +squeal and screech and fight like little demons. All about the drunken man +rages the struggle for the possession of him. Down he goes in the thick of +it, and the combat rages over his body after the fashion of the Greeks and +Trojans over the body and armor of a fallen hero. Amid cries and tears and +wailings the baby wolves are dispossessed, and my pack rolls the stiff. +But always I remember the poor stiff and his befuddled amazement at the +abrupt eruption of battle in the vacant lot. I see him now, dim in the +darkness, titubating in stupid wonder, good-naturedly essaying the role of +peacemaker in that multitudinous scrap the significance of which he did +not understand, and the really hurt expression on his face when he, +unoffending he, was clutched at by many hands and dragged down in the +thick of the press.</p> + +<p>"Bindle-stiffs" are favorite prey of the road-kids. A bindle-stiff is a +working tramp. He takes his name from the roll of blankets he carries, +which is known as a "bindle." Because he does work, a bindle-stiff is +expected usually to have some small change about him, and it is after that +small change that the road-kids go. The best hunting-ground for +bindle-stiffs is in the sheds, barns, lumber-yards, railroad-yards, etc., +on the edges of a city, and the time for hunting is the night, when the +bindle-stiff seeks these places to roll up in his blankets and sleep.</p> + +<p>"Gay-cats" also come to grief at the hands of the road-kid. In more +familiar parlance, gay-cats are short-horns, <i>chechaquos</i>, new chums, or +tenderfeet. A gay-cat is a newcomer on The Road who is man-grown, or, at +least, youth-grown. A boy on The Road, on the other hand, no matter how +green he is, is never a gay-cat; he is a road-kid or a "punk," and if he +travels with a "profesh," he is known possessively as a "prushun." I was +never a prushun, for I did not take kindly to possession. I was first a +road-kid and then a profesh. Because I started in young, I practically +skipped my gay-cat apprenticeship. For a short period, during the time I +was exchanging my 'Frisco Kid monica for that of Sailor Jack, I labored +under the suspicion of being a gay-cat. But closer acquaintance on the +part of those that suspected me quickly disabused their minds, and in a +short time I acquired the unmistakable airs and ear-marks of the +blowed-in-the-glass profesh. And be it known, here and now, that the +profesh are the aristocracy of The Road. They are the lords and masters, +the aggressive men, the primordial noblemen, the <i>blond beasts</i> so beloved +of Nietzsche.</p> + +<p>When I came back over the hill from Nevada, I found that some river pirate +had stolen Dinny McCrea's boat. (A funny thing at this day is that I +cannot remember what became of the skiff in which Nickey the Greek and I +sailed from Oakland to Port Costa. I know that the constable didn't get +it, and I know that it didn't go with us up the Sacramento River, and that +is all I do know.) With the loss of Dinny McCrea's boat, I was pledged to +The Road; and when I grew tired of Sacramento, I said good-by to the push +(which, in its friendly way, tried to ditch me from a freight as I left +town) and started on a <i>passear</i> down the valley of the San Joaquin. The +Road had gripped me and would not let me go; and later, when I had voyaged +to sea and done one thing and another, I returned to The Road to make +longer flights, to be a "comet" and a profesh, and to plump into the bath +of sociology that wet me to the skin.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="Two_Thousand_Stiffs" id="Two_Thousand_Stiffs" /><i>Two Thousand Stiffs</i></h2> + + +<p>A "stiff" is a tramp. It was once my fortune to travel a few weeks with a +"push" that numbered two thousand. This was known as "Kelly's Army." +Across the wild and woolly West, clear from California, General Kelly and +his heroes had captured trains; but they fell down when they crossed the +Missouri and went up against the effete East. The East hadn't the +slightest intention of giving free transportation to two thousand hoboes. +Kelly's Army lay helplessly for some time at Council Bluffs. The day I +joined it, made desperate by delay, it marched out to capture a train.</p> + +<p>It was quite an imposing sight. General Kelly sat a magnificent black +charger, and with waving banners, to the martial music of fife and drum +corps, company by company, in two divisions, his two thousand stiffs +countermarched before him and hit the wagon-road to the little burg of +Weston, seven miles away. Being the latest recruit, I was in the last +company, of the last regiment, of the Second Division, and, furthermore, +in the last rank of the rear-guard. The army went into camp at Weston +beside the railroad track—beside the tracks, rather, for two roads went +through: the Chicago, Milwaukee, and St. Paul, and the Rock Island.</p> + +<p>Our intention was to take the first train out, but the railroad officials +"coppered" our play—and won. There was no first train. They tied up the +two lines and stopped running trains. In the meantime, while we lay by the +dead tracks, the good people of Omaha and Council Bluffs were bestirring +themselves. Preparations were making to form a mob, capture a train in +Council Bluffs, run it down to us, and make us a present of it. The +railroad officials coppered that play, too. They didn't wait for the mob. +Early in the morning of the second day, an engine, with a single private +car attached, arrived at the station and side-tracked. At this sign that +life had renewed in the dead roads, the whole army lined up beside the +track.</p> + +<p>But never did life renew so monstrously on a dead railroad as it did on +those two roads. From the west came the whistle of a locomotive. It was +coming in our direction, bound east. We were bound east. A stir of +preparation ran down our ranks. The whistle tooted fast and furiously, and +the train thundered at top speed. The hobo didn't live that could have +boarded it. Another locomotive whistled, and another train came through at +top speed, and another, and another, train after train, train after train, +till toward the last the trains were composed of passenger coaches, +box-cars, flat-cars, dead engines, cabooses, mail-cars, wrecking +appliances, and all the riff-raff of worn-out and abandoned rolling-stock +that collects in the yards of great railways. When the yards at Council +Bluffs had been completely cleaned, the private car and engine went east, +and the tracks died for keeps.</p> + +<p>That day went by, and the next, and nothing moved, and in the meantime, +pelted by sleet, and rain, and hail, the two thousand hoboes lay beside +the track. But that night the good people of Council Bluffs went the +railroad officials one better. A mob formed in Council Bluffs, crossed the +river to Omaha, and there joined with another mob in a raid on the Union +Pacific yards. First they captured an engine, next they knocked a train +together, and then the united mobs piled aboard, crossed the Missouri, and +ran down the Rock Island right of way to turn the train over to us. The +railway officials tried to copper this play, but fell down, to the mortal +terror of the section boss and one member of the section gang at Weston. +This pair, under secret telegraphic orders, tried to wreck our train-load +of sympathizers by tearing up the track. It happened that we were +suspicious and had our patrols out. Caught red-handed at train-wrecking, +and surrounded by twenty hundred infuriated hoboes, that section-gang boss +and assistant prepared to meet death. I don't remember what saved them, +unless it was the arrival of the train.</p> + +<p>It was our turn to fall down, and we did, hard. In their haste, the two +mobs had neglected to make up a sufficiently long train. There wasn't room +for two thousand hoboes to ride. So the mobs and the hoboes had a +talkfest, fraternized, sang songs, and parted, the mobs going back on +their captured train to Omaha, the hoboes pulling out next morning on a +hundred-and-forty-mile march to Des Moines. It was not until Kelly's Army +crossed the Missouri that it began to walk, and after that it never rode +again. It cost the railroads slathers of money, but they were acting on +principle, and they won.</p> + +<p>Underwood, Leola, Menden, Avoca, Walnut, Marno, Atlantic, Wyoto, Anita, +Adair, Adam, Casey, Stuart, Dexter, Carlham, De Soto, Van Meter, +Booneville, Commerce, Valley Junction—how the names of the towns come +back to me as I con the map and trace our route through the fat Iowa +country! And the hospitable Iowa farmer-folk! They turned out with their +wagons and carried our baggage; gave us hot lunches at noon by the +wayside; mayors of comfortable little towns made speeches of welcome and +hastened us on our way; deputations of little girls and maidens came out +to meet us, and the good citizens turned out by hundreds, locked arms, and +marched with us down their main streets. It was circus day when we came to +town, and every day was circus day, for there were many towns.</p> + +<p>In the evenings our camps were invaded by whole populations. Every company +had its campfire, and around each fire something was doing. The cooks in +my company, Company L, were song-and-dance artists and contributed most of +our entertainment. In another part of the encampment the glee club would +be singing—one of its star voices was the "Dentist," drawn from Company +L, and we were mighty proud of him. Also, he pulled teeth for the whole +army, and, since the extractions usually occurred at meal-time, our +digestions were stimulated by variety of incident. The Dentist had no +anæsthetics, but two or three of us were always on tap to volunteer to +hold down the patient. In addition to the stunts of the companies and the +glee club, church services were usually held, local preachers officiating, +and always there was a great making of political speeches. All these +things ran neck and neck; it was a full-blown Midway. A lot of talent can +be dug out of two thousand hoboes. I remember we had a picked baseball +nine, and on Sundays we made a practice of putting it all over the local +nines. Sometimes we did it twice on Sundays.</p> + +<p>Last year, while on a lecturing trip, I rode into Des Moines in a +Pullman—I don't mean a "side-door Pullman," but the real thing. On the +outskirts of the city I saw the old stove-works, and my heart leaped. It +was there, at the stove-works, a dozen years before, that the Army lay +down and swore a mighty oath that its feet were sore and that it would +walk no more. We took possession of the stove-works and told Des Moines +that we had come to stay—that we'd walked in, but we'd be blessed if we'd +walk out. Des Moines was hospitable, but this was too much of a good +thing. Do a little mental arithmetic, gentle reader. Two thousand hoboes, +eating three square meals, make six thousand meals per day, forty-two +thousand meals per week, or one hundred and sixty-eight thousand meals per +shortest month in the calendar. That's going some. We had no money. It was +up to Des Moines.</p> + +<p>Des Moines was desperate. We lay in camp, made political speeches, held +sacred concerts, pulled teeth, played baseball and seven-up, and ate our +six thousand meals per day, and Des Moines paid for it. Des Moines pleaded +with the railroads, but they were obdurate; they had said we shouldn't +ride, and that settled it. To permit us to ride would be to establish a +precedent, and there weren't going to be any precedents. And still we went +on eating. That was the terrifying factor in the situation. We were bound +for Washington, and Des Moines would have had to float municipal bonds to +pay all our railroad fares, even at special rates, and if we remained much +longer, she'd have to float bonds anyway to feed us.</p> + +<p>Then some local genius solved the problem. We wouldn't walk. Very good. We +should ride. From Des Moines to Keokuk on the Mississippi flowed the Des +Moines River. This particular stretch of river was three hundred miles +long. We could ride on it, said the local genius; and, once equipped with +floating stock, we could ride on down the Mississippi to the Ohio, and +thence up the Ohio, winding up with a short portage over the mountains to +Washington.</p> + +<p>Des Moines took up a subscription. Public-spirited citizens contributed +several thousand dollars. Lumber, rope, nails, and cotton for calking were +bought in large quantities, and on the banks of the Des Moines was +inaugurated a tremendous era of shipbuilding. Now the Des Moines is a +picayune stream, unduly dignified by the appellation of "river." In our +spacious western land it would be called a "creek." The oldest inhabitants +shook their heads and said we couldn't make it, that there wasn't enough +water to float us. Des Moines didn't care, so long as it got rid of us, +and we were such well-fed optimists that we didn't care either.</p> + +<p>On Wednesday, May 9, 1894, we got under way and started on our colossal +picnic. Des Moines had got off pretty easily, and she certainly owes a +statue in bronze to the local genius who got her out of her difficulty. +True, Des Moines had to pay for our boats; we had eaten sixty-six thousand +meals at the stove-works; and we took twelve thousand additional meals +along with us in our commissary—as a precaution against famine in the +wilds; but then, think what it would have meant if we had remained at Des +Moines eleven months instead of eleven days. Also, when we departed, we +promised Des Moines we'd come back if the river failed to float us.</p> + +<p>It was all very well having twelve thousand meals in the commissary, and +no doubt the commissary "ducks" enjoyed them; for the commissary promptly +got lost, and my boat, for one, never saw it again. The company formation +was hopelessly broken up during the river-trip. In any camp of men there +will always be found a certain percentage of shirks, of helpless, of just +ordinary, and of hustlers. There were ten men in my boat, and they were +the cream of Company L. Every man was a hustler. For two reasons I was +included in the ten. First, I was as good a hustler as ever "threw his +feet," and next, I was "Sailor Jack." I understood boats and boating. The +ten of us forgot the remaining forty men of Company L, and by the time we +had missed one meal we promptly forgot the commissary. We were +independent. We went down the river "on our own," hustling our "chewin's," +beating every boat in the fleet, and, alas that I must say it, sometimes +taking possession of the stores the farmer-folk had collected for the +Army.</p> + +<p>For a good part of the three hundred miles we were from half a day to a +day or so in advance of the Army. We had managed to get hold of several +American flags. When we approached a small town, or when we saw a group of +farmers gathered on the bank, we ran up our flags, called ourselves the +"advance boat," and demanded to know what provisions had been collected +for the Army. We represented the Army, of course, and the provisions were +turned over to us. But there wasn't anything small about us. We never +took more than we could get away with. But we did take the cream of +everything. For instance, if some philanthropic farmer had donated several +dollars' worth of tobacco, we took it. So, also, we took butter and sugar, +coffee and canned goods; but when the stores consisted of sacks of beans +and flour, or two or three slaughtered steers, we resolutely refrained and +went our way, leaving orders to turn such provisions over to the +commissary boats whose business was to follow behind us.</p> + +<p>My, but the ten of us did live on the fat of the land! For a long time +General Kelly vainly tried to head us off. He sent two rowers, in a light, +round-bottomed boat, to overtake us and put a stop to our piratical +careers. They overtook us all right, but they were two and we were ten. +They were empowered by General Kelly to make us prisoners, and they told +us so. When we expressed disinclination to become prisoners, they hurried +ahead to the next town to invoke the aid of the authorities. We went +ashore immediately and cooked an early supper; and under the cloak of +darkness we ran by the town and its authorities.</p> + +<p>I kept a diary on part of the trip, and as I read it over now I note one +persistently recurring phrase, namely, "Living fine." We did live fine. We +even disdained to use coffee boiled in water. We made our coffee out of +milk, calling the wonderful beverage, if I remember rightly, "pale +Vienna."</p> + +<p>While we were ahead, skimming the cream, and while the commissary was lost +far behind, the main Army, coming along in the middle, starved. This was +hard on the Army, I'll allow; but then, the ten of us were individualists. +We had initiative and enterprise. We ardently believed that the grub was +to the man who got there first, the pale Vienna to the strong. On one +stretch the Army went forty-eight hours without grub; and then it arrived +at a small village of some three hundred inhabitants, the name of which I +do not remember, though I think it was Red Rock. This town, following the +practice of all towns through which the Army passed, had appointed a +committee of safety. Counting five to a family, Red Rock consisted of +sixty households. Her committee of safety was scared stiff by the eruption +of two thousand hungry hoboes who lined their boats two and three deep +along the river bank. General Kelly was a fair man. He had no intention +of working a hardship on the village. He did not expect sixty households +to furnish two thousand meals. Besides, the Army had its treasure-chest.</p> + +<p>But the committee of safety lost its head. "No encouragement to the +invader" was its programme, and when General Kelly wanted to buy food, the +committee turned him down. It had nothing to sell; General Kelly's money +was "no good" in their burg. And then General Kelly went into action. The +bugles blew. The Army left the boats and on top of the bank formed in +battle array. The committee was there to see. General Kelly's speech was +brief.</p> + +<p>"Boys," he said, "when did you eat last?"</p> + +<p>"Day before yesterday," they shouted.</p> + +<p>"Are you hungry?"</p> + +<p>A mighty affirmation from two thousand throats shook the atmosphere. Then +General Kelly turned to the committee of safety:—</p> + +<p>"You see, gentlemen, the situation. My men have eaten nothing in +forty-eight hours. If I turn them loose upon your town, I'll not be +responsible for what happens. They are desperate. I offered to buy food +for them, but you refused to sell. I now withdraw my offer. Instead, I +shall demand. I give you five minutes to decide. Either kill me six steers +and give me four thousand rations, or I turn the men loose. Five minutes, +gentlemen."</p> + +<p>The terrified committee of safety looked at the two thousand hungry hoboes +and collapsed. It didn't wait the five minutes. It wasn't going to take +any chances. The killing of the steers and the collecting of the +requisition began forthwith, and the Army dined.</p> + +<p>And still the ten graceless individualists soared along ahead and gathered +in everything in sight. But General Kelly fixed us. He sent horsemen down +each bank, warning farmers and townspeople against us. They did their work +thoroughly, all right. The erstwhile hospitable farmers met us with the +icy mit. Also, they summoned the constables when we tied up to the bank, +and loosed the dogs. I know. Two of the latter caught me with a +barbed-wire fence between me and the river. I was carrying two buckets of +milk for the pale Vienna. I didn't damage the fence any; but we drank +plebian coffee boiled with vulgar water, and it was up to me to throw my +feet for another pair of trousers. I wonder, gentle reader, if you ever +essayed hastily to climb a barbed-wire fence with a bucket of milk in each +hand. Ever since that day I have had a prejudice against barbed wire, and +I have gathered statistics on the subject.</p> + +<p>Unable to make an honest living so long as General Kelly kept his two +horsemen ahead of us, we returned to the Army and raised a revolution. It +was a small affair, but it devastated Company L of the Second Division. +The captain of Company L refused to recognize us; said we were deserters, +and traitors, and scalawags; and when he drew rations for Company L from +the commissary, he wouldn't give us any. That captain didn't appreciate +us, or he wouldn't have refused us grub. Promptly we intrigued with the +first lieutenant. He joined us with the ten men in his boat, and in return +we elected him captain of Company M. The captain of Company L raised a +roar. Down upon us came General Kelly, Colonel Speed, and Colonel Baker. +The twenty of us stood firm, and our revolution was ratified.</p> + +<p>But we never bothered with the commissary. Our hustlers drew better +rations from the farmers. Our new captain, however, doubted us. He never +knew when he'd see the ten of us again, once we got under way in the +morning, so he called in a blacksmith to clinch his captaincy. In the +stern of our boat, one on each side, were driven two heavy eye-bolts of +iron. Correspondingly, on the bow of his boat, were fastened two huge iron +hooks. The boats were brought together, end on, the hooks dropped into the +eye-bolts, and there we were, hard and fast. We couldn't lose that +captain. But we were irrepressible. Out of our very manacles we wrought an +invincible device that enabled us to put it all over every other boat in +the fleet.</p> + +<p>Like all great inventions, this one of ours was accidental. We discovered +it the first time we ran on a snag in a bit of a rapid. The head-boat hung +up and anchored, and the tail-boat swung around in the current, pivoting +the head-boat on the snag. I was at the stern of the tail-boat, steering. +In vain we tried to shove off. Then I ordered the men from the head-boat +into the tail-boat. Immediately the head-boat floated clear, and its men +returned into it. After that, snags, reefs, shoals, and bars had no +terrors for us. The instant the head-boat struck, the men in it leaped +into the tail-boat. Of course, the head-boat floated over the obstruction +and the tail-boat then struck. Like automatons, the twenty men now in the +tail-boat leaped into the head-boat, and the tail-boat floated past.</p> + +<p>The boats used by the Army were all alike, made by the mile and sawed off. +They were flat-boats, and their lines were rectangles. Each boat was six +feet wide, ten feet long, and a foot and a half deep. Thus, when our two +boats were hooked together, I sat at the stern steering a craft twenty +feet long, containing twenty husky hoboes who "spelled" each other at the +oars and paddles, and loaded with blankets, cooking outfit, and our own +private commissary.</p> + +<p>Still we caused General Kelly trouble. He had called in his horsemen, and +substituted three police-boats that travelled in the van and allowed no +boats to pass them. The craft containing Company M crowded the +police-boats hard. We could have passed them easily, but it was against +the rules. So we kept a respectful distance astern and waited. Ahead we +knew was virgin farming country, unbegged and generous; but we waited. +White water was all we needed, and when we rounded a bend and a rapid +showed up we knew what would happen. Smash! Police-boat number one goes on +a boulder and hangs up. Bang! Police-boat number two follows suit. Whop! +Police-boat number three encounters the common fate of all. Of course our +boat does the same things; but one, two, the men are out of the head-boat +and into the tail-boat; one, two, they are out of the tail-boat and into +the head-boat; and one, two, the men who belong in the tail-boat are back +in it and we are dashing on. "Stop! you blankety-blank-blanks!" shriek the +police-boats. "How can we?—blank the blankety-blank river, anyway!" we +wail plaintively as we surge past, caught in that remorseless current that +sweeps us on out of sight and into the hospitable farmer-country that +replenishes our private commissary with the cream of its contributions. +Again we drink pale Vienna and realize that the grub is to the man who +gets there.</p> + +<p>Poor General Kelly! He devised another scheme. The whole fleet started +ahead of us. Company M of the Second Division started in its proper place +in the line, which was last. And it took us only one day to put the +"kibosh" on that particular scheme. Twenty-five miles of bad water lay +before us—all rapids, shoals, bars, and boulders. It was over that +stretch of water that the oldest inhabitants of Des Moines had shaken +their heads. Nearly two hundred boats entered the bad water ahead of us, +and they piled up in the most astounding manner. We went through that +stranded fleet like hemlock through the fire. There was no avoiding the +boulders, bars, and snags except by getting out on the bank. We didn't +avoid them. We went right over them, one, two, one, two, head-boat, +tail-boat, head-boat, tail-boat, all hands back and forth and back again. +We camped that night alone, and loafed in camp all of next day while the +Army patched and repaired its wrecked boats and straggled up to us.</p> + +<p>There was no stopping our cussedness. We rigged up a mast, piled on the +canvas (blankets), and travelled short hours while the Army worked +over-time to keep us in sight. Then General Kelly had recourse to +diplomacy. No boat could touch us in the straight-away. Without +discussion, we were the hottest bunch that ever came down the Des Moines. +The ban of the police-boats was lifted. Colonel Speed was put aboard, and +with this distinguished officer we had the honor of arriving first at +Keokuk on the Mississippi. And right here I want to say to General Kelly +and Colonel Speed that here's my hand. You were heroes, both of you, and +you were men. And I'm sorry for at least ten per cent of the trouble that +was given you by the head-boat of Company M.</p> + +<p>At Keokuk the whole fleet was lashed together in a huge raft, and, after +being wind-bound a day, a steamboat took us in tow down the Mississippi to +Quincy, Illinois, where we camped across the river on Goose Island. Here +the raft idea was abandoned, the boats being joined together in groups of +four and decked over. Somebody told me that Quincy was the richest town of +its size in the United States. When I heard this, I was immediately +overcome by an irresistible impulse to throw my feet. No +"blowed-in-the-glass profesh" could possibly pass up such a promising +burg. I crossed the river to Quincy in a small dug-out; but I came back +in a large riverboat, down to the gunwales with the results of my thrown +feet. Of course I kept all the money I had collected, though I paid the +boat-hire; also I took my pick of the underwear, socks, cast-off clothes, +shirts, "kicks," and "sky-pieces"; and when Company M had taken all it +wanted there was still a respectable heap that was turned over to Company +L. Alas, I was young and prodigal in those days! I told a thousand +"stories" to the good people of Quincy, and every story was "good"; but +since I have come to write for the magazines I have often regretted the +wealth of story, the fecundity of fiction, I lavished that day in Quincy, +Illinois.</p> + +<p>It was at Hannibal, Missouri, that the ten invincibles went to pieces. It +was not planned. We just naturally flew apart. The Boiler-Maker and I +deserted secretly. On the same day Scotty and Davy made a swift sneak for +the Illinois shore; also McAvoy and Fish achieved their get-away. This +accounts for six of the ten; what became of the remaining four I do not +know. As a sample of life on The Road, I make the following quotation from +my diary of the several days following my desertion.</p> + +<p>"Friday, May 25th. Boiler-Maker and I left the camp on the island. We went +ashore on the Illinois side in a skiff and walked six miles on the C.B. & +Q. to Fell Creek. We had gone six miles out of our way, but we got on a +hand-car and rode six miles to Hull's, on the Wabash. While there, we met +McAvoy, Fish, Scotty, and Davy, who had also pulled out from the Army.</p> + +<p>"Saturday, May 26th. At 2.11 A.M. we caught the Cannonball as she slowed +up at the crossing. Scotty and Davy were ditched. The four of us were +ditched at the Bluffs, forty miles farther on. In the afternoon Fish and +McAvoy caught a freight while Boiler-Maker and I were away getting +something to eat.</p> + +<p>"Sunday, May 27th. At 3.21 A.M. we caught the Cannonball and found Scotty +and Davy on the blind. We were all ditched at daylight at Jacksonville. +The C. & A. runs through here, and we're going to take that. Boiler-Maker +went off, but didn't return. Guess he caught a freight.</p> + +<p>"Monday, May 28th. Boiler-Maker didn't show up. Scotty and Davy went off +to sleep somewhere, and didn't get back in time to catch the K.C. +passenger at 3.30 A.M. I caught her and rode her till after sunrise to +Masson City, 25,000 inhabitants. Caught a cattle train and rode all night.</p> + +<p>"Tuesday, May 29th. Arrived in Chicago at 7 A.M...."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>And years afterward, in China, I had the grief of learning that the device +we employed to navigate the rapids of the Des Moines—the one-two-one-two, +head-boat-tail-boat proposition—was not originated by us. I learned that +the Chinese river-boatmen had for thousands of years used a similar device +to negotiate "bad water." It is a good stunt all right, even if we don't +get the credit. It answers Dr. Jordan's test of truth: "Will it work? Will +you trust your life to it?"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="Bulls" id="Bulls" /><i>Bulls</i></h2> + + +<p>If the tramp were suddenly to pass away from the United States, widespread +misery for many families would follow. The tramp enables thousands of men +to earn honest livings, educate their children, and bring them up +God-fearing and industrious. I know. At one time my father was a constable +and hunted tramps for a living. The community paid him so much per head +for all the tramps he could catch, and also, I believe, he got mileage +fees. Ways and means was always a pressing problem in our household, and +the amount of meat on the table, the new pair of shoes, the day's outing, +or the text-book for school, were dependent upon my father's luck in the +chase. Well I remember the suppressed eagerness and the suspense with +which I waited to learn each morning what the results of his past night's +toil had been—how many tramps he had gathered in and what the chances +were for convicting them. And so it was, when later, as a tramp, I +succeeded in eluding some predatory constable, I could not but feel sorry +for the little boys and girls at home in that constable's house; it seemed +to me in a way that I was defrauding those little boys and girls of some +of the good things of life.</p> + +<p>But it's all in the game. The hobo defies society, and society's +watch-dogs make a living out of him. Some hoboes like to be caught by the +watch-dogs—especially in winter-time. Of course, such hoboes select +communities where the jails are "good," wherein no work is performed and +the food is substantial. Also, there have been, and most probably still +are, constables who divide their fees with the hoboes they arrest. Such a +constable does not have to hunt. He whistles, and the game comes right up +to his hand. It is surprising, the money that is made out of stone-broke +tramps. All through the South—at least when I was hoboing—are convict +camps and plantations, where the time of convicted hoboes is bought by the +farmers, and where the hoboes simply have to work. Then there are places +like the quarries at Rutland, Vermont, where the hobo is exploited, the +unearned energy in his body, which he has accumulated by "battering on +the drag" or "slamming gates," being extracted for the benefit of that +particular community.</p> + +<p>Now I don't know anything about the quarries at Rutland, Vermont. I'm very +glad that I don't, when I remember how near I was to getting into them. +Tramps pass the word along, and I first heard of those quarries when I was +in Indiana. But when I got into New England, I heard of them continually, +and always with danger-signals flying. "They want men in the quarries," +the passing hoboes said; "and they never give a 'stiff' less than ninety +days." By the time I got into New Hampshire I was pretty well keyed up +over those quarries, and I fought shy of railroad cops, "bulls," and +constables as I never had before.</p> + +<p>One evening I went down to the railroad yards at Concord and found a +freight train made up and ready to start. I located an empty box-car, slid +open the side-door, and climbed in. It was my hope to win across to White +River by morning; that would bring me into Vermont and not more than a +thousand miles from Rutland. But after that, as I worked north, the +distance between me and the point of danger would begin to increase. In +the car I found a "gay-cat," who displayed unusual trepidation at my +entrance. He took me for a "shack" (brakeman), and when he learned I was +only a stiff, he began talking about the quarries at Rutland as the cause +of the fright I had given him. He was a young country fellow, and had +beaten his way only over local stretches of road.</p> + +<p>The freight got under way, and we lay down in one end of the box-car and +went to sleep. Two or three hours afterward, at a stop, I was awakened by +the noise of the right-hand door being softly slid open. The gay-cat slept +on. I made no movement, though I veiled my eyes with my lashes to a little +slit through which I could see out. A lantern was thrust in through the +doorway, followed by the head of a shack. He discovered us, and looked at +us for a moment. I was prepared for a violent expression on his part, or +the customary "Hit the grit, you son of a toad!" Instead of this he +cautiously withdrew the lantern and very, very softly slid the door to. +This struck me as eminently unusual and suspicious. I listened, and softly +I heard the hasp drop into place. The door was latched on the outside. We +could not open it from the inside. One way of sudden exit from that car +was blocked. It would never do. I waited a few seconds, then crept to the +left-hand door and tried it. It was not yet latched. I opened it, dropped +to the ground, and closed it behind me. Then I passed across the bumpers +to the other side of the train. I opened the door the shack had latched, +climbed in, and closed it behind me. Both exits were available again. The +gay-cat was still asleep.</p> + +<p>The train got under way. It came to the next stop. I heard footsteps in +the gravel. Then the left-hand door was thrown open noisily. The gay-cat +awoke, I made believe to awake; and we sat up and stared at the shack and +his lantern. He didn't waste any time getting down to business.</p> + +<p>"I want three dollars," he said.</p> + +<p>We got on our feet and came nearer to him to confer. We expressed an +absolute and devoted willingness to give him three dollars, but explained +our wretched luck that compelled our desire to remain unsatisfied. The +shack was incredulous. He dickered with us. He would compromise for two +dollars. We regretted our condition of poverty. He said uncomplimentary +things, called us sons of toads, and damned us from hell to breakfast. +Then he threatened. He explained that if we didn't dig up, he'd lock us in +and carry us on to White River and turn us over to the authorities. He +also explained all about the quarries at Rutland.</p> + +<p>Now that shack thought he had us dead to rights. Was not he guarding the +one door, and had he not himself latched the opposite door but a few +minutes before? When he began talking about quarries, the frightened +gay-cat started to sidle across to the other door. The shack laughed loud +and long. "Don't be in a hurry," he said; "I locked that door on the +outside at the last stop." So implicitly did he believe the door to be +locked that his words carried conviction. The gay-cat believed and was in +despair.</p> + +<p>The shack delivered his ultimatum. Either we should dig up two dollars, or +he would lock us in and turn us over to the constable at White River—and +that meant ninety days and the quarries. Now, gentle reader, just suppose +that the other door had been locked. Behold the precariousness of human +life. For lack of a dollar, I'd have gone to the quarries and served three +months as a convict slave. So would the gay-cat. Count me out, for I was +hopeless; but consider the gay-cat. He might have come out, after those +ninety days, pledged to a life of crime. And later he might have broken +your skull, even your skull, with a blackjack in an endeavor to take +possession of the money on your person—and if not your skull, then some +other poor and unoffending creature's skull.</p> + +<p>But the door was unlocked, and I alone knew it. The gay-cat and I begged +for mercy. I joined in the pleading and wailing out of sheer cussedness, I +suppose. But I did my best. I told a "story" that would have melted the +heart of any mug; but it didn't melt the heart of that sordid +money-grasper of a shack. When he became convinced that we didn't have any +money, he slid the door shut and latched it, then lingered a moment on the +chance that we had fooled him and that we would now offer him the two +dollars.</p> + +<p>Then it was that I let out a few links. I called him a son of a toad. I +called him all the other things he had called me. And then I called him a +few additional things. I came from the West, where men knew how to swear, +and I wasn't going to let any mangy shack on a measly New England "jerk" +put it over me in vividness and vigor of language. At first the shack +tried to laugh it down. Then he made the mistake of attempting to reply. I +let out a few more links, and I cut him to the raw and therein rubbed +winged and flaming epithets. Nor was my fine frenzy all whim and literary; +I was indignant at this vile creature, who, in default of a dollar, would +consign me to three months of slavery. Furthermore, I had a sneaking idea +that he got a "drag" out of the constable fees.</p> + +<p>But I fixed him. I lacerated his feelings and pride several dollars' +worth. He tried to scare me by threatening to come in after me and kick +the stuffing out of me. In return, I promised to kick him in the face +while he was climbing in. The advantage of position was with me, and he +saw it. So he kept the door shut and called for help from the rest of the +train-crew. I could hear them answering and crunching through the gravel +to him. And all the time the other door was unlatched, and they didn't +know it; and in the meantime the gay-cat was ready to die with fear.</p> + +<p>Oh, I was a hero—with my line of retreat straight behind me. I slanged +the shack and his mates till they threw the door open and I could see +their infuriated faces in the shine of the lanterns. It was all very +simple to them. They had us cornered in the car, and they were going to +come in and man-handle us. They started. I didn't kick anybody in the +face. I jerked the opposite door open, and the gay-cat and I went out. The +train-crew took after us.</p> + +<p>We went over—if I remember correctly—a stone fence. But I have no doubts +of recollection about where we found ourselves. In the darkness I promptly +fell over a grave-stone. The gay-cat sprawled over another. And then we +got the chase of our lives through that graveyard. The ghosts must have +thought we were going some. So did the train-crew, for when we emerged +from the graveyard and plunged across a road into a dark wood, the shacks +gave up the pursuit and went back to their train. A little later that +night the gay-cat and I found ourselves at the well of a farmhouse. We +were after a drink of water, but we noticed a small rope that ran down one +side of the well. We hauled it up and found on the end of it a gallon-can +of cream. And that is as near as I got to the quarries of Rutland, +Vermont.</p> + +<p>When hoboes pass the word along, concerning a town, that "the bulls is +horstile," avoid that town, or, if you must, go through softly. There are +some towns that one must always go through softly. Such a town was +Cheyenne, on the Union Pacific. It had a national reputation for being +"horstile,"—and it was all due to the efforts of one Jeff Carr (if I +remember his name aright). Jeff Carr could size up the "front" of a hobo +on the instant. He never entered into discussion. In the one moment he +sized up the hobo, and in the next he struck out with both fists, a club, +or anything else he had handy. After he had man-handled the hobo, he +started him out of town with a promise of worse if he ever saw him again. +Jeff Carr knew the game. North, south, east, and west to the uttermost +confines of the United States (Canada and Mexico included), the +man-handled hoboes carried the word that Cheyenne was "horstile." +Fortunately, I never encountered Jeff Carr. I passed through Cheyenne in a +blizzard. There were eighty-four hoboes with me at the time. The strength +of numbers made us pretty nonchalant on most things, but not on Jeff +Carr. The connotation of "Jeff Carr" stunned our imagination, numbed our +virility, and the whole gang was mortally scared of meeting him.</p> + +<p>It rarely pays to stop and enter into explanations with bulls when they +look "horstile." A swift get-away is the thing to do. It took me some time +to learn this; but the finishing touch was put upon me by a bull in New +York City. Ever since that time it has been an automatic process with me +to make a run for it when I see a bull reaching for me. This automatic +process has become a mainspring of conduct in me, wound up and ready for +instant release. I shall never get over it. Should I be eighty years old, +hobbling along the street on crutches, and should a policeman suddenly +reach out for me, I know I'd drop the crutches and run like a deer.</p> + +<p>The finishing touch to my education in bulls was received on a hot summer +afternoon in New York City. It was during a week of scorching weather. I +had got into the habit of throwing my feet in the morning, and of spending +the afternoon in the little park that is hard by Newspaper Row and the +City Hall. It was near there that I could buy from pushcart men current +books (that had been injured in the making or binding) for a few cents +each. Then, right in the park itself, were little booths where one could +buy glorious, ice-cold, sterilized milk and buttermilk at a penny a glass. +Every afternoon I sat on a bench and read, and went on a milk debauch. I +got away with from five to ten glasses each afternoon. It was dreadfully +hot weather.</p> + +<p>So here I was, a meek and studious milk-drinking hobo, and behold what I +got for it. One afternoon I arrived at the park, a fresh book-purchase +under my arm and a tremendous buttermilk thirst under my shirt. In the +middle of the street, in front of the City Hall, I noticed, as I came +along heading for the buttermilk booth, that a crowd had formed. It was +right where I was crossing the street, so I stopped to see the cause of +the collection of curious men. At first I could see nothing. Then, from +the sounds I heard and from a glimpse I caught, I knew that it was a bunch +of gamins playing pee-wee. Now pee-wee is not permitted in the streets of +New York. I didn't know that, but I learned pretty lively. I had paused +possibly thirty seconds, in which time I had learned the cause of the +crowd, when I heard a gamin yell "Bull!" The gamins knew their business. +They ran. I didn't.</p> + +<p>The crowd broke up immediately and started for the sidewalk on both sides +of the street. I started for the sidewalk on the park-side. There must +have been fifty men, who had been in the original crowd, who were heading +in the same direction. We were loosely strung out. I noticed the bull, a +strapping policeman in a gray suit. He was coming along the middle of the +street, without haste, merely sauntering. I noticed casually that he +changed his course, and was heading obliquely for the same sidewalk that I +was heading for directly. He sauntered along, threading the strung-out +crowd, and I noticed that his course and mine would cross each other. I +was so innocent of wrong-doing that, in spite of my education in bulls and +their ways, I apprehended nothing. I never dreamed that bull was after me. +Out of my respect for the law I was actually all ready to pause the next +moment and let him cross in front of me. The pause came all right, but it +was not of my volition; also it was a backward pause. Without warning, +that bull had suddenly launched out at me on the chest with both hands. At +the same moment, verbally, he cast the bar sinister on my genealogy.</p> + +<p>All my free American blood boiled. All my liberty-loving ancestors +clamored in me. "What do you mean?" I demanded. You see, I wanted an +explanation. And I got it. Bang! His club came down on top of my head, and +I was reeling backward like a drunken man, the curious faces of the +onlookers billowing up and down like the waves of the sea, my precious +book falling from under my arm into the dirt, the bull advancing with the +club ready for another blow. And in that dizzy moment I had a vision. I +saw that club descending many times upon my head; I saw myself, bloody and +battered and hard-looking, in a police-court; I heard a charge of +disorderly conduct, profane language, resisting an officer, and a few +other things, read by a clerk; and I saw myself across in Blackwell's +Island. Oh, I knew the game. I lost all interest in explanations. I didn't +stop to pick up my precious, unread book. I turned and ran. I was pretty +sick, but I ran. And run I shall, to my dying day, whenever a bull begins +to explain with a club.</p> + +<p>Why, years after my tramping days, when I was a student in the University +of California, one night I went to the circus. After the show and the +concert I lingered on to watch the working of the transportation machinery +of a great circus. The circus was leaving that night. By a bonfire I came +upon a bunch of small boys. There were about twenty of them, and as they +talked with one another I learned that they were going to run away with +the circus. Now the circus-men didn't want to be bothered with this mess +of urchins, and a telephone to police headquarters had "coppered" the +play. A squad of ten policemen had been despatched to the scene to arrest +the small boys for violating the nine o'clock curfew ordinance. The +policemen surrounded the bonfire, and crept up close to it in the +darkness. At the signal, they made a rush, each policeman grabbing at the +youngsters as he would grab into a basket of squirming eels.</p> + +<p>Now I didn't know anything about the coming of the police; and when I saw +the sudden eruption of brass-buttoned, helmeted bulls, each of them +reaching with both hands, all the forces and stability of my being were +overthrown. Remained only the automatic process to run. And I ran. I +didn't know I was running. I didn't know anything. It was, as I have said, +automatic. There was no reason for me to run. I was not a hobo. I was a +citizen of that community. It was my home town. I was guilty of no +wrong-doing. I was a college man. I had even got my name in the papers, +and I wore good clothes that had never been slept in. And yet I +ran—blindly, madly, like a startled deer, for over a block. And when I +came to myself, I noted that I was still running. It required a positive +effort of will to stop those legs of mine.</p> + +<p>No, I'll never get over it. I can't help it. When a bull reaches, I run. +Besides, I have an unhappy faculty for getting into jail. I have been in +jail more times since I was a hobo than when I was one. I start out on a +Sunday morning with a young lady on a bicycle ride. Before we can get +outside the city limits we are arrested for passing a pedestrian on the +sidewalk. I resolve to be more careful. The next time I am on a bicycle +it is night-time and my acetylene-gas-lamp is misbehaving. I cherish the +sickly flame carefully, because of the ordinance. I am in a hurry, but I +ride at a snail's pace so as not to jar out the flickering flame. I reach +the city limits; I am beyond the jurisdiction of the ordinance; and I +proceed to scorch to make up for lost time. And half a mile farther on I +am "pinched" by a bull, and the next morning I forfeit my bail in the +police court. The city had treacherously extended its limits into a mile +of the country, and I didn't know, that was all. I remember my inalienable +right of free speech and peaceable assemblage, and I get up on a soap-box +to trot out the particular economic bees that buzz in my bonnet, and a +bull takes me off that box and leads me to the city prison, and after that +I get out on bail. It's no use. In Korea I used to be arrested about every +other day. It was the same thing in Manchuria. The last time I was in +Japan I broke into jail under the pretext of being a Russian spy. It +wasn't my pretext, but it got me into jail just the same. There is no hope +for me. I am fated to do the Prisoner-of-Chillon stunt yet. This is +prophecy.</p> + +<p>I once hypnotized a bull on Boston Common. It was past midnight and he had +me dead to rights; but before I got done with him he had ponied up a +silver quarter and given me the address of an all-night restaurant. Then +there was a bull in Bristol, New Jersey, who caught me and let me go, and +heaven knows he had provocation enough to put me in jail. I hit him the +hardest I'll wager he was ever hit in his life. It happened this way. +About midnight I nailed a freight out of Philadelphia. The shacks ditched +me. She was pulling out slowly through the maze of tracks and switches of +the freight-yards. I nailed her again, and again I was ditched. You see, I +had to nail her "outside," for she was a through freight with every door +locked and sealed.</p> + +<p>The second time I was ditched the shack gave me a lecture. He told me I +was risking my life, that it was a fast freight and that she went some. I +told him I was used to going some myself, but it was no go. He said he +wouldn't permit me to commit suicide, and I hit the grit. But I nailed her +a third time, getting in between on the bumpers. They were the most meagre +bumpers I had ever seen—I do not refer to the real bumpers, the iron +bumpers that are connected by the coupling-link and that pound and grind +on each other; what I refer to are the beams, like huge cleats, that cross +the ends of freight cars just above the bumpers. When one rides the +bumpers, he stands on these cleats, one foot on each, the bumpers between +his feet and just beneath.</p> + +<p>But the beams or cleats I found myself on were not the broad, generous +ones that at that time were usually on box-cars. On the contrary, they +were very narrow—not more than an inch and a half in breadth. I couldn't +get half of the width of my sole on them. Then there was nothing to which +to hold with my hands. True, there were the ends of the two box-cars; but +those ends were flat, perpendicular surfaces. There were no grips. I could +only press the flats of my palms against the car-ends for support. But +that would have been all right if the cleats for my feet had been decently +wide.</p> + +<p>As the freight got out of Philadelphia she began to hit up speed. Then I +understood what the shack had meant by suicide. The freight went faster +and faster. She was a through freight, and there was nothing to stop her. +On that section of the Pennsylvania four tracks run side by side, and my +east-bound freight didn't need to worry about passing west-bound freights, +nor about being overtaken by east-bound expresses. She had the track to +herself, and she used it. I was in a precarious situation. I stood with +the mere edges of my feet on the narrow projections, the palms of my hands +pressing desperately against the flat, perpendicular ends of each car. And +those cars moved, and moved individually, up and down and back and forth. +Did you ever see a circus rider, standing on two running horses, with one +foot on the back of each horse? Well, that was what I was doing, with +several differences. The circus rider had the reins to hold on to, while I +had nothing; he stood on the broad soles of his feet, while I stood on the +edges of mine; he bent his legs and body, gaining the strength of the arch +in his posture and achieving the stability of a low centre of gravity, +while I was compelled to stand upright and keep my legs straight; he rode +face forward, while I was riding sidewise; and also, if he fell off, he'd +get only a roll in the sawdust, while I'd have been ground to pieces +beneath the wheels.</p> + +<p>And that freight was certainly going some, roaring and shrieking, +swinging madly around curves, thundering over trestles, one car-end +bumping up when the other was jarring down, or jerking to the right at the +same moment the other was lurching to the left, and with me all the while +praying and hoping for the train to stop. But she didn't stop. She didn't +have to. For the first, last, and only time on The Road, I got all I +wanted. I abandoned the bumpers and managed to get out on a side-ladder; +it was ticklish work, for I had never encountered car-ends that were so +parsimonious of hand-holds and foot-holds as those car-ends were.</p> + +<p>I heard the engine whistling, and I felt the speed easing down. I knew the +train wasn't going to stop, but my mind was made up to chance it if she +slowed down sufficiently. The right of way at this point took a curve, +crossed a bridge over a canal, and cut through the town of Bristol. This +combination compelled slow speed. I clung on to the side-ladder and +waited. I didn't know it was the town of Bristol we were approaching. I +did not know what necessitated slackening in speed. All I knew was that I +wanted to get off. I strained my eyes in the darkness for a +street-crossing on which to land. I was pretty well down the train, and +before my car was in the town the engine was past the station and I could +feel her making speed again.</p> + +<p>Then came the street. It was too dark to see how wide it was or what was +on the other side. I knew I needed all of that street if I was to remain +on my feet after I struck. I dropped off on the near side. It sounds easy. +By "dropped off" I mean just this: I first of all, on the side-ladder, +thrust my body forward as far as I could in the direction the train was +going—this to give as much space as possible in which to gain backward +momentum when I swung off. Then I swung, swung out and backward, backward +with all my might, and let go—at the same time throwing myself backward +as if I intended to strike the ground on the back of my head. The whole +effort was to overcome as much as possible the primary forward momentum +the train had imparted to my body. When my feet hit the grit, my body was +lying backward on the air at an angle of forty-five degrees. I had reduced +the forward momentum some, for when my feet struck, I did not immediately +pitch forward on my face. Instead, my body rose to the perpendicular and +began to incline forward. In point of fact, my body proper still retained +much momentum, while my feet, through contact with the earth, had lost all +their momentum. This momentum the feet had lost I had to supply anew by +lifting them as rapidly as I could and running them forward in order to +keep them under my forward-moving body. The result was that my feet beat a +rapid and explosive tattoo clear across the street. I didn't dare stop +them. If I had, I'd have pitched forward. It was up to me to keep on +going.</p> + +<p>I was an involuntary projectile, worrying about what was on the other side +of the street and hoping that it wouldn't be a stone wall or a telegraph +pole. And just then I hit something. Horrors! I saw it just the instant +before the disaster—of all things, a bull, standing there in the +darkness. We went down together, rolling over and over; and the automatic +process was such in that miserable creature that in the moment of impact +he reached out and clutched me and never let go. We were both knocked out, +and he held on to a very lamb-like hobo while he recovered.</p> + +<p>If that bull had any imagination, he must have thought me a traveller from +other worlds, the man from Mars just arriving; for in the darkness he +hadn't seen me swing from the train. In fact, his first words were: "Where +did you come from?" His next words, and before I had time to answer, were: +"I've a good mind to run you in." This latter, I am convinced, was +likewise automatic. He was a really good bull at heart, for after I had +told him a "story" and helped brush off his clothes, he gave me until the +next freight to get out of town. I stipulated two things: first, that the +freight be east-bound, and second, that it should not be a through freight +with all doors sealed and locked. To this he agreed, and thus, by the +terms of the Treaty of Bristol, I escaped being pinched.</p> + +<p>I remember another night, in that part of the country, when I just missed +another bull. If I had hit him, I'd have telescoped him, for I was coming +down from above, all holds free, with several other bulls one jump behind +and reaching for me. This is how it happened. I had been lodging in a +livery stable in Washington. I had a box-stall and unnumbered +horse-blankets all to myself. In return for such sumptuous accommodation I +took care of a string of horses each morning. I might have been there yet, +if it hadn't been for the bulls.</p> + +<p>One evening, about nine o'clock, I returned to the stable to go to bed, +and found a crap game in full blast. It had been a market day, and all the +negroes had money. It would be well to explain the lay of the land. The +livery stable faced on two streets. I entered the front, passed through +the office, and came to the alley between two rows of stalls that ran the +length of the building and opened out on the other street. Midway along +this alley, beneath a gas-jet and between the rows of horses, were about +forty negroes. I joined them as an onlooker. I was broke and couldn't +play. A coon was making passes and not dragging down. He was riding his +luck, and with each pass the total stake doubled. All kinds of money lay +on the floor. It was fascinating. With each pass, the chances increased +tremendously against the coon making another pass. The excitement was +intense. And just then there came a thundering smash on the big doors that +opened on the back street.</p> + +<p>A few of the negroes bolted in the opposite direction. I paused from my +flight a moment to grab at the all kinds of money on the floor. This +wasn't theft: it was merely custom. Every man who hadn't run was grabbing. +The doors crashed open and swung in, and through them surged a squad of +bulls. We surged the other way. It was dark in the office, and the narrow +door would not permit all of us to pass out to the street at the same +time. Things became congested. A coon took a dive through the window, +taking the sash along with him and followed by other coons. At our rear, +the bulls were nailing prisoners. A big coon and myself made a dash at the +door at the same time. He was bigger than I, and he pivoted me and got +through first. The next instant a club swatted him on the head and he went +down like a steer. Another squad of bulls was waiting outside for us. They +knew they couldn't stop the rush with their hands, and so they were +swinging their clubs. I stumbled over the fallen coon who had pivoted me, +ducked a swat from a club, dived between a bull's legs, and was free. And +then how I ran! There was a lean mulatto just in front of me, and I took +his pace. He knew the town better than I did, and I knew that in the way +he ran lay safety. But he, on the other hand, took me for a pursuing bull. +He never looked around. He just ran. My wind was good, and I hung on to +his pace and nearly killed him. In the end he stumbled weakly, went down +on his knees, and surrendered to me. And when he discovered I wasn't a +bull, all that saved me was that he didn't have any wind left in him.</p> + +<p>That was why I left Washington—not on account of the mulatto, but on +account of the bulls. I went down to the depot and caught the first blind +out on a Pennsylvania Railroad express. After the train got good and under +way and I noted the speed she was making, a misgiving smote me. This was a +four-track railroad, and the engines took water on the fly. Hoboes had +long since warned me never to ride the first blind on trains where the +engines took water on the fly. And now let me explain. Between the tracks +are shallow metal troughs. As the engine, at full speed, passes above, a +sort of chute drops down into the trough. The result is that all the water +in the trough rushes up the chute and fills the tender.</p> + +<p>Somewhere along between Washington and Baltimore, as I sat on the platform +of the blind, a fine spray began to fill the air. It did no harm. Ah, ha, +thought I; it's all a bluff, this taking water on the fly being bad for +the bo on the first blind. What does this little spray amount to? Then I +began to marvel at the device. This was railroading! Talk about your +primitive Western railroading—and just then the tender filled up, and it +hadn't reached the end of the trough. A tidal wave of water poured over +the back of the tender and down upon me. I was soaked to the skin, as wet +as if I had fallen overboard.</p> + +<p>The train pulled into Baltimore. As is the custom in the great Eastern +cities, the railroad ran beneath the level of the streets on the bottom of +a big "cut." As the train pulled into the lighted depot, I made myself as +small as possible on the blind. But a railroad bull saw me, and gave +chase. Two more joined him. I was past the depot, and I ran straight on +down the track. I was in a sort of trap. On each side of me rose the steep +walls of the cut, and if I ever essayed them and failed, I knew that I'd +slide back into the clutches of the bulls. I ran on and on, studying the +walls of the cut for a favorable place to climb up. At last I saw such a +place. It came just after I had passed under a bridge that carried a level +street across the cut. Up the steep slope I went, clawing hand and foot. +The three railroad bulls were clawing up right after me.</p> + +<p>At the top, I found myself in a vacant lot. On one side was a low wall +that separated it from the street. There was no time for minute +investigation. They were at my heels. I headed for the wall and vaulted +it. And right there was where I got the surprise of my life. One is used +to thinking that one side of a wall is just as high as the other side. But +that wall was different. You see, the vacant lot was much higher than the +level of the street. On my side the wall was low, but on the other +side—well, as I came soaring over the top, all holds free, it seemed to +me that I was falling feet-first, plump into an abyss. There beneath me, +on the sidewalk, under the light of a street-lamp was a bull. I guess it +was nine or ten feet down to the sidewalk; but in the shock of surprise in +mid-air it seemed twice that distance.</p> + +<p>I straightened out in the air and came down. At first I thought I was +going to land on the bull. My clothes did brush him as my feet struck the +sidewalk with explosive impact. It was a wonder he didn't drop dead, for +he hadn't heard me coming. It was the man-from-Mars stunt over again. The +bull did jump. He shied away from me like a horse from an auto; and then +he reached for me. I didn't stop to explain. I left that to my pursuers, +who were dropping over the wall rather gingerly. But I got a chase all +right. I ran up one street and down another, dodged around corners, and at +last got away.</p> + +<p>After spending some of the coin I'd got from the crap game and killing off +an hour of time, I came back to the railroad cut, just outside the lights +of the depot, and waited for a train. My blood had cooled down, and I +shivered miserably, what of my wet clothes. At last a train pulled into +the station. I lay low in the darkness, and successfully boarded her when +she pulled out, taking good care this time to make the second blind. No +more water on the fly in mine. The train ran forty miles to the first +stop. I got off in a lighted depot that was strangely familiar. I was back +in Washington. In some way, during the excitement of the get-away in +Baltimore, running through strange streets, dodging and turning and +retracing, I had got turned around. I had taken the train out the wrong +way. I had lost a night's sleep, I had been soaked to the skin, I had been +chased for my life; and for all my pains I was back where I had started. +Oh, no, life on The Road is not all beer and skittles. But I didn't go +back to the livery stable. I had done some pretty successful grabbing, and +I didn't want to reckon up with the coons. 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