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The Road
By
Jack London
THE ROAD
by
JACK LONDON
TO
JOSIAH FLYNT
The Real Thing, Blowed in the Glass
"Speakin' in general, I 'ave tried 'em all, The 'appy roads t=
hat
take you o'er the world. Speakin' in gener=
al, I
'ave found them good For such as canno=
t use
one bed too long, But must get 'enc=
e, the
same as I 'ave done, An' go observin'
matters till they die."
=
--Sestina of the Tramp-Royal
=
Contents
=
=
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.
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.
A hard town for "scoffings," was what
the hoboes called it at that time. I know that I missed many a meal, in spi=
te
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 stree=
t.
Why, I was so hard put in that town, one day, that I gave the porter the sl=
ip
and invaded the private car of some itinerant millionnaire. The train start=
ed
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 reach=
ed
the millionnaire at the same instant that the porter reached me. I had no t=
ime
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 t=
hat
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 k=
ick
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 w=
ay, with,
at the same time, an irate Ethiopian on the platform above trying to land h=
im
in the face with a number eleven. But I got the quarter! I got it!
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.e. t=
he
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. Alrea=
dy 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 Sierr=
as.
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 nig=
ht.
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.
But that something to eat was a hard propositi=
on.
I was "turned down" at a dozen houses. Sometimes I received insul=
ting
remarks and was informed of the barred domicile that should be mine if I ha=
d 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, see=
king
eagerly for the hungry and homeless, for by such was his barred domicile
tenanted.
At other houses the doors were slammed in my f=
ace,
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.
It began to look as if I should be compelled t=
o go
to the very poor for my food. The very poor constitute the last sure recour=
se
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 themsel=
ves,
and very often from what they cruelly need for themselves. A bone to the do=
g is
not charity. Charity is the bone shared with the dog when you are just as
hungry as the dog.
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 do=
or,
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=
.
He cut short my request for something to eat,
snapping out, "I don't believe you want to work."
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.
"You wouldn't work if you had a chance,&q=
uot;
he bullied.
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 mys=
elf.
But Cerberus sopped himself in the pie, and I saw that I must placate him i=
f I
were to get a share of it. So I sighed to myself and accepted his work-mora=
lity.
"Of course I want work," I bluffed.<= o:p>
"Don't believe it," he snorted.
"Try me," I answered, warming to the
bluff.
"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."
"All right, sir; I'll be there."
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:--
"Well?"
"I ... I am waiting for something to
eat," I said gently.
"I knew you wouldn't work!" he roare=
d.
He was right, of course; but his conclusion mu=
st
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.
"You see, I am now hungry," I said s=
till
gently. "To-morrow morning I shall be hungrier. Think how hungry I sha=
ll
be when I have tossed bricks all day without anything to eat. Now if you wi=
ll
give me something to eat, I'll be in great shape for those bricks."
He gravely considered my plea, at the same time
going on eating, while his wife nearly trembled into propitiatory speech, b=
ut
refrained.
"I'll tell you what I'll do," he said
between mouthfuls. "You come to work to-morrow, and in the middle of t=
he
day I'll advance you enough for your dinner. That will show whether you are=
in
earnest or not."
"In the meantime--" I began; but he
interrupted.
"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."
"Like you?" I queried.
Alas, no ray of humor had ever penetrated the
sombre work-sodden soul of that man.
"Yes, like me," he answered.
"All of us?" I queried.
"Yes, all of you," he answered,
conviction vibrating in his voice.
"But if we all became like you," I s=
aid,
"allow me to point out that there'd be nobody to toss bricks for
you."
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.
"I'll not waste words on you," he
roared. "Get out of here, you ungrateful whelp!"
I scraped my feet to advertise my intention of
going, and queried:--
"And I don't get anything to eat?"
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 h=
is pie.
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 al=
l 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 twili=
ght,
going around to the kitchen door.
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 g=
ood
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 partic=
ular
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 arti=
st.
He must create spontaneously and instantaneously--and not upon a theme sele=
cted
from the plenitude of his own imagination, but upon the theme he reads in t=
he
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 e=
lse
it may be. I have often thought that to this training of my tramp days is d=
ue
much of my success as a story-writer. In order to get the food whereby I li=
ved,
I was compelled to tell tales that rang true. At the back door, out of inex=
orable
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.
After all, art is only consummate artfulness, =
and
artfulness saves many a "story." I remember lying in a police sta=
tion
at Winnipeg, Manitoba. I was bound west over the Canadian Pacific. Of cours=
e,
the police wanted my story, and I gave it to them--on the spur of the momen=
t.
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 Glenmore. (I had once seen the
Glenmore lying at anchor in San Francisco Bay.)
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 Glenmore. I hope the captain of the Glenmore will forgive me, for=
I
gave him a character that night in the Winnipeg police station. Such cruelt=
y!
Such brutality! Such diabolical ingenuity of torture! It explained why I had
deserted the Glenmore at Montreal.
But why was I in the middle of Canada going we=
st,
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 l=
oving
nature. But they were not done with me, those hard-hearted policemen. I had
joined the Glenmore in England; in the two years that had elapsed before my
desertion at Montreal, what had the Glenmore done and where had she been? A=
nd
thereat I took those landlubbers around the world with me. Buffeted by poun=
ding
seas and stung with flying spray, they fought a typhoon with me off the coa=
st 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.
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.
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 ho=
ops
of gold through the ears; no prairie winds had beaten that skin into wrinkl=
ed 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.
I was desperate. Disaster stalked before me
incarnate in the form of that gold-ear-ringed, weather-beaten son of the se=
a.
Who was he? What was he? I must solve him ere he solved me. I must take a n=
ew 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.
But did I betray my desperate plight to those
lynx-eyed guardians of the public welfare of Winnipeg? Not I. I met that ag=
ed
sailorman glad-eyed and beaming, with all the simulated relief at deliveran=
ce that
a drowning man would display on finding a life-preserver in his last despai=
ring
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 quest=
ions
about himself. Before my judges I would prove the character of my savior be=
fore
he saved me.
He was a kindly sailorman--an "easy
mark." The policemen grew impatient while I questioned him. At last on=
e of
them told me to shut up. I shut up; but while I remained shut up, I was bus=
y 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 t=
he
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.
The policeman urged him on to examine me.
"You called in at Rangoon?" he queri=
ed.
I nodded. "We put our third mate ashore
there. Fever."
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:--
"And how is Rangoon?"
"All right. It rained a whole lot when we
were there."
"Did you get shore-leave?"
"Sure," I answered. "Three of us
apprentices went ashore together."
"Do you remember the temple?"
"Which temple?" I parried.
"The big one, at the top of the
stairway."
If I remembered that temple, I knew I'd have to
describe it. The gulf yawned for me.
I shook my head.
"You can see it from all over the
harbor," he informed me. "You don't need shore-leave to see that
temple."
I never loathed a temple so in my life. But I
fixed that particular temple at Rangoon.
"You can't see it from the harbor," I
contradicted. "You can't see it from the town. You can't see it from t=
he
top of the stairway. Because--" I paused for the effect. "Because
there isn't any temple there."
"But I saw it with my own eyes!" he
cried.
"That was in--?" I queried.
"Seventy-one."
"It was destroyed in the great earthquake=
of
1887," I explained. "It was very old."
There was a pause. He was busy reconstructing =
in
his old eyes the youthful vision of that fair temple by the sea.
"The stairway is still there," I aid=
ed
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 fatho=
ms
of water there now."
I had gained a moment for breath. While he
pondered on time's changes, I prepared the finishing touches of my story.
"You remember the custom-house at
Bombay?"
He remembered it.
"Burned to the ground," I announced.=
"Do you remember Jim Wan?" he came b=
ack
at me.
"Dead," I said; but who the devil Jim
Wan was I hadn't the slightest idea.
=
I was
on thin ice again.
"Do you remember Billy Harper, at
Shanghai?" I queried back at him quickly.
That aged sailorman worked hard to recollect, =
but
the Billy Harper of my imagination was beyond his faded memory.
"Of course you remember Billy Harper,&quo=
t; I
insisted. "Everybody knows him. He's been there forty years. Well, he's
still there, that's all."
And then the miracle happened. The sailorman
remembered Billy Harper. Perhaps there was a Billy Harper, and perhaps he h=
ad
been in Shanghai for forty years and was still there; but it was news to me=
.
For fully half an hour longer, the sailorman a=
nd I
talked on in similar fashion. In the end he told the policemen that I was w=
hat
I represented myself to be, and after a night's lodging and a breakfast I w=
as
released to wander on westward to my married sister in San Francisco.
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 fa=
ce 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 f=
or
food. My embarrassment was painful, extreme. I was ashamed. I, who looked u=
pon
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.
"You are hungry, my poor boy," she s=
aid.
I had made her speak first.
I nodded my head and gulped.
"It is the first time I have ever ...
asked," I faltered.
"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."
She looked at me closely when she got me into =
the
light.
"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."<= o:p>
She mothered him with her voice, with an ineff=
able
tenderness in it that I yearned to appropriate. I glanced at him. He sat ac=
ross
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 wonde=
ring
stare.
"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."
"He is dead?" she queried gently,
setting before me half a dozen soft-boiled eggs.
"Dead," I gulped. "Two weeks ag=
o. 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-stor=
e.
He died there."
And thereat I developed the pitiful tale of my
father--how, after my mother's death, he and I had gone to San Francisco fr=
om
the ranch; how his pension (he was an old soldier), and the little other mo=
ney
he had, was not enough; and how he had tried book-canvassing. Also, I narra=
ted
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 believ=
ed
in him as I believed in the beautiful eggs I was devouring. I could have we=
pt
for myself. I know the tears did get into my voice at times. It was very ef=
fective.
In fact, with every touch I added to the pictu=
re,
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 gav=
e 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 sava=
ge;
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 s=
at
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 h=
im.
And yet I could not forbear, once or twice, from wondering if he saw throug=
h me
down to the bottom of my mendacious heart.
"But where are you going to?" she as=
ked
me.
"Salt Lake City," said I. "I ha=
ve 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 contract=
ing
plumber."
Now I knew that contracting plumbers were usua=
lly
credited with making lots of money. But I had spoken. It was up to me to
qualify.
"They would have sent me the money for my
fare if I had asked for it," I explained, "but they have had sick=
ness
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 eno=
ugh
to get me to Salt Lake City. She is lovely, and so kind. She was always kin=
d to
me. I guess I'll go into the shop and learn the trade. She has two daughter=
s.
They are younger than I. One is only a baby."
Of all my married sisters that I have distribu=
ted
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.
On the other hand, I have a feeling of certitu=
de
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 t=
he 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 a=
ny
rate, they have never written to me.
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.
To her my story was "true." She beli=
eved
in me and all my family, and she was filled with solicitude for the dangero=
us
journey I must make ere I won to Salt Lake City. This solicitude nearly bro=
ught
me to grief. Just as I was leaving, my arms full of lunch and my pockets bu=
lging
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, moreov=
er,
would come through that night on the very train on which I was going to ste=
al
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 enthus=
iasm
at this solution of my difficulties.
Solution! Why I was bound west that night, and
here was I being trapped into going east. It was a trap, and I hadn't the h=
eart
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 w=
ould
have to beat my way back over all those hundreds of miles of desert.
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 boun=
dless
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.
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.
=
Barring
accidents, a good hobo, with youth and agility, can hold a train down despi=
te
all the efforts of the train-crew to "ditch" him--given, of cours=
e,
night-time as an essential condition. When such a hobo, under such conditio=
ns,
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 sho=
rt
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.
But this I have heard of the "bad"
roads. When a tramp has "gone underneath," on the rods, and the t=
rain
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 a=
nd
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 usual=
ly 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.
The "shack" (brakeman) takes a
coupling-pin and a length of bell-cord to the platform in front of the truc=
k in
which the tramp is riding. The shack fastens the coupling-pin to the bell-c=
ord,
drops the former down between the platforms, and pays out the latter. The
coupling-pin strikes the ties between the rails, rebounds against the botto=
m 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 hou=
r it
beats a veritable tattoo of death. The next day the remains of that tramp a=
re
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.
As a characteristic illustration of how a capa=
ble
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 Manito=
ba
and the Rocky Mountains. I could expect "crimpy" weather, and eve=
ry
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 day=
s I
had lived on dry crusts, and not enough of them, begged from the French
peasants.
Furthermore, my disgust had been heightened by=
the
one day I had spent in Ottawa trying to get an outfit of clothing for my lo=
ng
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.
But to return to Ottawa. At eight sharp in the
morning I started out after clothes. I worked energetically all day. I swea=
r 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 hour=
s 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.
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 w=
as
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 m=
eat
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.
That cake marked the crisis in my fortunes. Th=
an
it nothing could be worse; therefore things must begin to mend. And they di=
d.
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 ofte=
n 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 wit=
h me
while I ate.
I wonder if that beautiful young Frenchwoman w=
ould
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 mention=
ed.
"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 d=
oes
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.
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 baggag=
e are
all right. They are inconspicuous. But a score! That meant trouble. No
train-crew would ever let all of us ride.
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 l=
ocked.
No conductor or brakeman can get to him to collect fare or throw him off. I=
t is
clear that the tramp is safe until the next time the train stops. Then he m=
ust
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.
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 cours= e, 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 accompanie= d by a number of the tramps. They evidently knew their business. When one is bea= ting 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.<= o: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 wh=
ere 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, a=
nd
gets on to the train. So it is up to the tramp to run so far ahead that bef=
ore
the blind is opposite him the shack will have already vacated it.
I dropped the last tramp by about fifty feet, =
and
waited. The train started. I saw the lantern of the shack on the first blin=
d.
He was riding her out. And I saw the dubs stand forlornly by the track as t=
he 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, occu=
pied
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 tha=
t 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 doze=
n of
the more skilful tramps, who had run far enough ahead, made the first blind,
too.
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 f=
ourteen,
now twelve, now eleven, now nine, now eight. It reminded me of the ten litt=
le
niggers of the nursery rhyme. I was resolved that I should be the last litt=
le
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 n=
ot
these other tramps mere dubs and "gay-cats" and amateurs alongsid=
e 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.
By the time our number had been reduced to fou=
r,
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 ot=
her 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 sp=
ite
of two brakemen, a conductor, a fireman, and an engineer.
And here are a few samples of the way I held h=
er
down. Out ahead, in the darkness,--so far ahead that the shack riding out t=
he
blind must perforce get off before it reaches me,--I get on. Very well. I a=
m good
for another station. When that station is reached, I dart ahead again to re=
peat
the manoeuvre. The train pulls out. I watch her coming. There is no light o=
f 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 fir=
st
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 lant=
ern doused,
and even as I spring upon the steps that lantern may smash down upon my hea=
d. I
ought to know. I have been hit by lanterns two or three times.
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 aga=
inst
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.
Ah, there it comes. The shack has ridden out t=
he
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 h=
as
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.
I watch carefully. I see a lantern come forwar=
d 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 handl=
e 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.
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 a=
nd coaches,
its government mail, and its two thousand steam horses straining in the eng=
ine.
And I weigh only one hundred and sixty pounds, and I haven't a five-cent pi=
ece
in my pocket!
Again I see the lantern come forward to the
engine. But this time it comes conspicuously. A bit too conspicuously to su=
it
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 ma=
ke my
spring, I see the dark form of a shack, without a lantern, on the first bli=
nd.
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 glim=
pse
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 figur=
ed
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 forw=
ard
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 bl=
ind.
I stand on the steps and watch my pursuer. He is only about ten feet back a=
nd
running hard; but now the train has approximated his own speed, and, relati=
ve
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.
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 th=
at,
I'll be massacred by him and the engineer, and I refrain.
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 fi=
rst.
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 tha=
t 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.
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 str=
ike
the steps on either side. I don't stop to look. I raise my arms overhead un=
til
my hands rest against the down-curving ends of the roofs of the two cars. O=
ne
hand, of course, is on the curved roof of one car, the other hand on the cu=
rved
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 th=
em
swear.
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 t=
he curve
of the other roof. Then, gripping the edge of that curving roof, I climb ov=
er
the curve to the level roof above, where I sit down to catch my breath, hol=
ding
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 proces=
s I
have described is by them called "decking her." And let me say ri=
ght
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.
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 lar=
ge
that at the next stop the shacks will be waiting for me to descend at the p=
lace
I climbed up. It is up to me to climb down at some other platform.
Registering a fervent hope that there are no
tunnels in the next half mile, I rise to my feet and walk down the train ha=
lf a
dozen cars. And let me say that one must leave timidity behind him on such =
a passear.
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 t=
he
roof of a jolting, lurching car, with nothing to hold on to but the black a=
nd
empty air, and when he comes to the down-curving end of the roof, all wet a=
nd
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 whe=
ther
his heart is weak or his head is giddy.
As the train slows down for a stop, half a doz=
en
platforms from where I had decked her I come down. No one is on the platfor=
m.
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.)
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 tru=
ck, 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 a=
nd
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.
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.
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. Th=
ey
are searching the rods for me. I must make my get-away pretty lively. I cra=
wl
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.
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-cre=
w in
front of me. I turn and run back in the opposite direction to what the trai=
n is
going. I look over my shoulder. All three lanterns are on the ground and wo=
bbling
along in pursuit. I sprint. Half the train has gone by, and it is going qui=
te fast,
when I spring aboard. I know that the two shacks and the conductor will arr=
ive
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 unsoc=
ial
things about my ancestors.
But what does that matter? It is five to one,
including the engineer and fireman, and the majesty of the law and the migh=
t of
a great corporation are behind them, and I am beating them out. I am too fa=
r 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 t=
hat
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.
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 t=
he
door. The train is standing still; the night is quiet, and I take care to m=
ake
plenty of noise on the metal roof with my feet. I don't know, but my assump=
tion
is that he is now running forward to catch me as I descend at the next plat=
form.
But I don't descend there. Halfway along the roof of the coach, I turn, ret=
race
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 t=
he
train and hide in the darkness. Not a soul has seen me.
I go over to the fence, at the edge of the rig=
ht
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 a=
re 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 i=
s a
rabbit-drive, and I am the rabbit. When the shack on top flushes me, the on=
es
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.
"You son-of-a-gun," is what he says.=
It is a high compliment, and I thrill as a
schoolboy thrills on receiving a reward of merit.
"Say," I call up to him, "don't=
you
play the hose on me any more."
"All right," he answers, and goes ba=
ck
to his work.
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 ar=
e going
to ditch me or know the reason why. Three times the mighty overland stops f=
or
me at that station, and each time I elude the shacks and make the decks. Bu=
t it
is hopeless, for they have finally come to an understanding of the situatio=
n. I
have taught them that they cannot guard the train from me. They must do
something else.
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 kno=
w 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.
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 do=
wn
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 dee=
ply
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, a=
nd
if he tries to slug me, I'll teach him a few things.
But he doesn't try to slug me, and that proble=
m 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.
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-gr=
ipping,
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 ea=
ch revolution.
Before he knows it, those detaining fingers of his will be detained. He wil=
l 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 a=
nd your
abdomen with your right. You see, the other fellow might try to stop you wi=
th 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 pun=
ch
coming.
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 p=
lan
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 blind=
s.
After that, the conductor and the other shack swing aboard. But still my ca=
ptor
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.
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.
"Think you can make it?" I query
innocently.
He releases my collar, makes a quick run, and
swings aboard. A number of coaches are yet to pass by. He knows it, and rem=
ains
on the steps, his head poked out and watching me. In that moment my next mo=
ve
comes to me. I'll make the last platform. I know she's going fast and faste=
r,
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 w=
ith
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 t=
rain
is going too fast for me ever to make it.
And the train is going fast--faster than any t=
rain
I have ever tackled. As the last coach comes by I sprint in the same direct=
ion with
it. It is a swift, short sprint. I cannot hope to equal the speed of the tr=
ain,
but I can reduce the difference of our speed to the minimum, and, hence, re=
duce
the shock of impact, when I leap on board. In the fleeting instant of darkn=
ess
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 ins=
tant
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 gr=
ip
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.
I sit down, feeling very proud of myself. In a=
ll
my hoboing it is the best bit of train-jumping I have done. I know that lat=
e 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 ro=
d.
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 wil=
l never
do. Sleep on the rods spells death, so I crawl out at a station and go forw=
ard
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 th=
eir
minds.
"I thought you was ditched," says the
shack who had held me by the collar.
"If you hadn't let go of me when you did,
you'd have been ditched along with me," I answer.
"How's that?" he asks.
"I'd have gone into a clinch with you, th=
at's
all," is my reply.
They hold a consultation, and their verdict is
summed up in:--
"Well, I guess you can ride, Bo. There's =
no
use trying to keep you off."
And they go away and leave me in peace to the =
end
of their division.
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 th=
em--when
I was tripped up by accident and ditched.
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.
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.
"Get out of that, you
blankety-blank-blank!" he roared at me.
I got, and outside I watched him go down the l=
ine
inspecting every car in the train. When he got out of sight I thought to my=
self
that he would never think I'd have the nerve to climb back into the very ca=
r out
of which he had fired me. So back I climbed and lay down again.
Now that con's mental processes must have been
paralleling, mine, for he reasoned that it was the very thing I would do. F=
or
back he came and fired me out.
Now, surely, I reasoned, he will never dream t=
hat
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 nail=
ed
up. Beginning at the top of the coal, I dug a hole alongside of that door a=
nd
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 c=
oal
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.
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 adjacen= t 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 fo= r 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 thousa= nd and twenty-two miles I lost that car through a happy incident. I got a &quo= t;set-down," and the tramp doesn't live who won't miss a train for a set-down any time.<= o:p>
&=
nbsp;
"What do it matter where or 'ow we die, So long as we've =
our
'ealth to watch it all?"
=
--Sestina of the Tramp-Royal
=
Perhaps
the greatest charm of tramp-life is the absence of monotony. In Hobo Land t=
he
face of life is protean--an ever changing phantasmagoria, where the impossi=
ble
happens and the unexpected jumps out of the bushes at every turn of the roa=
d.
The hobo never knows what is going to happen the next moment; hence, he liv=
es
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.
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 remembe=
r 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.
Why, they ate like a couple of canaries, dabbl=
ing
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 nigh=
t. I
had been out all night, consuming much fuel of my body to keep warm, beatin=
g 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 pi=
ece
of toast each bite when one is potential with many bites.
When I was a very little lad, I had a very lit=
tle
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 outs=
ide 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 cal=
f. 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 a=
side
like a straw in the path of a cyclone, and that Newfoundland swooped down u=
pon
the plate. In spite of his huge maw he must have been trained to quick lunc=
hes,
for, in the fleeting instant before he received the kick in the ribs I aime=
d at
him, he completely engulfed the contents of the plate. He swept it clean. O=
ne
last lingering lick of his tongue removed even the grease stains.
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?
At any rate, it gave my tongue time to wag. Th=
ose
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&qu=
ot;
would have it, they had worked all their lives "on one same shift.&quo=
t;
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 swe=
at
and strife, and with the tangs and odors of strange lands and soils. And ri=
ght
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 hou=
rs
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.=
Ah, I can see them now, those dear, sweet ladi=
es,
just as I sat at their breakfast table twelve years ago, discoursing upon t=
he
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 wi=
th
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.
Coming along the street, after parting from the
maiden ladies, I gathered in a newspaper from the doorway of some late-rise=
r,
and in a grassy park lay down to get in touch with the last twenty-four hou=
rs of
the world. There, in the park, I met a fellow-hobo who told me his life-sto=
ry
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 commo=
nly 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.
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 morni=
ng
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 acro=
ss
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 ca=
me
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 en=
ough
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 wa=
s 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.
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 c=
atch
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.
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 forwa=
rd,
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 f=
ull
measure of human suffering was in her face, and, in addition, there was the
tragic expression of incapacity for further suffering. Nothing could hurt a=
ny more,
was what her face seemed to portray; but in this, too, I was wrong.
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, a=
nd
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 marche ons, to march, to walk, to
"mush." The particular graft of the two mushers who had crossed t=
he
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.
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 t=
han
mumble on in intermittent conversation. And then, all abruptly, the peace a=
nd
quietude was jarred awry by man.
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, a=
nd
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 ev=
il
than to run on; but lesser evil that it was, it was great enough to put win=
gs
to his fear and urge his feet to flight.
Still he lagged and struggled until he reached=
the
shelter of the trees, where he halted. The chief of the tribe did not pursu=
e.
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 tr=
ees
knew, for what he waited.
The boy who had lagged slowly came back. His f=
ace
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 o=
riginal
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.
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 la=
sh
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 wh=
ere
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 he=
ld
good. A second welt sprang up, and a third. It was not until the fourth lan=
ded
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 rea=
ch
of the whip, he danced back into range again. And when it was all over--a d=
ozen
blows--he went away, whimpering and squealing, among the wagons.
The chief stood still and waited. The second b=
oy
came out from the trees. But he did not come straight. He came like a cring=
ing
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 tha=
t he
never looked at the man. His eyes always were fixed upon the whip, and in h=
is
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 bat=
tle
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 witne=
ssing
was as merrymaking and laughter and song to me in comparison with the way t=
he
sight of that poor child affected me.
The whipping began. The whipping of the first =
boy
was as play compared with this one. In no time the blood was running down h=
is
thin little legs. He danced and squirmed and doubled up till it seemed almo=
st
that he was some grotesque marionette operated by strings. I say
"seemed," for his screaming gave the lie to the seeming and stamp=
ed
it with reality. His shrieks were shrill and piercing; within them no hoars=
e notes,
but only the thin sexlessness of the voice of a child. The time came when t=
he
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.
Then came interruption. I heard a wild smother=
ed
cry. The woman who sat in the wagon seat had got out and was running to
interfere. She sprang between the man and boy.
"You want some, eh?" said he with the
whip. "All right, then."
He swung the whip upon her. Her skirts were lo=
ng,
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 rece=
iving
the blows. Heroic mother! She knew just what she was doing. The boy, still
shrieking, was making his get-away to the wagons.
And all the while the four men lay beside me a=
nd
watched and made no move. Nor did I move, and without shame I say it; thoug=
h 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 bei=
ng
beaten to death by five men there on the bank of the Susquehanna? I once sa=
w 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 gy=
psy
group, it was the law that the woman should be whipped.
Even so, the reason in both cases that I did n=
ot
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 wou=
ld I
have waded into the man with the whip. And, barring the accident of the lan=
ding
on me with a knife or a club in the hands of some of the various women of t=
he
camp, I am confident that I should have beaten him into a mess. But the four
men were beside me in the grass. They made their law stronger than I.
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 he=
r 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 t=
ime
my reason kept whispering, "Fool! Fool!" That welt on the face ne=
arly
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.
"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 sou=
l, unmalicious,
unmoral, bovine, and stubborn. Just an animal he was, with no more than a f=
aint
flickering of intelligence, a good-natured brute with the strength and ment=
al
caliber of a gorilla. His hand pressed heavily upon me, and I knew the weig=
ht
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 reas=
on
came back to me, my muscles relaxed, and I sank down in the grass.
My mind went back to the two maiden ladies with
whom I had had breakfast that morning. Less than two miles, as the crow fli=
es, separated
them from this scene. Here, in the windless day, under a beneficent sun, wa=
s 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 n=
ever
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.
The whipping was finished, and the woman, no
longer screaming, went back to her seat in the wagon. Nor did the other wom=
en
come to her--just then. They were afraid. But they came afterward, when a d=
ecent
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 exerti=
ons.
He wiped the sweat from his eyes on his coat-sleeve, and looked challenging=
ly
at me. I returned his look carelessly; what he had done was no concern of m=
ine.
I did not go away abruptly. I lay there half an hour longer, which, under t=
he circumstances,
was tact and etiquette. I rolled cigarettes from tobacco I borrowed from th=
em,
and when I slipped down the bank to the railroad, I was equipped with the
necessary information for catching the next freight bound south.
Well, and what of it? It was a page out of lif=
e,
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, degenera=
ted
by domestication, will not do. The dog still retains the wild instinct in t=
his
matter, while man has lost most of his wild instincts--at least, most of the
good ones.
Worse pages of life than what I have described?
Read the reports on child labor in the United States,--east, west, north, a=
nd
south, it doesn't matter where,--and know that all of us, profit-mongers th=
at
we are, are typesetters and printers of worse pages of life than that mere =
page
of wife-beating on the Susquehanna.
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 pull=
ed
slowly up the hill, and here I found half a dozen hoboes waiting for the sa=
me purpose.
Several were playing seven-up with an old pack of cards. I took a hand. A c=
oon
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 m=
e,
he paused and said:--
"Say, Bo, ain't I done seen you befo'?&qu=
ot;
"You sure have," I answered. "A=
n'
you didn't have those same duds on, either."
He was puzzled.
"D'ye remember Buffalo?" I queried.<= o:p>
Then he knew me, and with laughter and ejacula=
tion
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 cl=
othes
had been likewise striped, for I had been doing my bit of time, too.
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 e=
dge
of the bank. The man who was "stuck" had to take a small
condensed-milk can, and with it carry water to the winners.
The first game was played and the coon was stu=
ck.
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 ste=
ep,
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.
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 care=
less
children, or gods, there on the edge of the bank. I know that I laughed til=
l it
seemed the top of my head would come off, and I drank from the milk-tin til=
l 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 wei=
ght
of water secreted on our persons. This particular phase of the situation ju=
st
about finished the coon. He had to break off from water-carrying for at lea=
st
five minutes while he lay down and rolled with laughter.
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.
And then we played a game in which the coon fa=
iled
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, co=
uld
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 d=
rank
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.
But the whistle sounded. The page was done. We
sprang to our feet and strung out alongside the track. There she came, coug=
hing
and spluttering up the grade, the headlight turning night into day and silh=
ouetting
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 wi=
th
mixed lumber and crawled away into a comfortable nook. I lay on my back wit=
h 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.
=
I rode
into Niagara Falls in a "side-door Pullman," or, in common parlan=
ce,
a box-car. A flat-car, by the way, is known amongst the fraternity as a
"gondola," with the second syllable emphasized and pronounced lon=
g.
But to return. I arrived in the afternoon and headed straight from the frei=
ght
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 beautif=
ul
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."
"Kip," "doss,"
"flop," "pound your ear," all mean the same thing; name=
ly,
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 flatt=
ered
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 fat=
ed
never to see the river nor the falls again.
The town was asleep when I entered it. As I ca=
me
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 tw=
o-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.
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.
"What hotel are you stopping at?" he
queried.
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. Everythi=
ng
was against me.
"I just arrived," I said.
"Well, you turn around and walk in front =
of
me, and not too far in front. There's somebody wants to see you."
I was "pinched." I knew who wanted to
see me. With that "fly-cop" and the two hoboes at my heels, and u=
nder
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, t=
hey
found letters addressed to Jack London. This caused trouble and required ex=
planation,
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 i=
t 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.
From the office we were led to the
"Hobo" and locked in. The "Hobo" is that part of a pris=
on
where the minor offenders are confined together in a large iron cage. Since
hoboes constitute the principal division of the minor offenders, the afores=
aid
iron cage is called the Hobo. Here we met several hoboes who had already be=
en
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 t=
here
received a shock from which it has never fully recovered.
In the court-room were the sixteen prisoners, =
the
judge, and two bailiffs. The judge seemed to act as his own clerk. There we=
re
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 t=
he
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 w=
as
calling another name and another hobo was rising to his feet.
The trial of that hobo had taken just about
fifteen seconds. The trial of the next hobo came off with equal celerity. T=
he
bailiff said, "Vagrancy, your Honor," and his Honor said,
"Thirty days." Thus it went like clockwork, fifteen seconds to a
hobo--and thirty days.
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 approac=
hed
the rest of us, while waiting at a water-tank for a freight, should have
unhesitatingly classified him as a "gay-cat." Gay-cat is the syno=
nym
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.
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 gon=
e out
of business. He had been kept on to the last, though toward the last his wo=
rk
had been very irregular. He went on and explained at length his difficultie=
s 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.
"Thirty days," said his Honor, and
called another hobo's name.
Said hobo got up. "Vagrancy, your
Honor," said the bailiff, and his Honor said, "Thirty days."=
And so it went, fifteen seconds and thirty day=
s 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.
But my American blood was up. Behind me were t=
he
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. T=
his
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.=
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.
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.
"Why did you quit your job?" his Hon=
or
asked.
Now the teamster had already explained how his=
job
had quit him, and the question took him aback.
"Your Honor," he began confusedly,
"isn't that a funny question to ask?"
"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.=
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.
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 th=
em.
But when I asked for a lawyer, I was laughed at. Habeas corpus was all righ=
t,
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 t=
ill
I got out, that was all. I'd make them sit up. I knew something about the l=
aw
and my own rights, and I'd expose their maladministration of justice. Visio=
ns
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.
A policeman snapped a handcuff on my right wri=
st.
(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 h=
is
hand lifted mine up a trifle in the manacles. Also, he was the happiest and=
the
raggedest negro I have ever seen.
We were all handcuffed similarly, in pairs. Th=
is
accomplished, a bright nickel-steel chain was brought forth, run down throu=
gh
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 u=
pon
the street, guarded by two officers. The tall negro and I had the place of
honor. We led the procession.
After the tomb-like gloom of the jail, the out=
side
sunshine was dazzling. I had never known it to be so sweet as now, a prison=
er
with clanking chains, I knew that I was soon to see the last of it for thir=
ty
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 t=
he
veranda of a hotel that we marched past.
There was plenty of slack in the chain, and wi=
th
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 p=
erpetrated
on me and my forefathers, I was nevertheless too prosaically practical to l=
ose
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 prisoner=
s in
it, but for a full-grown penitentiary with a couple of thousand prisoners in
it, doing anywhere from ten days to ten years.
In the seat behind me, attached to the chain by
his wrist, was a squat, heavily-built, powerfully-muscled man. He was somew=
here
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 wa=
s 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.
He was my "meat." I "cottoned&q=
uot;
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--eno=
ugh
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.
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 penitent=
iary
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,&q=
uot;
and I called him "Jack."
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: Rock=
lyn,
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, a=
nd
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 wome=
n,
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!"
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.
My new pal shook his head at me.
"If you do not leave your things here, th=
ey
will be confiscated inside," warned the official.
Still my pal shook his head. He was busy with = his hands, hiding his movements behind the other fellows. (Our handcuffs had be= en removed.) I watched him, and followed suit, wrapping up in a bundle in my h= andkerchief 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 t= wo who had watches, did not turn over their belongings to the man in the offic= e. 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.<= o:p>
Our erstwhile guardians gathered up the handcu=
ffs
and chain and departed for Niagara Falls, while we, under new guardians, we=
re
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 proces=
sion
forty or fifty strong.
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 do=
ors 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 br=
icks
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 arou=
nd.
Such a cube and encompassing building constitute a "hall" in the =
Erie
County Penitentiary. Also, to complete the picture, see a narrow gallery, w=
ith
steel railing, running the full length of each tier of cells and at the end=
s of
the oblong cube see all these galleries, from both sides, connected by a
fire-escape system of narrow steel stairways.
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 wa=
s 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 pas=
sed
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 an=
d 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.
A minute later the door was unlocked, and we f=
iled
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 verm=
in.
After the bath, we were each given a canvas clothes-bag.
"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 s=
uspenders.
Men for more than thirty days keep nothing."
This announcement was received with consternat=
ion.
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. The=
y passed
among the poor newcomers, kindly volunteering to take charge of their preci=
ous
little belongings, and promising to return them later in the day. Those bar=
bers
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.
There were several chairs, and the barbers wor=
ked
rapidly. The quickest shaves and hair-cuts I have ever seen were given in t=
hat 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 altoget=
her
bad we were.
Then came the line-up, forty or fifty of us, n=
aked
as Kipling's heroes who stormed Lungtungpen. To search us was easy. There w=
ere
only our shoes and ourselves. Two or three rash spirits, who had doubted th=
e 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 bro=
ught
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.
In single file, close together, each man's han=
ds
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 ca=
ttle
such as we, came down the line. He vaccinated just about four times as rapi=
dly
as the barbers shaved. With a final caution to avoid rubbing our arms again=
st
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."
As soon as I was locked in, I sucked my arm cl=
ean.
And afterward I saw men who had not sucked and who had horrible holes in th=
eir
arms into which I could have thrust my fist. It was their own fault. They c=
ould
have sucked.
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 thi=
s in
spite of the fact that he had just recently finished a two-year term in som=
e Ohio
penitentiary.
Hardly had we been in our cell half an hour, w=
hen
a convict sauntered down the gallery and looked in. It was my pal. He had t=
he
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 t=
hem
were the First, Second, and Third Hall-men.
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 chanc=
e to
take. Then next morning we would be put to hard labor in the prison-yard.
"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."
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.
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 int=
o a
long and slender cylinder. This he lighted with a precious match. The cylin=
der
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 m=
ake
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.
At twelve o'clock dinner was served. At the bo=
ttom
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 panni=
kins
of "soup." A portion of soup consisted of about a quart of hot wa=
ter
with floating on its surface a lonely drop of grease. Also, there was some =
salt
in that water.
We drank the soup, but we did not eat the brea=
d.
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 Rola=
nd,
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 mouthfu=
ls
of our bread until it was reduced to the consistency of putty. When a fleei=
ng 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 e=
very
hole, nook, and cranny was closed. I shudder to think of the tragedies of
starvation and cannibalism that must have ensued behind those bread-plaster=
ed
ramparts.
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 week=
s 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 con=
tent.
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 mad=
e,
and we were taken to another cell and locked in two galleries higher up.
Early next morning our cells were unlocked, and
down in the hall the several hundred prisoners of us formed the lock-step a=
nd
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 pri=
son.
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.
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 b=
oy 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 consid=
er
that what I had received at Niagara Falls was a trial); I had not been allo=
wed
to communicate with a lawyer nor any one, and hence had been denied my righ=
t 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 d=
iet
of bread and water and to march the shameful lock-step with armed guards ov=
er
me--and all for what? What had I done? What crime had I committed against t=
he
good citizens of Niagara Falls that all this vengeance should be wreaked up=
on
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 stree=
ts.
All that I had done was to walk along their sidewalk and gaze at their pica=
yune
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.
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 real=
ly
was incommunicado so far as the outside world was concerned. I tried to wri=
te a
letter out, but I learned that all letters were read, and censured or
confiscated, by the prison authorities, and that "short-timers" w=
ere
not allowed to write letters anyway. A little later I tried smuggling lette=
rs
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.
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 to=
ld
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 Lex=
ow
Committee, I was to read tales true and more awful than those told to me. B=
ut
in the meantime, during the first days of my imprisonment, I scoffed at wha=
t I
heard.
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 res=
pect
in me for the sleuth-hounds of the law and for the whole institution of
criminal justice.
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 wis=
er
and a humbler man.
=
For
two days I toiled in the prison-yard. It was heavy work, and, in spite of t=
he
fact that I malingered at every opportunity, I was played out. This was bec=
ause
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.
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 thr=
ee rations
a day were given to each prisoner. There was one good thing, I must say, ab=
out
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, t=
he
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 serv=
ed
with a purplish-auburn hue that defied all speculation; it was darn poor te=
a,
but it was dandy hot water.
We were a hungry lot in the Erie County Pen. O=
nly
the "long-timers" knew what it was to have enough to eat. The rea=
son
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.
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 priso=
ners
in their cells; but at twelve o'clock a different method was used. The conv=
icts
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 s=
tood
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 p=
lace
with a full tray. And when his was emptied, I took his place with a full tr=
ay.
Thus the line tramped steadily by, each man reaching with his right hand and
taking one ration of bread from the extended tray.
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 rati=
ons
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 o=
f 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.
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 plu=
g of
chewing tobacco. This chewing tobacco was the coin of the realm. Two or thr=
ee
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 k=
now,
it was like taking candy from a baby, but what would you? We had to live. A=
nd 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 captai=
ns
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 implant=
ed
the ambition to become even as we and run a graft. Saviours of society--I g=
uess
yes.
Here was a hungry man without any tobacco. May=
be
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 tatte=
red,
paper-covered novel. That was treasure-trove. I could read it and then trad=
e 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 occasional=
ly
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.
In short, a full-grown system of barter obtain=
ed
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 ba=
rber-shop
graft, where the newcomers were mulcted, but most of all flowed from the ce=
lls
of the long-timers--though how they got it I don't know.
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 rep=
uted
to be wealthy; but we never saw his money, and he lived in a cell all to
himself in solitary grandeur.
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 we=
re
the guards. A couple of them might jump upon him, give him a good beating f=
or
alleged insubordination, and throw him into the "solitaire" (the
dungeon); and in the mix-up that sixteen dollars of his would take wings. T=
hen
again, the First Hall-man could have taken it all away from him by threaten=
ing
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 w=
ere
wolves, believe me--just like the fellows who do business in Wall Street.
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 ye=
ars
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 crunc=
hing
bones and spitting out feathers as he bolted it raw. Oh, no, I never gave a=
way
on him to the other hall-men. This is the first time I have mentioned his
sixteen dollars.
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 wri=
te
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 hi=
m;
though I shrewdly guess that she was in love, not with him, but with the hu=
mble
scribe. I repeat, those letters were great.
Another one of our grafts was "passing the
punk." We were the celestial messengers, the fire-bringers, in that ir=
on
world of bolt and bar. When the men came in from work at night and were loc=
ked
in their cells, they wanted to smoke. Then it was that we restored the divi=
ne
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 read=
y 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 immor=
tal
cinch on him, and if he got fresh, two or three of us would pitch on him and
give him "what-for."
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.
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 wa=
s 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 oft=
en,
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 t=
he 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.
As regards the details of this man-handling I
shall say nothing. And after all, man-handling was merely one of the very m=
inor
unprintable horrors of the Erie County Pen. I say "unprintable"; =
and
in justice I must also say "unthinkable." They were unthinkable t=
o 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.
At times, say in the morning when the prisoners
came down to wash, the thirteen of us would be practically alone in the mid=
st
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 ri=
ght
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.
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 trav=
el
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 fee=
t,
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 sc=
ream
of terror and pain and heartbreak. At the same instant, as in a transformat=
ion scene,
the shreds of his stout prison clothes fell from him, leaving him wholly na=
ked
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 conv=
ict
within those walls who heard him scream had learned a lesson. So had I lear=
ned
mine. It is not a nice thing to see a man's heart broken in a minute and a
half.
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, g=
ive
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 n=
ot
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.
Sometimes, however, a newcomer arrives, upon w=
hom
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 on=
e thing
patent is that the man has a "pull." It may be with one of the su=
perior
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.
We hall-men were middle-men and common carrier=
s.
We arranged trades between convicts confined in different parts of the pris=
on,
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 d=
ozen
middle-men, each of whom took his whack, or in some way or another was paid=
for
his service.
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 th=
e firemen
passed a letter into my hand. It had been given to him by a barber. The bar=
ber
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 han=
ds.
Two days passed, during which time I kept the
letter in my possession; then the opportunity came. The women did the mendi=
ng
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, an=
d I
looked my intention at the woman. She knew I had something for her; she mus=
t have
been expecting it, and had set herself to divining, at the moment we entere=
d,
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 aw=
ay.
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 tha=
t 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 t=
he
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 w=
as the
last hall-man, and I was hastening to catch up with my companions. The lett=
er I
had received from the woman I turned over to the fireman, and thence it pas=
sed
through the hands of the barber, of the convict who had smuggled in my thin=
gs,
and on to the long-timer at the other end.
Often we conveyed letters, the chain of
communication of which was so complex that we knew neither sender nor sende=
e.
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 receivi=
ng
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 ti=
mes
not above giving service for love.
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 expecte=
d 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 crimin=
al--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 qu=
iet
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 joine=
d 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, a=
nd liked
me a bit, too, I think, for myself. Of course I had not the slightest inten=
tion
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 w=
ith my
pal.
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 p=
air
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 d=
ope
they used. But I do know, whatever their dope was, that they got good and d=
runk
on occasion.
Our hall was a common stews, filled with the r=
uck
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. The=
se
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 occurre=
nces.
There was a young Dutch boy, about eighteen ye=
ars
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 th=
e 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 loc=
ked
up in his cell all day with a Cockney cell-mate, to keep him company. Not t=
hat
the Cockney was of any use. Whenever the Dutch boy had a fit, the Cockney
became paralyzed with terror.
The Dutch boy could not speak a word of Englis=
h.
He was a farmer's boy, serving ninety days as punishment for having got int=
o a
scrap with some one. He prefaced his fits with howling. He howled like a wo=
lf.
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 hea=
rd
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. Whi=
le
he stood and howled, the Cockney crouched and trembled in the upper bunk, h=
is
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.
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 sw=
aying
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 gu=
ard for
assistance. What was a man with a fit, anyway?
In the adjoining cell lived a strange characte=
r--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, a=
t 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.
Once I passed his cell with a piece of stiff t=
hin
wire in my hand. He asked me for it so earnestly that I passed it through t=
he
bars to him. Promptly, and with no tool but his fingers, he broke it into s=
hort
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.
But his imprisonment told on him, and he grew
violent day by day. The hall-men took delight in teasing him. They filled h=
is
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 cours=
e, 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.
The first I knew of it, I heard the hall-men
laughing about the string they had given him. Next he held a serious confer=
ence
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 pi=
ns
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.
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 fictit=
ious
wrongs preyed upon his mind, and at last he became a dangerous and homicida=
l 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, o=
r if
he still gibbers about his millions in some asylum for the insane.
At last came the day of days, my release. It w=
as
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 blissf=
ully
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 ar=
e 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 l=
earn
what time a certain freight pulled out. I calculated my time accordingly. W=
hen
the moment came, my pal and I were in a saloon. Two foaming shupers were be=
fore
us. I'd have liked to say good-by. He had been good to me. But I did not da=
re.
I went out through the rear of the saloon and jumped the fence. It was a sw=
ift sneak,
and a few minutes later I was on board a freight and heading south on the
Western New York and Pennsylvania Railroad.
=
=
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," co=
oked
"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.
It was one of the latter that I chased clear
across Canada over three thousand miles of railroad, and never once did I l=
ay
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 thro=
ugh
Montreal bound west, on October 15, 1894. He had one day the start of me. &=
quot;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.
I had misfortune in getting over the next hund=
red
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; a=
nd
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.
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 gr=
ay 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 ni=
ght
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 pa=
st,
and I "hit" some firemen I found in the round-house. They fixed m=
e 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 bolt=
ed
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.
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 C=
olumbia.
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.
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 g=
o,
for I thought I was ahead of him. As for myself I was still bound west to V=
ancouver.
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.
Water-tanks are tramp directories. Not all in =
idle
wantonness do tramps carve their monicas, dates, and courses. Often and oft=
en
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 re=
cent
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 h=
ave
met hoboes who, in trying to catch a pal, had pursued clear across the
continent and back again, and were still going.
"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 ho=
bo
would select Stew Bum for himself. Very few tramps care to remember their p=
asts
during which they ignobly worked, so monicas based upon trades are very rar=
e,
though I remember having met the following: Moulder Blackey, Painter Red, C=
hi
Plumber, Boiler-Maker, Sailor Boy, and Printer Bo. "Chi" (pronoun=
ced
shy), by the way, is the argot for "Chicago."
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 Mick=
ey,
K.L. Bill, and Connecticut Jimmy. Then there was "Slim Jim from Vinega=
r Hill,
who never worked and never will." A "shine" is always a negr=
o, so
called, possibly, from the high lights on his countenance. Texas Shine or
Toledo Shine convey both race and nativity.
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.
Texas Royal, Happy Joe, Bust Connors, Burley B=
o,
Tornado Blackey, and Touch McCall used more imagination in rechristening
themselves. Others, with less fancy, carry the names of their physical pecu=
liarities,
such as: Vancouver Slim, Detroit Shorty, Ohio Fatty, Long Jack, Big Jim, Li=
ttle
Joe, New York Blink, Chi Nosey, and Broken-backed Ben.
By themselves come the road-kids, sporting an
infinite variety of monicas. For example, the following, whom here and ther=
e 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).
On the water-tank at San Marcial, New Mexico, a
dozen years ago, was the following hobo bill of fare:--
(1)
Main-drag fair. (2) Bul=
ls not
hostile. (3) Round-hous=
e good
for kipping. (4) North-=
bound
trains no good. (5) Pri=
vates
no good. (6) Restaurant=
s good
for cooks only. (7) Rai=
lroad
House good for night-work only.
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 g=
ood
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 wheth=
er
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.
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 w=
ay,
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.=
I arrived in Reno, Nevada, in a box-car that w=
as
promptly side-tracked. It was a Sunday morning, and after I threw my feet f=
or 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 o=
nly
acquaintance I had in that region, and I was his only acquaintance. We rush=
ed
together like a couple of dissatisfied hermits, and together we spent the d=
ay,
threw our feet for dinner, and late in the afternoon tried to "nail&qu=
ot;
the same freight. But he was ditched, and I rode her out alone, to be ditch=
ed myself
in the desert twenty miles beyond.
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 w=
as 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 w=
hen
he told me that east-bound trains never stopped there. Besides, hadn't I be=
en
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 mig=
ht
go by before another was stopped under orders. He advised me that it was on=
ly 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 di=
d,
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 overla=
nd go
by. She was going fast, but I caught sight of a dim form on the first
"blind" that looked like the Swede.
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 g=
etting
my sleep. It was early in the year, and it was cold in those upland pasture=
s.
Snow lay here and there on the level, all the mountains were shrouded in wh=
ite,
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 throu=
gh
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.
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 encou=
ntered
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."
We caught the blind as the overland pulled out,
and mighty cold we found it. The way led up a narrow gorge between snow-cov=
ered
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.
The pilot of the head engine, because it
"punched the wind," I knew would be too cold; so I selected the p=
ilot
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 for=
m of
a young boy. He was sound asleep. By squeezing, there was room for two on t=
he
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 arous=
ed
me, when I snuggled closer to the boy and dozed off to the coughing of the
engines and the screeching of the wheels.
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 ye=
ars
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.
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&q=
uot;
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 go=
ing
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.
Now it is no snap to strike a strange town, br=
oke,
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 th=
e 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 hea=
ded
for the lights of a saloon, walking briskly, the snow crunching under our f=
eet,
a chill little wind blowing through us.
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 w=
hite-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.
"Two beers," said I nonchalantly to =
the
barkeeper, and while he drew them, the Swede and I leaned against the bar a=
nd
yearned secretly for the arm-chairs by the stove.
The barkeeper set the two foaming glasses befo=
re
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 ti=
me,
glaring at us malevolently, he said:--
"You've got scabs on your nose. You've got
scabs on your nose. You've got scabs on your nose. See!"
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.
I dug down and laid another dime on the bar,
remarking carelessly, "Oh, I thought this was a five-cent joint."=
"Your money's no good here," he
answered, shoving the two dimes across the bar to me.
Sadly I dropped them back into my pocket, sadl=
y we
yearned toward the blessed stove and the arm-chairs, and sadly we went out =
the
door into the frosty night.
But as we went out the door, the barkeeper, st=
ill
glaring, called after us, "You've got scabs on your nose, see!"
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 hav=
e been
unable to divine the meaning in the cryptic utterance of that barkeeper in =
Evanston,
Wyoming. Our noses were all right.
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 h=
ead
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 st=
and
around down below. He gave us our choice of the boilers or the outside snow=
.
"You said you wanted to sleep, and so, da=
mn
you, sleep," said he to me, when, frantic and beaten out by the heat, I
came down into the fire-room.
"Water," I gasped, wiping the sweat =
from
my eyes, "water."
He pointed out of doors and assured me that do=
wn
there somewhere in the blackness I'd find the river. I started for the rive=
r,
got lost in the dark, fell into two or three drifts, gave it up, and return=
ed 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 w=
ere
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.
"When I get back to Chicago," he
perorated, "I'm going to get a job and stick to it till hell freezes o=
ver.
Then I'll go tramping again."
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 i=
ron,
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 dec=
ided
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.
But we must eat, and we decided that at the ne=
xt
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&qu=
ot; back-doors;
but we put on our nerve, swung off the side-ladders as the freight pulled i=
nto
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, w=
ith
a couple of "hand-outs" poked into my shirt, I chased for the tra=
in.
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.
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 g=
rit
all right, and the orange special and the Swede rolled on without me.
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" f=
or
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.
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 e=
ver,
but at twilight I rode out on the first blind of the overland. As I swung a=
board
the blind from one side, somebody swung aboard from the other. It was the b=
oy
who had run away from Oregon.
Now the first blind of a fast train in a drivi=
ng 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 we=
nt
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 o=
ut
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.
"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."
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 m=
idnight.
The snow was thicker than ever. Here the engine was to go into the round-ho=
use,
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 prom=
ptly
he informed me that he was the sheriff. I drew in my horns and listened and
answered.
He began describing the kid who was still asle=
ep
in the cab. I did some quick thinking. Evidently the family was on the trai=
l 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.
The sheriff left me in order to interview the
shacks, but before he left he said:--
"Bo, this town is no place for you.
Understand? You ride this train out, and make no mistake about it. If I cat=
ch
you after it's gone ..."
I assured him that it was not through desire t=
hat
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.
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 n=
ews
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 instructi=
ons
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.
Strange to say, I do not at this late day reme=
mber
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 o=
pen.
Faro, roulette, craps, and poker tables were running, and some mad cow-punc=
hers
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.
Without a word he led me out into the snow.
"There's an orange special down there in =
the
yards," said he.
"It's a damn cold night," said I.
"It pulls out in ten minutes," said =
he.
That was all. There was no discussion. And when
that orange special pulled out, I was in the ice-boxes. I thought my feet w=
ould
freeze before morning, and the last twenty miles into Laramie I stood uprig=
ht 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.
My quarter of a dollar bought me a hot breakfa=
st
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 to=
p 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 se=
e if
I was frozen yet.
At Ames' Monument, at the summit of the
Rockies,--I forget the altitude,--the shack came forward for the last time.=
"Say, Bo," he said, "you see th=
at
freight side-tracked over there to let us go by?"
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.
"Well, the 'after-push' of Kelly's Army i=
s 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."
His advice was good, and I followed it, prepar=
ed,
however, if it was a "con game" the shack had given me, to take t=
he
blind as the overland pulled out. But it was straight goods. I found the ca=
r--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 w=
as
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 impa=
rted
an involuntary forward movement to me. I could not find any straw to step u=
pon,
so I stepped upon more men. The resentment increased, so did my forward mov=
ement.
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.
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 t=
ill
what little was left of me, by some miracle, found a bit of straw to rest u=
pon.
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 m=
an
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 pena=
lty
for failure was the threshing-machine. Nobody failed. And I want to say rig=
ht
here that never in my life have I sat at so marvellous a story-telling deba=
uch.
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.
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 Nebras=
ka 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.
We took up a collection and sent a telegram to=
the
authorities of that town. The text of the message was that eighty-five heal=
thy,
hungry hoboes would arrive about noon and that it would be a good idea to h=
ave
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 eve=
nt
they'd have to feed us anyway, and they decided wisely that one meal would =
be
the cheaper way.
When the freight rolled into Grand Island at n=
oon,
we were sitting on the tops of the cars and dangling our legs in the sunshi=
ne.
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, a=
nd
the eighty-five of us, strung out along the track, swarmed up the side-ladd=
ers.
We "captured" the train.
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.
At about ten o'clock in the evening, we arrive=
d at
Omaha.
"Let's shake the push," said the Swe=
de
to me.
"Sure," said I.
As the freight pulled into Omaha, we made read=
y to
do so. But the people of Omaha were also ready. The Swede and I hung upon t=
he 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 ha=
ppen
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.
"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 ch=
ance
and made a successful get-away.
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 bli=
nd
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, t=
hat
was being moved from somewhere to somewhere. The doors were locked. A squal=
l of
wind and rain drove down upon us. We did not hesitate. Smash went the door,=
and
in we went.
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 passe=
d 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 openi=
ngs
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 a=
nd
forget our misery. We had no blankets, and in our wet clothes, wet to the s=
kin,
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 e=
nd of
half an hour I crawled up on top the bar. A little later the Swede crawled =
up
on top his table.
And there we shivered and prayed for daylight.=
I
know, for one, that I shivered until I could shiver no more, till the shive=
ring
muscles exhausted themselves and merely ached horribly. The Swede moaned an=
d 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.
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 f=
eet 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. Whe=
n we
tried to speak, our teeth chattered us back into silence. We stood alone, s=
hut
off from the world; all that we could see was a short length of railroad tr=
ack,
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.
"Never again what?" I managed to
articulate.
Speech strove for utterance in the Swede's thr=
oat;
then faint and distant, in a thin whisper from the very bottom of his frozen
soul, came the words:--
"Never again a hobo."
He paused, and, as he went on again, his voice
gathered strength and huskiness as it affirmed his will.
"Never again a hobo. I'm going to get a j=
ob.
You'd better do the same. Nights like this make rheumatism."
He wrung my hand.
"Good-by, Bo," said he.
"Good-by, Bo," said I.
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.
=
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&quo=
t;
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 m=
y life
on "one same shift"; because--well, just because it was easier to=
than
not to.
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 lat=
er,
when I read Milton's "Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven,&qu=
ot;
I was fully convinced that great minds run in the same channels.
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 Cos=
ta,
several miles from Benicia, a stolen boat lay at anchor in charge of the co=
nstable.
Now this boat was owned by a friend of mine, by name Dinny McCrea. It had b=
een
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 do=
wn
to Oakland to him.
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 posse=
ssed
fifty cents and a small skiff. The former I invested and loaded into the la=
tter
in the form of crackers, canned corned beef, and a ten-cent bottle of Frenc=
h 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 morn=
ing,
on the first of a glorious flood-tide, a fair wind behind us, we came boomi=
ng
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.
A man ran out on the wharf and hailed us. It w=
as
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 constab=
le
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 on=
ly
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 a=
nd I
were talking at the same time, our spoken thoughts colliding in mid-air and=
making
gibberish.
The constable grew more imperative, and perfor=
ce 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 t=
he
breeze on my cheek, saw the surge of the tide, looked at the remaining gask=
ets
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.
"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."
The constable had slid down the ladder and was
fumbling with a key at the padlock. The anchor came aboard and the last gas=
ket
was loosed at the same instant that the constable freed the skiff and jumpe=
d to
the oars.
"Peak-halyards!" I commanded my crew=
, at
the same time swinging on to the throat-halyards. Up came the sail on the r=
un.
I belayed and ran aft to the tiller.
"Stretch her!" I shouted to Nickey at
the peak. The constable was just reaching for our stern. A puff of wind cau=
ght
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 gl=
ory
of the day with the vividness of his language. Also, he wailed for a gun. Y=
ou
see, that was another gamble we had taken.
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 w=
ere stealing
them for my friend, Dinny McCrea.
Benicia was made in a few minutes, and a few
minutes later my blankets were aboard. I shifted the boat down to the far e=
nd
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 teleph=
one
to the Benicia constable. Nickey and I held a council of war. We lay on dec=
k 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, w=
hen
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.
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 c=
urrent.
"With this wind, we could run this flood
clear to Rio Vista," I said.
"And it's fruit-time on the river," =
said
Nickey.
"And low water on the river," said I.
"It's the best time of the year to make Sacramento."
We sat up and looked at each other. The glorio=
us
west wind was pouring over us like wine. We both spat over the side and gau=
ged
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 the=
m,
the whole chain of events that was to put me upon The Road would have broken
down.
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 wha=
rf.
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 swimm=
ing.
Between swims we lay on the bank and talked. They talked differently from t=
he
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.
"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 w=
as
at a little town in Ohio on the Lake Shore and Michigan Southern," a k=
id
would start; and another, "Ever ride the Cannonball on the Wabash?&quo=
t;;
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 go=
in'
some." "The Northern Pacific's a bad road now." "Salina=
s 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.'&q=
uot;
And I continued to lie in the sand and listen.
These wanderers made my oyster-piracy look like thirty cents. A new world w=
as
calling to me in every word that was spoken--a world of rods and gunnels, b=
lind
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. Ve=
ry
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.
After the swim, as evening came on, they dress=
ed
and went up town. I went along. The kids began "battering" the
"main-stem" for "light pieces," or, in other words, beg=
ging
for money on the main street. I had never begged in my life, and this was t=
he
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 fine=
r 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 ear=
ned
convictions at the hands of justice, which, if I had tried to serve them, w=
ould
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.
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 f=
eet
as well as the next one.
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 nig=
ht
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.
"No kid is a road-kid until he has gone o=
ver
'the hill'"--such was the law of The Road I heard expounded in Sacrame=
nto.
All right, I'd go over the hill and matriculate. "The hill," by t=
he
way, was the Sierra Nevadas. The whole gang was going over the hill on a ja=
unt,
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," w=
hen
I had put the Rockies between me and my native state.
At 10.20 P.M. the Central Pacific overland pul=
led
out of the depot at Sacramento for the East--that particular item of time-t=
able
is indelibly engraved on my memory. There were about a dozen in our gang, a=
nd
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 ca=
re
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."
The engine whistled and the overland pulled ou=
t.
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.
Back at the depot, about him two or three of t=
he
push that had witnessed the accident, lay French Kid with both legs off. Fr=
ench
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 judgm=
ent
on their own and each other's surgeons, and wind up by withdrawing to one s=
ide,
taking off bandages and wrappings, and comparing stumps.
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 le=
gs,
and the rest were nursing skins and bruises.
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 delay=
ed
descending to the platform of the blind until after the second stop. And th=
en 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 oth=
er
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 Sacrame=
nto,
I was a full-fledged road-kid.
Yet I had much to learn. Bob was my mentor, an=
d 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 adv=
ice.
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.&quo=
t;
On the other hand, I couldn't show the white feather. I'd been over the hil=
l, 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.
We took our position on K Street, on the corne=
r, 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 t=
he road-kids
all managed to wear "five-dollar Stetson stiff-rims," and now I k=
new.
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 key=
ed
up, Bob dragged me back. He wanted me to get a good hat, and one that fitte=
d.
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 sn=
atched
any kind of a head-covering.
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 h=
at from
the Chinaman's head and pulled it down on my own. It was a perfect fit. The=
n 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.
And then, suddenly, around the corner at my ba=
ck,
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 al=
ong
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 in=
creasing
rabble, overhauled me. But finally, when a policeman had joined his followi=
ng,
I let out all my links. I twisted and turned, and I swear I ran at least tw=
enty
blocks on the straight away. And I never saw that Chinaman again. The hat w=
as 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.
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 ti=
mes
they are not cowardly. They will fling themselves upon a man and hold on wi=
th 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.
I have strong upon me now a vision of what I o= nce 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 fr= om 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-k= ids. 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 forwa= rd and does the trick. Into the man's back goes his knee; around the man's nec= k, 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.<= o: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 chan=
ges
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, bare=
footed
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. The=
n 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, grea=
tly dishevelled,
and making quaint jerking movements of head and neck.
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 aft=
er
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 t=
oo
large for the kids. And in the end they depart, leaving beside the stiff the
heap of their discarded rags.
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 ten=
tative
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 lo=
t 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 t=
he
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 t=
hem
afterward, and learned that they had just arrived that day over the hill, a=
nd
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 t=
he thick
of it, and the combat rages over his body after the fashion of the Greeks a=
nd
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, a=
nd
the really hurt expression on his face when he, unoffending he, was clutche=
d at
by many hands and dragged down in the thick of the press.
"Bindle-stiffs" are favorite prey of=
the
road-kids. A bindle-stiff is a working tramp. He takes his name from the ro=
ll
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 hi=
m, 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.
"Gay-cats" also come to grief at the
hands of the road-kid. In more familiar parlance, gay-cats are short-horns,
chechaquos, new chums, or tenderfeet. A gay-cat is a newcomer on The Road w=
ho
is man-grown, or, at least, youth-grown. A boy on The Road, on the other ha=
nd,
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 po=
ssession.
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 t=
he
time I was exchanging my 'Frisco Kid monica for that of Sailor Jack, I labo=
red
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 aristocrac=
y of
The Road. They are the lords and masters, the aggressive men, the primordial
noblemen, the blond beasts so beloved of Nietzsche.
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 di=
dn't
get it, and I know that it didn't go with us up the Sacramento River, and t=
hat
is all I do know.) With the loss of Dinny McCrea's boat, I was pledged to T=
he
Road; and when I grew tired of Sacramento, I said good-by to the push (whic=
h,
in its friendly way, tried to ditch me from a freight as I left town) and
started on a passear down the valley of the San Joaquin. The Road had gripp=
ed
me and would not let me go; and later, when I had voyaged to sea and done o=
ne
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 th=
at
wet me to the skin.
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 "Kell=
y's Army."
Across the wild and woolly West, clear from California, General Kelly and h=
is
heroes had captured trains; but they fell down when they crossed the Missou=
ri
and went up against the effete East. The East hadn't the slightest intentio=
n of
giving free transportation to two thousand hoboes. Kelly's Army lay helples=
sly
for some time at Council Bluffs. The day I joined it, made desperate by del=
ay,
it marched out to capture a train.
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 West=
on,
seven miles away. Being the latest recruit, I was in the last company, of t=
he
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.
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 Cou=
ncil
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 priva=
te
car attached, arrived at the station and side-tracked. At this sign that li=
fe
had renewed in the dead roads, the whole army lined up beside the track.
But never did life renew so monstrously on a d=
ead
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 furious=
ly,
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 yard=
s of
great railways. When the yards at Council Bluffs had been completely cleane=
d,
the private car and engine went east, and the tracks died for keeps.
That day went by, and the next, and nothing mo=
ved,
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 Bluf=
fs 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 Pa=
cific
yards. First they captured an engine, next they knocked a train together, a=
nd
then the united mobs piled aboard, crossed the Missouri, and ran down the R=
ock
Island right of way to turn the train over to us. The railway officials tri=
ed
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 tearin=
g up
the track. It happened that we were suspicious and had our patrols out. Cau=
ght
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.
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 trai=
n.
There wasn't room for two thousand hoboes to ride. So the mobs and the hobo=
es
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 ag=
ain.
It cost the railroads slathers of money, but they were acting on principle,=
and
they won.
Underwood, Leola, Menden, Avoca, Walnut, Marno,
Atlantic, Wyoto, Anita, Adair, Adam, Casey, Stuart, Dexter, Carlham, De Sot=
o,
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 wa=
gons
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 wa=
y;
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 cir=
cus
day, for there were many towns.
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
anaesthetics, 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 c=
lub,
church services were usually held, local preachers officiating, and always =
there
was a great making of political speeches. All these things ran neck and nec=
k;
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.
Last year, while on a lecturing trip, I rode i=
nto
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 w=
ould
walk no more. We took possession of the stove-works and told Des Moines tha=
t 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 litt=
le
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 calend=
ar.
That's going some. We had no money. It was up to Des Moines.
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 i=
t.
Des Moines pleaded with the railroads, but they were obdurate; they had sai=
d we
shouldn't ride, and that settled it. To permit us to ride would be to estab=
lish
a precedent, and there weren't going to be any precedents. And still we wen=
t 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 a=
ll
our railroad fares, even at special rates, and if we remained much longer,
she'd have to float bonds anyway to feed us.
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 w=
as 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.
Des Moines took up a subscription. Public-spir=
ited
citizens contributed several thousand dollars. Lumber, rope, nails, and cot=
ton 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 picay=
une
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.
On Wednesday, May 9, 1894, we got under way and
started on our colossal picnic. Des Moines had got off pretty easily, and s=
he certainly
owes a statue in bronze to the local genius who got her out of her difficul=
ty.
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 Moin=
es
we'd come back if the river failed to float us.
It was all very well having twelve thousand me=
als
in the commissary, and no doubt the commissary "ducks" enjoyed th=
em;
for the commissary promptly got lost, and my boat, for one, never saw it ag=
ain.
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 colle=
cted
for the Army.
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 oursel=
ves
the "advance boat," and demanded to know what provisions had been
collected for the Army. We represented the Army, of course, and the provisi=
ons
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 o=
f 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 order=
s to
turn such provisions over to the commissary boats whose business was to fol=
low
behind us.
My, but the ten of us did live on the fat of t=
he
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 o=
ur 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.
I kept a diary on part of the trip, and as I r=
ead
it over now I note one persistently recurring phrase, namely, "Living
fine." We did live fine. We even disdained to use coffee boiled in wat=
er.
We made our coffee out of milk, calling the wonderful beverage, if I rememb=
er rightly,
"pale Vienna."
While we were ahead, skimming the cream, and w=
hile
the commissary was lost far behind, the main Army, coming along in the midd=
le,
starved. This was hard on the Army, I'll allow; but then, the ten of us wer=
e 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 throu=
gh which
the Army passed, had appointed a committee of safety. Counting five to a fa=
mily,
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 t=
wo
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 treasur=
e-chest.
But the committee of safety lost its head.
"No encouragement to the invader" was its programme, and when Gen=
eral
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 an=
d on
top of the bank formed in battle array. The committee was there to see. Gen=
eral
Kelly's speech was brief.
"Boys," he said, "when did you =
eat
last?"
"Day before yesterday," they shouted=
.
"Are you hungry?"
A mighty affirmation from two thousand throats
shook the atmosphere. Then General Kelly turned to the committee of safety:=
--
"You see, gentlemen, the situation. My men
have eaten nothing in forty-eight hours. If I turn them loose upon your tow=
n,
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 gi=
ve
me four thousand rations, or I turn the men loose. Five minutes,
gentlemen."
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 collect=
ing
of the requisition began forthwith, and the Army dined.
And still the ten graceless individualists soa=
red
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. T=
hey
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 w=
ith
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 b=
arbed-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 subjec=
t.
Unable to make an honest living so long as Gen=
eral
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 Secon=
d Division.
The captain of Company L refused to recognize us; said we were deserters, a=
nd
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 lieuten=
ant.
He joined us with the ten men in his boat, and in return we elected him cap=
tain
of Company M. The captain of Company L raised a roar. Down upon us came Gen=
eral
Kelly, Colonel Speed, and Colonel Baker. The twenty of us stood firm, and o=
ur
revolution was ratified.
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 un=
der
way in the morning, so he called in a blacksmith to clinch his captaincy. I=
n the
stern of our boat, one on each side, were driven two heavy eye-bolts of iro=
n.
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.
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 ter=
rors
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.
The boats used by the Army were all alike, mad=
e by
the mile and sawed off. They were flat-boats, and their lines were rectangl=
es.
Each boat was six feet wide, ten feet long, and a foot and a half deep. Thu=
s, when
our two boats were hooked together, I sat at the stern steering a craft twe=
nty
feet long, containing twenty husky hoboes who "spelled" each othe=
r at
the oars and paddles, and loaded with blankets, cooking outfit, and our own
private commissary.
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 wat=
er 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! y=
ou
blankety-blank-blanks!" shriek the police-boats. "How can we?--bl=
ank
the blankety-blank river, anyway!" we wail plaintively as we surge pas=
t,
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.
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 th=
at
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.
There was no stopping our cussedness. We rigge=
d 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-boa=
ts
was lifted. Colonel Speed was put aboard, and with this distinguished offic=
er
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 w=
ere heroes,
both of you, and you were men. And I'm sorry for at least ten per cent of t=
he
trouble that was given you by the head-boat of Company M.
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 do=
wn
the Mississippi to Quincy, Illinois, where we camped across the river on Go=
ose
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 promi=
sing
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; a=
lso
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 Compan=
y 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 o=
ften
regretted the wealth of story, the fecundity of fiction, I lavished that da=
y in
Quincy, Illinois.
It was at Hannibal, Missouri, that the ten
invincibles went to pieces. It was not planned. We just naturally flew apar=
t.
The Boiler-Maker and I deserted secretly. On the same day Scotty and Davy m=
ade
a swift sneak for the Illinois shore; also McAvoy and Fish achieved their g=
et-away.
This accounts for six of the ten; what became of the remaining four I do no=
t know.
As a sample of life on The Road, I make the following quotation from my dia=
ry
of the several days following my desertion.
"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 pu=
lled
out from the Army.
"Saturday, May 26th. At 2.11 A.M. we caug=
ht
the Cannonball as she slowed up at the crossing. Scotty and Davy were ditch=
ed.
The four of us were ditched at the Bluffs, forty miles farther on. In the a=
fternoon
Fish and McAvoy caught a freight while Boiler-Maker and I were away getting
something to eat.
"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 goin=
g to
take that. Boiler-Maker went off, but didn't return. Guess he caught a frei=
ght.
"Monday, May 28th. Boiler-Maker didn't sh=
ow
up. Scotty and Davy went off to sleep somewhere, and didn't get back in tim=
e 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.
"Tuesday, May 29th. Arrived in Chicago at=
7
A.M...."
*
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 thousand=
s of
years used a similar device to negotiate "bad water." It is a goo=
d 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?"
= 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 hone= st livings, educate their children, and bring them up God-fearing and industri= ous. I know. At one time my father was a constable and hunted tramps for a livin= g. 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 shoe= s, the day's outing, or the text-book for school, were dependent upon my fathe= r'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 nigh= t'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 elud= ing 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.<= o:p>
But it's all in the game. The hobo defies soci= ety, 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 perfor= med 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 tramp= s. 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, a= nd where the hoboes simply have to work. Then there are places like the quarri= es at Rutland, Vermont, where the hobo is exploited, the unearned energy in his body, which he has accumulated by "battering on the drag" or &quo= t;slamming gates," being extracted for the benefit of that particular community.<= o: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 wa=
s 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 pre=
tty
well keyed up over those quarries, and I fought shy of railroad cops,
"bulls," and constables as I never had before.
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 w=
in
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 learne=
d I
was only a stiff, he began talking about the quarries at Rutland as the cau=
se
of the fright I had given him. He was a young country fellow, and had beaten
his way only over local stretches of road.
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 st=
op,
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 lashe=
s 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 hea=
rd
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.
The train got under way. It came to the next s=
top.
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 star=
ed
at the shack and his lantern. He didn't waste any time getting down to busi=
ness.
"I want three dollars," he said.
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 remai=
n unsatisfied.
The shack was incredulous. He dickered with us. He would compromise for two
dollars. We regretted our condition of poverty. He said uncomplimentary thi=
ngs,
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 carr=
y us
on to White River and turn us over to the authorities. He also explained all
about the quarries at Rutland.
Now that shack thought he had us dead to right=
s.
Was not he guarding the one door, and had he not himself latched the opposi=
te
door but a few minutes before? When he began talking about quarries, the fr=
ightened
gay-cat started to sidle across to the other door. The shack laughed loud a=
nd
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.
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 serv=
ed
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 nin=
ety
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 unoff=
ending
creature's skull.
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 ou=
t 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 tha=
t 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 dolla=
rs.
Then it was that I let out a few links. I call=
ed
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 Eng=
land
"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 win=
ged
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.
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, a=
nd
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.
Oh, I was a hero--with my line of retreat stra=
ight
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-cr=
ew
took after us.
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.
When hoboes pass the word along, concerning a
town, that "the bulls is horstile," avoid that town, or, if you m=
ust,
go through softly. There are some towns that one must always go through sof=
tly.
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 J=
eff
Carr (if I remember his name aright). Jeff Carr could size up the
"front" of a hobo on the instant. He never entered into discussio=
n.
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 conf=
ines
of the United States (Canada and Mexico included), the man-handled hoboes
carried the word that Cheyenne was "horstile." Fortunately, I nev=
er
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 pre=
tty
nonchalant on most things, but not on Jeff Carr. The connotation of "J=
eff
Carr" stunned our imagination, numbed our virility, and the whole gang=
was
mortally scared of meeting him.
It rarely pays to stop and enter into explanat=
ions
with bulls when they look "horstile." A swift get-away is the thi=
ng
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 automati=
c process
with me to make a run for it when I see a bull reaching for me. This automa=
tic
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.
The finishing touch to my education in bulls w=
as
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 morn=
ing,
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 cur=
rent
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=
.
So here I was, a meek and studious milk-drinki=
ng
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 m=
y 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 rig=
ht
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 sou=
nds
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 ye=
ll
"Bull!" The gamins knew their business. They ran. I didn't.
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 cro=
wd, who
were heading in the same direction. We were loosely strung out. I noticed t=
he
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, a=
nd 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 resp=
ect
for the law I was actually all ready to pause the next moment and let him c=
ross
in front of me. The pause came all right, but it was not of my volition; al=
so
it was a backward pause. Without warning, that bull had suddenly launched o=
ut
at me on the chest with both hands. At the same moment, verbally, he cast t=
he
bar sinister on my genealogy.
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 ca=
me
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 visi=
on.
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, re=
ad
by a clerk; and I saw myself across in Blackwell's Island. Oh, I knew the g=
ame.
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 shal=
l,
to my dying day, whenever a bull begins to explain with a club.
Why, years after my tramping days, when I was a
student in the University of California, one night I went to the circus. Af=
ter
the show and the concert I lingered on to watch the working of the transpor=
tation
machinery of a great circus. The circus was leaving that night. By a bonfir=
e I
came upon a bunch of small boys. There were about twenty of them, and as th=
ey
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 t=
he
small boys for violating the nine o'clock curfew ordinance. The policemen s=
urrounded
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.
Now I didn't know anything about the coming of=
the
police; and when I saw the sudden eruption of brass-buttoned, helmeted bull=
s,
each of them reaching with both hands, all the forces and stability of my b=
eing
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 cit=
izen
of that community. It was my home town. I was guilty of no wrong-doing. I w=
as 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 dee=
r,
for over a block. And when I came to myself, I noted that I was still runni=
ng.
It required a positive effort of will to stop those legs of mine.
No, I'll never get over it. I can't help it. W=
hen
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 f=
lame
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 bul=
l,
and the next morning I forfeit my bail in the police court. The city had tr=
eacherously
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 assemblag=
e,
and I get up on a soap-box to trot out the particular economic bees that bu=
zz
in my bonnet, and a bull takes me off that box and leads me to the city pri=
son,
and after that I get out on bail. It's no use. In Korea I used to be arrest=
ed
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 was=
n'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.
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. A=
bout
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.
The second time I was ditched the shack gave m=
e a
lecture. He told me I was risking my life, that it was a fast freight and t=
hat
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 nai=
led
her a third time, getting in between on the bumpers. They were the most mea=
gre
bumpers I had ever seen--I do not refer to the real bumpers, the iron bumpe=
rs
that are connected by the coupling-link and that pound and grind on each ot=
her;
what I refer to are the beams, like huge cleats, that cross the ends of fre=
ight
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.
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 breadt=
h. 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.
As the freight got out of Philadelphia she beg=
an
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 no=
thing
to stop her. On that section of the Pennsylvania four tracks run side by si=
de,
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 tr=
ack
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 pres=
sing
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 le=
gs
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 sidewis=
e;
and also, if he fell off, he'd get only a roll in the sawdust, while I'd ha=
ve been
ground to pieces beneath the wheels.
And that freight was certainly going some, roa=
ring
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 h=
ave
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 tickl=
ish
work, for I had never encountered car-ends that were so parsimonious of
hand-holds and foot-holds as those car-ends were.
I heard the engine whistling, and I felt the s=
peed
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 t=
ook
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 l=
and.
I was pretty well down the train, and before my car was in the town the eng=
ine
was past the station and I could feel her making speed again.
Then came the street. It was too dark to see h=
ow
wide it was or what was on the other side. I knew I needed all of that stre=
et
if I was to remain on my feet after I struck. I dropped off on the near sid=
e.
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 moment=
um
the train had imparted to my body. When my feet hit the grit, my body was l=
ying
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 momen=
tum,
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 rap=
idly
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.
I was an involuntary projectile, worrying about
what was on the other side of the street and hoping that it wouldn't be a s=
tone
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 t=
he
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.
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 latt=
er,
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 th=
us,
by the terms of the Treaty of Bristol, I escaped being pinched.
I remember another night, in that part of the
country, when I just missed another bull. If I had hit him, I'd have telesc=
oped
him, for I was coming down from above, all holds free, with several other b=
ulls
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.
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 mar=
ket
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 r=
an
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 fo=
rty
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 e=
ach
pass the total stake doubled. All kinds of money lay on the floor. It was f=
ascinating.
With each pass, the chances increased tremendously against the coon making
another pass. The excitement was intense. And just then there came a thunde=
ring
smash on the big doors that opened on the back street.
A few of the negroes bolted in the opposite
direction. I paused from my flight a moment to grab at the all kinds of mon=
ey
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. T=
he
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 t=
han I
did, and I knew that in the way he ran lay safety. But he, on the other han=
d,
took me for a pursuing bull. He never looked around. He just ran. My wind w=
as
good, and I hung on to his pace and nearly killed him. In the end he stumbl=
ed
weakly, went down on his knees, and surrendered to me. And when he discover=
ed I
wasn't a bull, all that saved me was that he didn't have any wind left in h=
im.
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 caug=
ht
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. Hobo=
es
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 a=
re
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.
Somewhere along between Washington and Baltimo=
re,
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.
The train pulled into Baltimore. As is the cus=
tom
in the great Eastern cities, the railroad ran beneath the level of the stre=
ets
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 t=
hat
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 pl=
ace.
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.
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 vaul=
ted
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 t=
he
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.
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 a=
s my
feet struck the sidewalk with explosive impact. It was a wonder he didn't d=
rop dead,
for he hadn't heard me coming. It was the man-from-Mars stunt over again. T=
he
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 w=
ere
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.
After spending some of the coin I'd got from t=
he
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 tr=
ain pulled
into the station. I lay low in the darkness, and successfully boarded her w=
hen
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 Washingto=
n.
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 pain=
s 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. So I ca=
ught
the next train out, and ate my breakfast in Baltimore.