As we walked to our boarding house I told my father the whole story of
my job in the cigar store, my collecting for the milkman, my arrest, and
our rescue of Julia. He listened without comment, and when I was done,
said: “Well, John, you’ll be what you’ll be, and I cannot help or hinder
you. Go back to your job in the morning if you like.”
Those were his last words to me. They were kind, and I have always
remembered them and their ring of fatality. I never saw him again. I
learned later that he lived out his life orderly and died decently. He
went away the next day, and when he returned I was far away, westbound
in search of adventure.
I was tired of Tex and his tribe and their smoky back room and cheap
cheating. I was sick of the sight of the crabby widow at the boarding
house. It was springtime. Sundown found me miles away on a country road,
walking westward. Yes, I was going in the right direction. There was the
sun going down away off in front of me. Darkness was coming on, but it
did not strike me as unusual that I had no supper or no room for the
night.
I came to a bridge and stopped when I heard voices below. I looked over
the side and a voice came up: “Come on down, kid. Don’t be leary, we’re
only a couple of harmless bindle stiffs.”
I picked my way down to the level place beside the small creek where
they were. One of them was unrolling a “bindle” of blankets, the other
was washing a large tin can in the creek.
“Throw out your feet, kid, and get some wood before it gets too dark.
We’ll have a fire and a can of Java, anyway.”
Wood was plentiful. I soon returned with an armful. The other bum came
up with the can from the creek and began breaking up some twigs to start
the fire. He barely looked at me. “Take a look around the jungle, kid,
and see if you can find a pan,” he ordered.
“What in hell do you want a pan for?” asked the one that sent me after
wood. “Are you going to fry some water?” The other was on his hands and
knees blowing up the weak fire. He stood up and looked at the speaker
with a most superior air. “Not so fast, brother, not so fast. I’ve got a
gump in my bindle.”
He unrolled his blankets and produced a live chicken, big and fat.
The other bum was humbled. “A gump!” he muttered, “and me carrying a
fryin’ pan with me for the last week.” He dived into his bindle and got
the pan.
The owner of the chicken took the pan and held it between his eye and
the fire looking for holes in it. “It’ll do,” he said. “More wood,
kid,” they both ordered.
We were three strangers well met under the bridge; one had a chicken,
one coffee and a stale loaf of bread. I had nimble legs and gathered the
firewood.
The gump was picked, cleaned, unjointed, and put in the pan with
neatness and despatch that would have done credit to any chef. The
coffee boiled fragrantly in the tin can. The owner of the stale loaf
hacked it into three equal parts with his strong pocketknife, while the
chicken man deftly turned sections of the bird with a sharp-pointed
stick.
“This is a pretty snide jungle,” he said, “no cans. Throw your feet,
kid, and get some cans for the Java.”
I scurried around and was lucky to find one small can in the dark. The
cook inspected it. “Go down and wash it, bring it back half full of
water an’ I’ll boil it out.”
I washed the can and brought it back. The chicken and coffee were cooked
and cooling near the fire. The cook scalded out the small can and filled
it with coffee. He held out the pan of chicken to the other bum and
then to me, helping himself to a piece last. The small can of coffee was
now cool enough to drink, and was handed around in the same order. The
first bum took several swallows and passed it to me. I handed it to the
cook without drinking any. He looked at me for the first time.
“Say, brat, listen. If you was some kind of a rank dingbat you wouldn’t
have been invited down here. Don’t think because you couldn’t hustle a
can that you ain’t entitled to your coffee.”
“You’re right at that, Jack,” said the bum that furnished the coffee.
“Go ahead, kid.”
I drank my coffee and passed the can along. We ate in silence. The
chicken and bread soon disappeared. My companions lit up their pipes and
smoked while we finished the coffee.
I was learning fast. I took the frying pan, filled it with water, and
put it on the fire, without waiting for orders. When the water boiled I
washed it at the creek, scrubbed it with sand, and returned it to the
owner.
“Where you from, kid?”
“The city,” I answered.
“How long you been on the road?”
“This is my first day.”
“Got any people?”
“No, they are all dead.”
“Where you goin’?”
“Oh, just west, anywhere, everywhere.”
“Got any pennies?”
“No pennies. I’ve got a couple of dollars.” I looked from one to the
other. “Do you want any of it, either of you?”
“No,” from both of them. “But,” said the cook, “if we was in the city
I’d take fifty cents of it purty pronto and get myself a four-bit
micky.”
“A what?” I asked, mystified.
“A four-bit micky, a fifty-cent bottle of alcohol—Dr. Hall, white line,”
he translated in disgust. “If you’re goin’ west you better learn to talk
west.”
“Yes,” said the other, “and ‘pennies’ don’t mean pennies. It means
money, on the road.”
They didn’t talk much between themselves; they had probably compared
notes before I arrived at the bridge. They were both past fifty, wore
clean overalls, substantial shoes, and clean-looking blue shirts. A
month later I could have classified them correctly as professional bums,
too old to ride the trains, satisfied to throw their feet along the
“star routes,” or country roads, where food was seldom refused, and to
sleep in their bindles, or blankets, under the stars.
It was time to “flop.” They took off their shoes and coats. The shoes
were neatly placed together on a level spot; the coat was folded and
placed on top of them making a fair pillow, and at the same time
protecting them from theft. Each of them threw me a piece of blanket. I
made a pillow of my coat and shoes, rolled up in the blankets, and was
soon asleep.
A farmer’s team crossing the bridge woke us at daylight. I got up at
once, cold and sore from the hard ground, and made a fire. The other two
crawled out of their blankets and went down to the creek to wash. I
followed them. They both had soap wrapped in paper. One of them gave me
his piece. I washed and returned it. He placed it on a rock till it was
dry, then wrapped it up and put it in his coat pocket. They also had
pocket combs and small round mirrors.
We went back to the fire and discussed breakfast. “Nothing but Java,”
said the bum that had the coffee.
“I’ll go to the farmhouse,” I volunteered, “and buy something.”
“Nix, nix,” said one; “buy nothin’,” said the other, “it’s you kind of
cats that make it tough on us, buyin’ chuck. They begin to expect money.
You go up to that house,” pointing to a place on a small rise, about
fifteen minutes’ walk, “and tell the woman you and two other kids run
away from home in the city three days ago and you ain’t had nothin’ but
a head of cabbage that fell off a farmer’s wagon between youse since you
left. Tell her you are on your way back home and the other two kids are
down by the bridge so hungry they can’t walk. On your way up there git a
phony name and street number ready in case she asks you questions.
She’ll give you a sit-down for yourself, chances are, but bring back a
‘lump’ for us. You’re a decent-lookin’ kid; she might git worked up
about your troubles and ask a lot of dam’ fool questions. Cut her off.
Tell her you’re ashamed to be settin’ there wasting time and the other
boys starvin’ under the bridge.”
Before I got to the house a couple of dogs dashed out, barking savagely.
A healthy, matronly woman came out and quieted them, looking at me
inquiringly. I told her myself and two boy friends, runaways from home,
were hungry and I wanted some food, that I would be glad to pay her for
anything she could spare, and if she would wrap it up I would hurry down
to the bridge with it, where my chums were waiting.
“Yes,” she said kindly, “come in. I haven’t much here, but maybe I can
find enough.” She gave me a seat outside near the kitchen door, where I
waited and made friends with the dogs. In no time she came out with a
large parcel, and refused the money I offered. I thanked her and went
down to the bridge with my “lump.”
The bums had coffee boiling. We found enough tin cans to drink from and
opened the parcel. It contained cold, fried chicken, cold biscuits, and
half a pie.
“You’re a good connecter, kid; sure you didn’t pay for this?” one of
them said.
“No, and I didn’t have to answer any questions. It was easy except for
the dogs.”
“Don’t let dogs worry you, kid; they’re cowards. I ought to know, I’ve
been battlin’ ’em twenty years. They’ll bite you if you turn your back
or run away, or if there’s a pack of ’em they’ll pull you down. If you
get up against a hostile dog, rush him and he’ll weaken. I never got bit
but once an’ that was in the town of Pueblo. I was just after gettin’ a
six months’ floater out of Denver an’ went down to Pueblo to do a little
D.D.ing with lavender for myself. I got myself a bunch of lavender and
a ducat.”
The other bum laughed, his mouth full of chicken. “You’re talkin’
Chinook to that kid. What does he know about the D.D. and lavender and
ducats.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I don’t know what he is talking about.” I was
anxious to learn, but didn’t like to ask questions.
“Well, it’s this way,” he went on. “I was dummyin’ up, see? Imitatin’ a
deaf an’ dumb man. D.D.ing, see? You surely know what lavender is—stuff
women put on clothes. You put about a spoonful in a small envelope.
You’ve got a pocketful of the envelopes ready when you go out to make
your ‘plunge.’ Then you get your ducat, see? That’s the main thing. I
got a bartender to write it for me on the back of a lawyer’s card. When
the women opens the door you slip her your ducat and she reads:
‘I am deaf and dumb. I got hurt by a street car and just came
out of the county hospital. I am trying to get seven dollars
to pay my fare home to Cheyenne. Please take a parcel of
lavender and give what you can.’
Sometimes they take your lavender an’ sometimes they don’t, but they
generally give up something, an’ they can’t ask you a lot of questions,
and if a copper grabs you you’ve got an out. You ain’t exactly beggin’.
“As I was sayin’ about dogs. I was battering the privates, see? Private
houses. A woman had just slipped me a dime an’ was standin’ in the front
door watchin’ to see that I got off the premises. I’m about halfway to
the gate when I heard a dog snarlin’, an’ comin’ up behind me. I’m D.D.,
see, an’ don’t want to round on the damn dog an’ give myself a bawl-out
in front of the woman, so I stand my ground figgerin’ she’ll stop him.
The next thing I know he’s got half my pants leg ripped off an’ a chunk
out of one of my shins. Anyway, I run him under the house. The woman
took me in an’ fixed me up with arnica an’ a bandage. Then she gets me a
good suit of her old man’s clothes, gives me two dollars, and holds the
dog under the house till I get out the front gate. That’s dogs for
you,” he finished, “an’ women.”
I had a question, but the other bum asked it for me. “What do you do if
you bump into a natural dummy when you’re D.D.ing?”
“Well,” said the dog expert, “I never bumped into one, but if I did I
suppose I’d do what everybody else does when they’re wrong an’ get
caught at it. I’d get mad an’ cuss hell out of ’em.”
Breakfast over, the bums shaved. Both had razors. All bums carry razors
for shaving, fighting, or cutting through a sleeper’s clothing to get
into his pocket. One of them had a big silk handkerchief that he
stropped his razor on, the other used his belt. They heated water in a
tin can, lathered their hands, and rubbed it on their faces. One used
his mirror, the other used none. After shaving they dried their blades
carefully and secreted them about their persons. Blankets were rolled
up, and the bums were ready to take the road. The D.D. man was going
into the city for a few days. “So long.” He scrambled up the bank to
the road.
The other was traveling in my direction and volunteered to direct me to
a junction where I could make a westbound train.
“You’re welcome to travel with me, kid, if you want to jungle-up for a
month or two,” my companion said. “The fruit will be gettin’ ripe soon,
and there’ll be green corn and new spuds and the gumps are fat already.
I promise myself some famous mulligans around these parts.”
Many boys would have jumped at this chance, but I declined. Maybe it was
a dislike for begging, or ambition, or my imagination pulling me
westward. I don’t know; but it wasn’t the hardships, I’m sure. At the
junction we parted.
“So long, kid. May see you out West next fall when I make the poultice
route.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“That’s southern Utah, kid, the land of milk and honey. You’re always
sure of a big pan of milk and a fresh loaf of home bread—the poultice
route, see? So long.”
---
A long, heavy westbound freight train was slowly pulling out when I got
to the railroad yards. A car of lumber, clean and white, piled halfway
to the roof, the door invitingly open, came along. Nimbly I swung up and
in.
Inside the car I looked about for a place to secrete myself. The lumber
was about six feet shorter than the car, which left a large space at one
end. I dropped down into it, took off my coat, and stretched out on the
floor, feeling sure of a long ride. No brakeman would crawl over that
pile of lumber even if he knew there was a hiding place at one end.
Along in the afternoon, after one of the many stops, I heard a
scrambling above and a young fellow about my own age dropped lightly
down beside me. I had been in the car so long that the half light was
enough. I saw he was ragged and frightfully dirty, road dirt—coal smoke,
cinders, ashes, grease. His coat, too large for the thin frame, was full
of holes and its lining hung in tatters. His trousers were greasy and
full of hot-cinder holes. His calico shirt was open in front, his skin
was dirty. He was sharp-eyed and thin-faced. He eyed me wolfishly.
“How long you been here?”
“All day.”
“Where you headin’ for?”
“Denver.”
“Got a smoke?”
“No.”
He dug a dirty newspaper out of his back pocket, neatly tore a piece off
the border, tearing it downward with the grain, till he had a piece the
size of a cigarette paper. A search of his coat pocket yielded a cigar
snipe, which he crushed in his hand and then rolled up in the paper he
had held in his mouth.
“Got a match?”
“No.”
He looked at me in disgust, dug up one of his own, and lit up. The smell
of his cigarette was fierce. He now took off his shoes. One of them was
laced with dirty white string. He had no socks, his feet were grimy and
smelled. His coat came off next; with it and his shoes he made a pillow
and stretched out on the floor.
“Won’t the brakeman smell that smoke?” I asked.
“To hell with him an’ you,” and he spoke no more. Finishing his smoke,
he adjusted his pillow and went to sleep. I rolled my coat up, made a
pillow, and dozed. I was afraid he would steal my shoes, so I left them
on.
Something woke me in the evening. I think it was the lumber shifting.
The train was on a down grade, the car creaking and rocking. We were in
the front end. Suddenly my companion jumped to his feet. He looked
scared, started to crawl up on top of the lumber. He was too late. There
was a grinding noise, and a crash. About four feet of the top of the
lumber slid forward against the front end of the car and he was crushed,
flattened between. I was a prisoner below, unhurt. This shifting of the
lumber cut off the light from the open side door, but its weight against
the end of the car opened up some cracks and I was soon able to see
about me dimly. The boy had died instantly. His body, from the waist up,
was flattened between the lumber and front end of the car. His legs
dangled below, down where I was imprisoned, with each movement of the
car, like the legs of a scarecrow in the wind.
I can’t remember that I was shocked or frightened, but I do know that as
soon as I found I was imprisoned in that car I got hungry. I hadn’t
eaten since morning and was hungry before the thing happened. But then I
knew I could get out and eat at any stop. Now I couldn’t, and my hunger
became unbearable.
The place I was in was large as ever, except in height. The shifting of
the lumber had reduced that to about three feet. I couldn’t stand up. I
was in no danger. The lumber could not shift at the bottom, the weight
of that above was too heavy. I had a strong pocketknife, and went to
work on the side of the car near the end. The boarding was thin,
weather-rotten, and old. In a couple of hours I had cut almost through
one end of three boards. My hands were blistered. I sat down and waited
till I heard the whistle blow for a town.
As the train went into the yards I kicked the boards loose at the top
where they were cut, and pulled them away from below where they were
nailed. This gave me a hole large enough to crawl out of, which I did,
feet first, pulling my coat after, when she stopped. Up on the main
street I learned I was in Dodge City, Kansas, a town at that time
largely given over to gambling, fighting, and whisky drinking. I wasn’t
interested in any of those amusements then. I got something to eat and
went to a cheap room for the night. Tired out, I slept till noon the
next day. Then I went down to the yards to look for another train out.
Near the depot I met a character who looked like a bum. He gave me a
sharp look.
“Goin’ down in the yards, young feller?”
“Yes, why?”
“Better wait till night if you want to make a train. The railroad bull
is hostile. They found a bum dead in a car of lumber this morning, and
they had to tear the end of the car off to get his body out. He must
have been an awful gay cat to get into the end of a carload of planed
lumber. It’s suicide.”
I went back uptown and into a lunch counter. The waiter was idle and
talkative.
“Traveling?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Which way?”
“Denver.”
“Beating it?”
“Yes.”
“Listen here, it’ll take you three or four days to make Denver that way.
You’ll ruin your clothes and maybe get grabbed off a train and handed
thirty days at Colorado Springs—big chain gang there—they’re cleaning up
the streets. If you can dig up five dollars I’ll give you a card to a
porter on the Overland to-night. Give him the five and he’ll do the
rest.”
“Thanks, I’ll try it.”
I met the train and the porter who took the card and my five dollars,
stowed me away in the linen closet, and locked the door. I was almost
suffocated. Once in the night he opened the closet. “How you makin’ out,
buddy?”
“All right,” I said, and the door was locked again. Next morning he
gave me a piece of steak between slices of bread, and a bottle of
coffee. After that I felt better and dozed in a cramped, sitting
position in a corner.
That afternoon at Denver I was released, happy, hungry, cramped, and
tired. I rented a cheap room for a week, went to a barber shop, and had
a bath. I thought twenty-five cents for a bath a rank waste of money
and decided to find a swimming hole. In a few days I found one.
There was a sort of camp for bums on the river bank under some trees.
They had their fires there, and cans for boiling coffee. They used to
lie around, washing and boiling their clothes, and swimming. They stole
chickens around the neighborhood and anything else they could get.
One afternoon I was in swimming, when suddenly there was an alarm and
everybody ran. I didn’t pay any attention to it at first; then I got out
of the water and ran for my clothes. I had just about got them on when
the police arrived and grabbed me.
They put me into the patrol wagon. I was the only one they got. Later
they picked up one or two others around in the woods, and took us all
down to the jail. I was scared half to death.
They put us all in one big room with a lot of other bums they’d picked
up. The police had had a general order to clean up the town.
In the morning they took us all up to court. It was the first time I had
been in court. We were all charged with vagrancy. When my name was
called, I protested. I said, “Judge, you can’t call me a vagrant. I
have twenty dollars down in the jail office.”
He looked at me as coldly and impersonally as if I had been a dish of
parsnips. “Fifteen days on the chain gang. Next case.”