_A Hungry Ride of 308 Miles--"Hello, Hello in the Pipe There!"--To Work
Again--Nabbed by a Cop._
Late one afternoon I crossed the river on a freight ferry to the Texas
Pacific railroad yards.
That night I beat a freight train 208 miles to Boyce, La., reaching
Boyce about 11 o'clock next morning. Another freight on the same day
bore me to Marshall, Tex., 100 miles from Boyce.
All day long I had had nothing to eat and it was 9 o'clock at night when
we reached the city of Marshall.
I had just one hour to get something to eat and get back to the depot,
for the Dallas freight would pull out at 10 p. m.
I went four or five blocks up a side street and knocked on a cottage
door. The occupants had retired, but a second knock brought the madam to
the door.
I told the lady a sad story of how hungry I was, and ended up by asking
for a pan of water to wash my face and hands, if it would not cause her
too much trouble.
She called to her husband, who came hurrying into the hall in his
stocking feet.
After I had told my story again a pan of water was brought into the hall
and I was invited in.
They told me, while I was washing, they had nothing in the house to
eat.
I took out my note book.
"If you will loan me five cents," I said, "I'll take your address and
return it. I'm very hungry, sir, and will appreciate it more than I can
tell you."
The man loaned me a dime, but would furnish no address; and hastily
thanking them, I hurried out the gate and started on a run for the
railroad restaurant.
A big, fat fellow runs the railroad restaurant at Marshall--a Dutchman
or Irishman, I couldn't decide which, but he is as good natured as he is
large.
There was nobody in but the proprietor when I entered.
"My friend, I am very hungry, and am broke--I have just ten cents, and
am thousands of miles from home. Give me ten cents worth of supper, and
please understand I want quantity and not quality."
The meal that good-hearted fellow spread out on the table caused me to
blush with shame, but I was hungry, and shame was set in the background.
It was chicken fricassee, sausage, beef, etc., and more of each than I
could eat, hungry as I was.
In a short time I left the restaurant.
It was already time for the Dallas freight to leave, and I went
hurrying down the track through the darkness to where the train was
making up.
I came upon two brakemen struggling in a vain endeavor to close a tight
car door. (From this point throughout the West the brakemen are white
men.) The men were cursing and swearing at a great rate at their failure
to close the door, but with the united effort of all three of us, it was
finally pushed to and sealed.
"I want to go to Dallas. You fellows care if I get on?"
"We'll take you for $1.00" said the brakemen.
I told them I didn't have the money. (In this part of the country a
brakeman makes almost as much carrying hobos as his wages amount to. A
dollar is the usual charge for a division, which is anywhere from one
hundred to two hundred miles, but when a hobo attempts to go without
paying, he is generally treated pretty rough, if not thrown from the
train and killed.)
"Four bits, and we'll carry you," said one of the brakemen.
"I give you my honest word, I haven't got a cent, fellows."
"Then don't get on this train. Do, you'll get kicked off," said the men.
I left them and went hurrying through the darkness down the long line of
cars.
I found a car half full of cross-ties.
The door had not been sealed, and crawling into the back end of the car
I pulled off my coat--for the night was very hot--and folding it up into
a nice pillow, I lay down to sleep.
I never knew when the train started, but about forty miles down the road
the brakemen found me, and shining their lanterns within a foot of my
face, woke me up.
Instead of "kicking" me off, as threatened, they talked fairly sociable.
"We'll not put you down in this storm, here on the prairie, for there's
nothing here but a side-track, but the next stop is Longview, and you'll
have to get off," they said.
I went to the door and looked out. The rain was coming down in great
sheets, and the heavens were lit up by an almost constant glare of
lightning. It was the worst storm I had ever seen.
As far as I could see in every direction was a vast expanse of rolling
prairie. It was the first time I had ever seen the prairies, and I felt
deeply impressed. I noted that the air seemed purer and fresher too than
any I had ever breathed before.
At Longview the men came to the car to put me down, but I had already
gotten down, and not finding me, they left.
The train started, and rising up from the ground, where I had been
hiding, I crawled into the car of ties again.
I was run out of the same car three times that night. The last time I
was put off; the brakemen told me if I got back on the train again they
would shoot me.
I had reached the town of Big Sandy, Tex., and decided I had better wait
for another train.
It lacked but a few minutes of 12 o'clock as I made my way over to a
small drug store, not far from the depot.
A sharp featured man was talking to the druggist as I entered.
He slightly bowed at me, and presently said:
"You're a stranger here, are you not?"
Something told me he was a detective.
I told him yes, I was a stranger and trying to reach Dallas, and a good
many other things I told him I don't remember.
He finally admitted he had just searched the train I had left, but as he
hadn't caught me in the act, he would let me go, comforting me with the
assurance that I would get caught anyway at Mineola.
"Why, they are so bad after hobos in Mineola they break open the car
door seals, searching for them," he said.
Two hours later I was standing on the "blind baggage" platform, behind
the coal tender of a passenger train bound for Dallas.
It was raining pretty hard when we got to Mineola, and no one came to
bother me.
Shortly after daylight we steamed into Dallas.
I jumped from the train as it began to slow up at the State Fair
Grounds in the edge of the city.
I had at last gotten to Dallas, but I was certainly in a bad
fix--penniless, wet to the skin, cold, sick, and deathly sleepy.
I went over to a small grocery store, near the fair grounds, run by a
Mrs. Sprague.
A beautiful young girl about fifteen years old, who was clerking in the
store, brought me a pan of water to wash.
"Didn't you beat that passenger train in town?" asked the elderly lady,
as I began washing.
"I did, madam, and I am sorry that circumstances necessitated my doing
so," I replied.
"I thought I saw you jump off," she said, whispering something to the
young girl, who vanished into the back part of the store.
It took nearly twenty minutes of hard scrubbing for me to get the
cinders and grease out of my hair and eyes.
As I finished, the young lady re-entered the store and approached me:
"Come and have some breakfast," she said in a low voice, "its all ready
and the coffee's hot."
For a moment I felt worse than at any time since leaving home. I tried
to refuse, but they allowed me no chance.
"I've got a dear son myself wandering somewhere over this big world,"
said the good woman, putting a handkerchief to her eyes.
[Illustration: "Come and have some breakfast," she said in a low voice,
"it's all ready and the coffee's hot."]
There was no help for it, and I humbly assented to take a cup of
coffee. The hot, steaming coffee was of the best quality, and four times
did my beautiful young waitress see that my cup was filled.
Sometimes I think that coffee saved my life.
Upon leaving Mrs. Sprague's I walked down town from the fair grounds, a
distance of about three miles.
The first man I asked for a job was F. P. Holland, the rich editor of
the _Texas Farm and Ranch_.
He said he had no work at present.
Before leaving, I told him I was sick, cold and hungry, and had nowhere
to sleep that night.
I asked him to loan me $1.00 until I could get on my feet and pay him
back. He loaned me 25 cents, which I was glad to be able to pay back in
a few days.
Leaving the rich man and his luxury, I took a long tramp back to the
fair grounds, where someone said I could get a job.
Secretary Sidney Smith was in charge of the work, and after hearing my
story, kindly furnished me a place to sleep and eat, and gave me a job
helping to repair the fair grounds.
"I don't really need any more labor," he said, "but I believe in helping
a man when he's down."
He secured me a place to board at No. 270 South Carroll Ave., with one
of the foremen, Mr. R. Downey.
That night I was surprised to learn that the young lady, who had waited
on me so nicely at the store, was Mr. Downey's daughter.
While at Mrs. Downey's I was taken down with a high fever, and for the
first time since leaving home I had a hard spell of asthma. This only
increased my desire to get to Arizona or New Mexico.
Good cotton choppers around Dallas are paid $1.75 per day and board.
About two weeks later I left the city.
After paying for my board and buying a few articles of clothing, I had
but $3.00.
I left Dallas one Sunday evening on a street car for Fort Worth. The
distance is about 22 miles.
That same afternoon an employment bureau run by Glenn & Co. shipped me
for $1.00 from Fort Worth over the Fort Worth and Denver Road to Iowa
Park, Tex., to do railroad construction work.
I was trying to reach El Paso, which is only 600 miles over the Texas
Pacific Road from Fort Worth, but while in Fort Worth I was told it was
almost as much as a man's life was worth to try to beat the T. P. road
between these points, on account of the extreme cruelty of the brakemen,
so I decided to go around the longest way, which would take me through
New Mexico.
On the way to Iowa Park, I fell in with a young man from Chicago, who
had also shipped out.
That night we deserted the train at a small station just before
reaching Iowa Park.
We were now nearly two hundred miles from Fort Worth and had ridden the
entire distance for $1.00.
I have forgotten the young man's name, but will call him White. He said
he had left his home in Chicago to settle somewhere in the West and make
his fortune.
We decided to travel along together awhile.
About daylight we caught a freight train.
A long smokestack of some kind was loaded on a flat-car.
Into the smutty stack we crawled, he entering one end and I the other,
and crawled until our heads met in the middle.
When we came together White was trembling all over.
"I've done everything since leaving home but hobo," said he.
He reminded me of my own experience through South Carolina and Georgia.
We made a lot of noise getting into the stack, and had not more than
become comfortable when a brakeman's lantern was thrust into one end.
"Hello! Hello! in the pipe there," he shouted.
We crawled out and asked him to let us go, but it was "no go."
"Give me a dollar apiece, or off you go at the next stop," said the
brakeman, and he kept his word. We were put down at a little town
sixteen miles from Vernon, Texas.
We immediately set out to walk to Vernon, and had proceeded along the
track about ten miles when a large farm wagon containing seven or eight
farmers overtook us.
They were going to Vernon and offered us a ride.
At this time of the year the farmers are walking up and down the streets
of Vernon offering as high as $2.00 per day and board for men to work in
the harvest fields. In fact, at no time of the year a farm laborer in
this part of Texas is not paid less than $30.00 per month and board.
I had never heard of farm hands getting such high wages, and suggested
to White that we work in Vernon long enough to pay our way to Arizona or
New Mexico, but like all young fellows who stay in the West awhile, he
had caught the fever of roving and rambling from one green pasture to
another--content no where--and put up a strong kick.
He wanted to work in Vernon but a few days only.
"You're from the East, and you know nothing about good wages," he said.
"Why this is nothing to what we can make in Roswell, New Mexico,
gathering apples."
I had heard of the wonderful apple orchards around Roswell, and then,
too, the climate would be better for me. I decided White was right, and
that we would not stay long in Vernon.
Late that afternoon a ranchman took us out in his buggy to a ranch about
five miles from town.
He had offered us $2.00 per day and board to shock wheat.
Neither of us had ever shocked any wheat, but he said we could soon
learn.
Judging from my companion's conversation since I had met him, I had a
suspicion he was a better pool player than he was wheat shocker, but the
wealthy ranch owners of Texas at this season of the year, when their
thousands of acres of land are lying in unshocked wheat, are glad enough
to get a man, even if he is a slow worker and from the city.
Some time after dark we came upon a small, one-room hut. Near the hut
was a large, covered wagon.
"Here's where you sleep," said the ranchman. "Just go right in and make
your bed out of wheat."
Everything was very still in the hut, considering the fact that the one
room contained some ten or a dozen men; but the men who had labored long
and hard under the hot Texas sun that day were now scattered here and
there about the hut floor, wrapped in a deep, sweet sleep. (Each of
these men was from a different city or State, as I afterwards learned.)
There was plenty of wheat strewn about the floor for us to lie upon,
and soon two other weary, footsore travelers, lulled by the soft breeze
blowing in the window, had fallen easy victims to the soothing caresses
of Morpheus.
It was about 4 a. m. that we were roused out of bed by a man announcing
that breakfast was ready.
For once I didn't care to eat.
"Come and get it, or I'll throw it out--Come and get it or I'll throw it
out," yelled a loud voice from the vicinity of the wagon.
"What's he going to throw out?" I asked the fellow who had disturbed my
sleep.
"It's the cook calling the men to breakfast," said he, "and you'd better
hurry if you want any."
"Where is a place to wash?" I asked.
"Over there at the end of the wagon," said the man.
I reached the spot and found some seven or eight men washing from one
small tin vessel about half full of soapy water.
Water is a scarce article on the prairies and but little of the precious
fluid is used for washing purposes.
I washed the corners of my eyes, but there was no towel, comb nor brush
to be had, and I made my way to the breakfast table.
The table was one long plank, supported at either end by a barrel.
The plates, saucers and knives were all made of tin.
The grub was well cooked and of good variety. The table was soon
cleared and it was now to the wheat fields.
On the third day at noon both White and myself had gotten enough of the
harvest fields and, receiving our pay, set out on foot for Vernon.
That night we caught a passenger train and beat it one hundred miles to
Childress, Tex., where we were put off.
But not to stay long. An emigrant, who was moving his household effects
to the Indian Territory, allowed us to get in the car where his
furniture was and carried us over two hundred miles to Dalhart, Tex.,
landing there late the next day.
I parted with White at Dalhart. He had changed his mind about going to
Roswell, and now wanted to go to Denver, Colo.
Two hours after he had caught the Denver train I was safely hid in a
coke car on an El Paso freight train.
I had no trouble in catching the train at Dalhart, for just as it pulled
out a rough fight took place on the depot platform, both parties using
firearms, which served momentarily to take attention from me. It's
doubtful though whether I'd have been bothered in Dalhart anyway, for it
is one of those rough little Western towns 'way up in the Texas
Panhandle, in which "everything goes."
And, say, that was a funny fight, too. A big, rough-looking fellow,
presumably a miner, had been cutting up too much fuss on the depot
platform. The agent came out and asked him to be quiet, but instead of
quieting him, he made matters worse. The big fellow began cursing
everybody on the platform. A cop was called and in a moment there was a
mix up. The cop pecked the fellow all over the head with his pistol, but
the miner gamely came back at him with his own pistol, neither of them
uttering a word. In a few minutes blood was streaming from both. The big
fellow finally gave in and put up his gun.
"Come on now," said the cop, grabbing the man by the arm, and starting
up the street.
I was wondering where the jail was, when to my surprise the cop released
the man before they had gone a block.
The cop now came back to the depot, smiling.
"I got rid o' him," he said, but he was mistaken, for the other fellow,
by this time, had also reached the depot.
Walking up close to the cop, he leered:
"Do you think I'm afraid of you?" and then another fight, even rougher
than the other, began.
It was at this juncture, unobserved, I slipped into the coke car.
Within a short time after leaving Dalhart we crossed the State line into
New Mexico.