Among the other Natives, club life, as a rule, centers around the

saloon, where they gather to exchange news bulletins and meet their

cronies. There are varieties of these saloons, corresponding to the

varieties of outcasts, and in Chicago there are over twenty, each one of

which is supported by a different clique and species; but these are not

exactly clubs. The saloons are meeting-places more than anything else,

or a sort of post-office. In the main they are very much like any other

saloon, except that their _clientèle_ comes principally from the

outcasts' world; and about all the life they afford is a boisterous

joviality, which seldom takes definite shape. It is proper to say right

here that criminal outcasts, as a rule, never form clubs so marked in

individuality as the "scrappin' gang." The thief, the burglar, the

pickpocket, and other "professionals," although gregarious and friendly

enough, do not organize simply for the sake of sociability. When they

combine it is more for the sake of business than anything else, and

whatever social life they seem to need is furnished them at the saloon

or some private hang-out. This is also true to a great extent of all the

Natives who have passed their thirtieth year. At that age they are

usually so sobered, and have seen so much of the world, that they cannot

get much pleasure out of the clubs that the younger men enjoy. The

"scrappin' gang" no more appeals to them as a pastime or a source of

happiness than it does to an old rounder. They feel happier in simply

sitting on a bench in a saloon and talking over old times or planning

new adventures. Whatever excitement remains for them in life is found

mainly in carousals. Of these I have seen a goodly number, but I must

confess that after all they are only too similar to carousals in high

life, the only noticeable difference being their greater frequency.

They occur just about four times as often as anywhere else, because the

outcast, and especially the criminal, is intensely emotional; he can

never live very long without some kind of excitement, and the older he

grows the more alluring become his drinking-bouts. When his

opportunities in this direction are shut off by jail-walls, he

improvises something else, which often takes organized form; but it must

be remembered that such organizations are purely makeshifts, and that

the members would rather sit in some low concert-hall or saloon and have

an old-time drinking-bout, if circumstances were only favorable.

VI

The most interesting of these impromptu clubs is the one called in the

vernacular the "Kangaroo Court." It is found almost entirely in county

jails, in which petty offenders and persons awaiting trial are confined.

During the day the prisoners are allowed the freedom of a large hall,

and at night they lodge in cells, the locks of which are sometimes

fastened and sometimes not. The hall contains tables, benches, daily

papers, and, in some instances, stoves and kitchen utensils. The

prisoners walk about, jump, and play various games. After a while these

games become tiresome, and the "Kangaroo Court" is formed. It consists

of all the prisoners, and the officers are elected by them. The

positions they fill are the "judgeship," the "searchership," the

"spankership," and general "juryship." To illustrate the duties of these

various officials, I shall give a personal experience in a county jail

in New York State. It was my first encounter with the "Kangaroo Court."

I had been arrested for sleeping in an empty box-car. The watchman found

me and lodged me in the station-house, where I spent a most gloomy night

wondering what my punishment would be. Early in the morning I was

brought before the "squire." He asked me what my name might be, and I

replied that "it might be Billy Rice."

"What are you doing around here, Billy?" he queried further.

"Looking for work, your Honor."

"Thirty days," he thundered at me, and I was led away to the jail

proper.

I had three companions at the time, and after we had passed the sheriff

and his clerk, who had noted down all the facts, imaginary and

otherwise, that we had cared to give him about our family histories, we

were ushered pell-mell into the large hall. Surrounded in a twinkling by

the other prisoners, we were asked to explain our general principles and

misdemeanors. This over, and a few salutations exchanged, a tall and

lanky rogue cried out in a loud voice:

"The Kangru will now k'lect."

There were about twenty present, and they soon planted themselves about

us in a most solemn manner. Some rested on their haunches, others

lounged against the walls, and still others sat quietly on the

flagstones. As soon as entire quiet had been reached, the tall fellow,

who, by the way, was the judge, instructed a half-grown companion, whom

he nicknamed the "searcher," to bring his charges against the newcomers.

He approached us solemnly and in a most conventional manner, and said:

"Priz'ners, you is charged with havin' boodle in yer pockets. Wha' does

you plead--guilty or not guilty?"

I was the first in line, and pleaded not guilty.

"Are you willin' to be searched?" asked the judge.

"I am, your Honor," I replied.

Then the searcher inspected all my pockets, the lining of my coat, the

leather band inside my hat, my shoes and socks, and finding nothing in

the shape of money, declared that I was guiltless.

"You are discharged," said the judge, and the jury-men ratified the

decision with a grunt.

A young fellow, a vagrant by profession, was the next case. He pleaded

not guilty, and allowed himself to be searched. But unfortunately he had

forgotten a solitary cent which was in his vest pocket. It was quickly

confiscated, and he was remanded for trial on the charge of contempt of

the "Kangru." The next victim pleaded guilty to the possession of

thirty-six cents, and was relieved of half. The last man, the guiltiest

of all, although he pleaded innocence, was found out, and his three

dollars were taken away from him instanter; he, too, was charged with

contempt of court. His case came up soon after the preliminaries were

over, and he was sentenced by the judge to walk the length of the

corridor one hundred and three times each day of his confinement,

besides washing all the dishes used at dinner for a week.

After all the trials were over, the confiscated money was handed to the

genuine turnkey, with instructions that it be invested in tobacco. Later

in the day the tobacco was brought into the jail and equally divided

among all the prisoners.

The next day I, with the other late arrivals, was initiated as a member

of the "Kangaroo Court." It was a very simple proceeding. I had to

promise that I would always do my share of the necessary cleaning and

washing, and also be honest and fair in judging the cases which might

come up for trial.

Since then I have had opportunities of studying other "Kangaroo Courts,"

which have all been very much like the one I have described. They are

both socialistic and autocratic, and at times they are very funny. But

wherever they are they command the respect of jail-birds, and if a

prisoner insults the court he is punished very severely. Moreover, it

avails him nothing to complain to the authorities. He has too many

against him, and the best thing he can do is to become one of them as

soon as possible.

Other clubs of this same impromptu character are simple makeshifts,

which last sometimes a week, and sometimes but a day, if a more

substantial amusement can be found to take their place. One, of which I

was a member, existed for six hours only. It was organized to pass the

time until a train came along to carry the men into a neighboring city.

They selected a king and some princes, and called the club the "Royal

Plush." Every half-hour a new king was chosen, in order to give as many

members as possible the privileges which these offices carried with

them. They were not especially valuable, but nevertheless novel enough

to be entertaining. The king, for instance, had the right to order any

one to fill his pipe or bring him a drink of water, while the princes

were permitted to call the commoners all sorts of names as long as their

official dignity lasted. So far as I know, they have never met since

that afternoon camp on the prairies of Nebraska; and if they are

comfortably seated in some favorite saloon, I can safely say that not

one of them would care to exchange places with any half-hour king.

A little experience I had some time ago in New York will show how well

posted the Natives are regarding these favorite saloons. I was calling

on an old friend at a saloon in Third Avenue at the time. After I had

told him of my plan to visit certain Western cities, and had mentioned

some of them, he said:

"Well, you wan' ter drop in at the Half in State Street when you strike

Chi [Chicago]; 'n' doan' forget Red's place in Denver, 'n' Dutch Mary's

in Omaha. They'll treat you square. Jes left Mary's place 'bout a week

ago, 'n' never had a better time. Happy all the while, 'n' one day

nearly tasted meself, felt so good. There's nothin' like knowin' such

places, you know. 'F you get into a strange town, takes you a ter'ble

while to find yer fun 'less yer posted. But you'll be all right at Red's

'n' Mary's, dead sure."

So the stranger is helped along in low life, and the Natives take just

as much pride in passing him on to other friends and other clubs as does

the high-life club-man. It gives them a feeling of importance, which is

one of their main gratifications.

VII

[Illustration: A GATHERING OF "OLD BUCKS."]

Of the Old Bucks,--the superannuated outcasts,--and their club life,

there is very little to say. Walk into any low dive in any city where

they congregate, and you can see the whole affair. They sit there on the

benches in tattered clothes, and rest their chins on crooked sticks or

in their hands, and glare at one another with bloodshot eyes. Between

drinks they discuss old times, old pals, old winnings, and then wonder

what the new times amount to. And now and then, when in the mood, they

throw a little crude thought on politics into the air. I have heard them

discuss home rule, free trade, the Eastern question, and at the same

time crack a joke on a hungry mosquito. A bit of wit, nasty or

otherwise, will double them up in an instant, and then they cough and

scramble to get their equilibrium again.

[Illustration: MIDNIGHT.]

Late at night, when they can sit no longer on the whittled benches, and

the bartender orders them home, they crawl away to musty lodging-houses

and lie down in miserable bunks. The next morning they are on hand again

at the same saloon, with the same old jokes and the same old laughs.

They keep track of their younger pals if they can, and do their best to

hold together their close relationships, and as one of their number

tumbles down and dies, they remember his good points, and call for

another beer. The Natives help them along now and then, and even the

boys give them a dime on special occasions. But as they never need very

much, and as low life is often the only one they know, they find it not

very difficult to pick their way on to the end. If you pity them they

are likely to laugh at you, and I have even known them to ask a city

missionary if he would not take a drink with them.

To think of enticing such men into decent clubs is absurd; the only

respectable place they ever enter is a reading-room--and then not to

read. No, indeed! Watch them in Cooper Union. Half the time their

newspapers are upside down and they are dozing. One eye is always on the

alert, and the minute they think you are watching they grip the

newspaper afresh, fairly pawing the print with their greasy fingers in

their eagerness to carry out the rôle they have assumed. One day, in

such a place, I scraped acquaintance with one of them, and, as if to

show that it was the literary attraction which brought him there, he

suddenly asked me in a most confidential tone what I thought of

Tennyson. Of course I thought a good deal of him, and said so, but I had

hardly finished before the old fellow querulously remarked:

"Don' cher think the best thing he ever did was that air 'Charge of the

Seventeen Hundred'?"

VIII

I have already said that, so far as the older outcasts are concerned,

there is but little chance of helping them by respectable clubs; they

are too fixed in their ways, and the best method of handling them is to

destroy their own clubs and punish the members. The "scrappin'

gang," for example, should be treated with severe law, whenever and

wherever it shows its bloody hand, and if such a course were adopted and

followed it would accomplish more good than any other conceivable

method. The same treatment must be applied to the associations of other

Natives, for the more widely they are separated and thus prevented from

concourse the better will it be. It is their gregariousness which makes

it so difficult to treat with them successfully, and until they can be

dealt with separately, man for man, and in a prison-cell if necessary,

not much can be accomplished. The evils in low life are contagious, and

to be treated scientifically they must be quarantined and prevented from

spreading. Break up its gangs. Begin at their beginnings. For let two

outcasts have even but a little influence over a weak human being, and

there are three outcasts; give them a few more similar chances, and

there will be a gang.

I would not have any word of mine lessen the growing interest in man's

fellow-man, or discourage by so much as a pen-stroke the brotherly

influences on the "fallen brother" which are embodied in neighborhood

guilds and college settlements of the present, but I am deeply convinced

that there is a work these organizations cannot, must not, do. That work

must be done by law and government. Vice must be punished, and the

vicious sequestrated. Public spirit and citizenship duly appreciated and

exercised must precede philanthropy in the slums. Government, municipal

and State, must be a John the Baptist, preparing the way and making the

paths straight, ere the embodied love of man and love of God can walk

safely and effectively therein.

IV

THE AMERICAN TRAMP CONSIDERED GEOGRAPHICALLY

Some years ago I was sitting, one spring afternoon, on a railroad-tie on

"The Dope"[3] when New York Barcas appeared on the scene. There was

nothing very peculiar about Barcas, except his map of the United

States. Not that he ever set up to be a topographer, or aspired to any

rivalry with Johnston, Kiepert, or Zell; but, like the ancients, Barcas

had his known and his unknown world, and, like them again, he described

the land he knew just as if it was all the world there was. I came to

know Barcas's map in this wise:

We were both talking about certain tramp districts in the community, and

I noticed that his idea of north, south, east, and west was somewhat

different from mine. So, in order that our conversation might not be

troubled with petty arguments on geographical boundaries, I asked him to

map out the country for me according to his "best light"; and this is

how he did it. He took out his pencil and drew a line from the Canadian

frontier through Chicago to St. Louis, and another line from the

Atlantic through Washington to the same point, and called all the

territory north of the last-named boundary the East. He drew still

another line from St Louis to the Pacific coast, and called all the

States north of this and west of Chicago the West. His North comprised

all Canada, but he considered the province of Quebec the most prominent

tramp territory in this district. His South was all that remained below

his equatorial line, but the eastern part of it he nicknamed Niggerland,

while the western part, bordering on the Pacific Ocean, he called the

Coast.

This was the extent of Barcas's geography when I knew him. He seemed to

realize that there are other countries in the world besides this one

which he and his _confrères_ consider laid out for their own particular

benefit; nevertheless, in daily life and conversation the other

divisions of the world are so conscientiously ignored for all practical

purposes that North America may safely be said to comprise the American

tramp's general idea of the earth. He knows well enough that he has

brothers in other lands, but he considers them so unlucky in being left

to ply their trade outside of his own peculiar paradise that he feels it

necessary to ignore them. For in spite of the constitutional Bohemianism

of his nature, he is still far from being a cosmopolitan. If he has

suffering brethren in other communities, his heart does not throb for

their sorrow. No, indeed! He simply says: "Why don't they get out o'

those blasted holes and come over here? This is the only country for the

tramp." There is a great deal of truth in this, and my purpose in this

chapter is to give an account of tramp traits, successes, and failures

in this land of freedom. I shall take up the various districts as Barcas

indicated them, not, however, because his points of the compass are at

all typical or representative. No; Barcas's map is not for general

circulation, and for this very good reason it would probably be

difficult to find ten vagrants whose views would coincide with his or

with those of any other ten idlers. This is a peculiarity of the

vagabond, and it must be excused, for it has its _raison d'être_.

THE NORTH

This district (Canada) hardly belongs to the real American vagabondage.

It is true that the hobo crosses the frontier now and then, and makes a

short journey into Quebec, but it can scarcely be called a trip on

business. It is undertaken more for the sake of travel, and a desire to

see "them fellers up in Canady," and the scenery too, if the traveler is

a lover of nature, as many hoboes are. As a rule, Canada is left pretty

much in the hands of the local vagabonds, who are called "Frenchies." I

have never thoroughly explored their territory, and, unfortunately,

cannot write as definitely and comprehensively about their character as

I would wish to do. However, the following facts are true as far as they

go.

The main clan of Canadian tramps is composed of French-Canadians and

Indians. I have never met a genuine tramp of this class who was born in

France proper, yet I can well believe that there are such. The language

of these beggars is a jargon partly French and partly English, with a

small hobo vocabulary added thereto. Only a very few American tramps can

speak this queer lingo. I have met a gipsy now and then who at least

understood it, and I account for this on the ground that a large number

of the words resemble those in the gipsy dialect. _Pâno_, for instance,

means bread in both languages.

To be a successful beggar in Canada, one must be able to speak French,

for Quebec is one of the main tramp districts, and the local population

uses this language principally. The "Galway" (Catholic priest) is

perhaps the best friend of the Frenchies; at any rate, this has been my

experience. He gives alms ten times where a peasant gives once, and when

a vagabond can find a cloister or a convent, he is almost sure to be

well taken care of. The peasants, it must be remembered, are about all

the Frenchies have after the Galway. To show how wise they are in doling

out their charity, it is only necessary to say that the usual Frenchy is

content when he gets his three meals a day without working. And as for

myself, I can say that I have gone hungry for over thirty hours at a

stretch in Canada, and this, too, although I was careful to visit every

house that I passed. But the Canadian tramp is evidently satisfied with

small rewards, else he could not live long in his chosen district. As I

know him, he is a slow-going fellow, fond of peace and quiet, and seldom

desirous of those wild "slopping-ups" in American trampdom for which so

much money is needed. If he can only have some outcast woman, or

"sister," as he calls her, to accompany him on his travels, and to make

homelike and comfortable the little tent which he often carries; and if

he can have his daily _pâno_ and his usual supply of _dohun_ (tobacco),

he is a comparatively happy fellow. He reminds me more of the European

tramp in general character than any other human parasite I can think of;

and I shall be exceedingly sorry if he ever gets a foothold in the

United States, because he is a vagrant down to the core, and this can

hardly be said as yet of most American tramps. It is almost impossible

to touch his emotions, and he usually looks upon the world as his enemy.

He can hardly be called a victim of liquor, but rather the victim of an

ill-matched parentage. He is often on the mercy of the world before he

knows how he came into it, and it is not wonderful that he should drift

into a class where no questions are asked, and where even the murderer

is received with some distinction. To reform such a man requires that

the social polity itself be permeated by a higher order of ethics than

governs it at present--a truth quite as applicable in certain districts

of the United States as elsewhere.

THE EAST

The tramps of this part of the country represent the main intelligence

as well as "respectability" of the brotherhood. They also comprise the

most successful criminal element. But of course the vocation of the

great majority is simply begging. To tell exactly where they thrive, and

to particularize carefully, would take a book by itself, and the most I

can do is to give a very general idea of the district.

New England, as a whole, is at present poor begging territory for those

vagabonds who are not clever and not able to dress fairly well. Boston

is the beggar's metropolis as well as the New England millionaire's,

and, until a few years ago, Bughouse Mary's Tramp Home was as much a

Boston institution as Tremont Temple or the Common. One could find there

tramps of all grades of intelligence, cleanliness, and manners. And even

in the streets I have often been able to pick out the "begging brothers"

by the score from the general crowd. But it must not be forgotten that

a city offers privileges to beggars which the rural districts deny, and

probably, if the police authorities were more diligent than they are

now, even Boston could be rid of the great majority of its worst

loafers. I must admit, however, that it will be difficult ever to banish

the entire tramp tribe, for some of them are exceedingly clever, and

when decently clad can play the rôle of almost any member of society.

For instance, I tramped through Connecticut and Rhode Island once with a

"fawny man."[4] Both of us were respectably dressed, and, according to

my companion's suggestion, we posed as strolling students, and always

offered to pay for our meals and lodging; but the offer was never

accepted. Why? Because the farmers "considered themselves repaid by the

interesting accounts of our travels, and talks about politics," etc. My

friend was very sharp and keen, and carried on a successful trade in

spurious jewelry with some of the foolish country boys, when he was not

discussing the probabilities of the presidential election. I am sure

that I could travel through New England to-day, if respectably clad, and

be gratuitously entertained wherever I should go; and simply because the

credulity of the charitable is so favorable to "traveling gentlemen."

One of the main reasons why Massachusetts is such poor territory for the

usual class of vagrants is its jail system. In many of these jails the

order and discipline are superb, and work is required of the

prisoners--and work is the last thing a real tramp ever means to

undertake. I cannot help looking forward to very gratifying results to

trampdom from the influence of the present Massachusetts jail system.

For anything which brings the roving beggar into contact with sobriety

and labor is bound to have a beneficial effect. New York, New Jersey,

Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Michigan are all fairly good tramp States, and

all swarm with allowed beggars. The most remarkable feature of vagrancy

in New York State is that wonderful town known among vagrants as the

"City" and also as "York." This is the most notorious tramp-nest in the

United States. I have walked along the Bowery of an afternoon, and

counted scores of men who never soil their hands with labor, and beg on

an average a dollar a day. Even the policemen of this city are often

friends of beggars, and I have seldom met a hobo who was very angry with

a New York "bull." As a rule, the police officer, when finding tramps

drunk on door-steps or begging, says in a coarse and brutal voice, "Get

out!" and possibly gives them a rap with his club, but it is altogether

too seldom that the beggar is arrested. One rather odd phase of tramp

life in New York city is the shifting boundary-line that marks the

charity of the town. Several years ago Eighty-ninth Street was about as

far uptown as one could secure fair rewards for diligent begging. Now

one can see tramps, on a winter night especially, scattered all along

One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street, not because this street is the only

"good one," but because it is so "good" that better profits are realized

than in those farther down. And for clothes, I have always found Harlem

more profitable than other parts of the city. New York city is also one

of the best places in the country for "snaring a kid"--persuading some

youngster to accompany an older beggar on the road. There are so many

ragamuffins lying around loose and unprotected in the more disreputable

quarters of the town that it is only necessary to tell them a few

"ghost-stories" (fancy tales of tramp life) to make them follow the

story-teller as unresistingly as the boys of Hamelin marched after the

Pied Piper. Almost every third boy that one meets in American

vagabondage hails from "York." This accounts for the fact that several

tramps of New York birth have the same name, for even the beggar's

ingenuity is not capable of always hitting upon a unique cognomen. I

have met fully a dozen roadsters having the name of "Yorkey," "New York

Bob," "New York Whitey," "New York Slim," etc., which makes it not only

the fashion but a necessity, when hearing a city tramp's name, to ask

which Whitey, which Yorkey, or which Bob it is, and a personal

description is usually necessary before the fellow can be distinguished.

Over in New Jersey, I think, there are more tramps to the square mile

than in any other State, excepting Pennsylvania. The neighborhood around

Newark is simply infested with beggars, who meet there on their way into

and out of New York city. They often have a hang-out on the outskirts of

the town, where they camp quite unmolested, unless they get drunk and

draw their razors, which is more than common with Eastern tramps. It is

surprising, too, how well they are fed, when one remembers that they

have "battered" in this community for years. It is in Pennsylvania,

however, that the tramp is best fed, while I still maintain that he gets

more money in New York city. I do not know of a town or village in the

Keystone State where a decently clad roadster cannot get all that he

cares to eat without doing a stroke of work in payment. The jails are

also a great boon to the fraternity. In the majority of them there is no

work to do, while some furnish tobacco and the daily papers.

Consequently, in winter, one can see tramps sitting comfortably on

benches drawn close to the fire, and reading their morning paper, and

smoking their after-breakfast pipe, as complacently and calmly as the

merchant in his counting-room. Here they find refuge from the storms of

winter, and make themselves entirely at home.

[Illustration: A "TIMBER LESSON."]

Ohio and Indiana, although fairly friendly to tramps, are noted for

certain "horstile" features. The main one of these is the well-known

"timber-lesson"--clubbing at the hands of the inhabitants of certain

towns. I experienced this muscular instruction at one unfortunate time

in my life, and I must say that it is one of the best remedies for

vagabondage that exist. But it is very crude and often cruel. In company

with two other tramps, I was made to run a gantlet extending from one

end of the town of Oxford, Indiana, to the other. The boys and men who

were "timbering" us threw rocks and clubbed us most diligently. I came

out of the scrape with a rather sore back, and should probably have

suffered more had I not been able to run with rather more than the usual

speed. One of my fellow-sufferers, I heard, was in a hospital for some

time. My other companion had his eye gouged terribly, and I fancy that

he will never visit that town again. Apart from the "timber" custom,

which, I understand, is now practised in other communities also these

two States are good begging districts. There are plenty of tramps within

their boundaries, and when "the eagles are gathered together," the

carcass to be preyed upon is not far away.

The other States of the East have so much in common with those already

described that little need be said of them. Chicago, however, deserves a

paragraph. This city, although troubled with hundreds of tramps, and

noted for its generosity, is nevertheless a terror to evil-doers in

this, that its policemen handle beggars according to law whenever they

can catch them. Instead of the tiresomely reiterated "Get out!" and the

brutal club-swinging in New York, one gets accustomed in Chicago to

"thirty days in the Bridewell." I know this to be true, for I have been

in Chicago as a tramp for days at a time, and have investigated every

phase of tramp life in the city. Of course there are thousands of cases

where the beggar is not caught, but I maintain that when he is found he

is given a lesson almost as valuable as the one over in Indiana. The

cities in the East which the vagabond considers his own are New York

("York"), Philadelphia ("Phillie "), Buffalo, Boston, Baltimore, Chicago

(here he is very often deceived), Detroit (another place where he is

deceived), and Cincinnati.

Just a word about the Eastern tramp himself. His language is a slang as

nearly English as possible. Some words, however, would not be understood

anywhere outside of the clan. His personal traits are great conceit,

cleverness, and a viciousness which, although corresponding in the main

to the same in other parts of the country, is nevertheless a little more

refined, if I may use that word, than elsewhere. The number of his class

it is difficult to determine definitely, but I believe that he and his

companions are many thousands strong. His earnings, so far as my

experience justifies me in judging, range from fifty cents to over two

dollars a day, besides food, provided he begs steadily. I know from

personal observation that an intelligent beggar can average the above

amount in cities, and sometimes in smaller towns.

THE WEST

Vagabondage in this part of the country is composed principally of

"blanket-stiffs," "ex-prushuns," "gay-cats," and a small number of

recognized tramps who, however, belong to none of the foregoing classes,

and are known simply as "Westerners." The blanket-stiffs are men (or

sometimes women) who walk, or "drill," as they say, from Salt Lake City

to San Francisco about twice a year, begging their way from ranch to

ranch, and always carrying their blankets with them. The ex-prushuns are

young fellows who have served their apprenticeship as kids in the East,

and are in the West "looking for revenge," _i. e._, seeking some kid

whom they can press into their service and compel to beg for them. The

gay-cats are men who will work for "very good money," and are usually in

the West in the autumn to take advantage of the high wages offered to

laborers during the harvest season. The Westerners have no unique

position, and resemble the Easterner, except that they as well as the

majority of other Western rovers drink alcohol, diluted in a little

water, in preference to other liquors. On this account, and also because

Western tramps very often look down upon Eastern roadsters as

"tenderfeet," there is not that brotherly feeling between the East and

the West in vagrancy that one might expect. The Easterners think the

Western brethren too rough and wild, while the latter think the former

too tame. However, there is a continual intercourse kept up by the

passing of Westerners to the East, and vice versa, and when neither

party is intoxicated the quarrel seldom assumes very dangerous

proportions.

Of the States in the Western district, I think that Illinois, Iowa,

Wisconsin, Minnesota, Colorado, Washington, and a part of California are

the best for tramps.

Iowa is usually liked very much by roadsters, but its temperance

principles used to be thoroughly hated, as were also those of Kansas. It

is needless to say, however, that in the river towns a tramp could

usually have all the liquor he could stand. I was in Burlington once

when there was a Grand Army celebration, which the tramps were

attending (!) in full force; and the amount of "booze" that flowed was

something astounding for a "dry" State. Nearly every vagrant that I met

had a bottle, and when I asked where it came from, I was directed to an

open saloon! A great fad in Nebraska, Iowa, and Kansas is to beg from

the hotels. I have received hospitality in these places when I could

get absolutely nothing at the private houses. This is especially true

when the cook is a negro. He will almost always give a beggar a

"set-down" (square meal), and sometimes he will include a bundle of food

"for the journey." Still another fad when I knew the country was to call

at the penitentiaries for clothes. I saw a man go into the Fort Madison

"pen" (Iowa) one day with clothes not only tattered and torn, but

infested with vermin. When he returned, I hardly knew him, he was so

well dressed. Stillwater Penitentiary in Minnesota also had a notoriety

for benevolence of this sort, but I cannot affirm this by personal

observation.

Wisconsin, although not exactly unfriendly to tramps, is nevertheless a

"poor" State, because it has no very large city and is peopled largely

by New-Englanders. Milwaukee is perhaps the best place for a beggar. The

Germans will give him all the beer he wants, and feed him well besides,

for they are the most unwisely generous people in this country. Where

they have a settlement, a tramp can thrive almost beyond description.

For instance, in Milwaukee, as in other Wisconsin towns, he can batter

for breakfast successfully from six o'clock until eleven o'clock in the

morning, and is everywhere sure of a cup of coffee. I once attempted in

Milwaukee to see just how many dinners I could get inside the ordinary

dinner-time, and after an hour and a half I returned to the hang-out

with three bundles of food, besides three dinners which had already been

disposed of. I could have continued my dining indefinitely, had my

capacity continued.

San Francisco and Denver are the main dependence of tramps in the West.

If one meets a westward-bound beggar beyond the Mississippi, he may

usually infer that the man is on his way to Denver; and if he is found

on the other side of that city, and still westward bound, his

destination is almost sure to be "'Frisco," or at least Salt Lake City,

which is also a popular hang-out. Denver has a rather difficult task to

perform, for the city is really a junction from which tramps start on

their travels in various directions, and consequently the people have

more than their share of beggars to feed. I have met in the city, at one

time, as many as one hundred and fifty bona-fide tramps, and every one

had been in the town for over a week. The people, however, do not seem

to feel the burden of this riffraff addition to the population; at any

rate, they befriend it most kindly. They seem especially willing to give

money. I once knew a kid who averaged in Denver nearly three dollars a

day for almost a week, by standing in front of shops and "battering" the

ladies as they passed in and out. He was a handsome child, and this, of

course, must be taken into consideration, for his success was

phenomenal.

"'Frisco" is even better than Denver, furnishing districts in which

tramps can thrive and remain for a longer time unmolested. There are

more low lodging-houses, saloons, and dives; and there is also here a

large native class whose character is not much higher than that of the

tramp himself, so that he is lost among them--often to his own

advantage. This difficulty of identification is a help to roadsters, for

there is nothing that pleases and helps them so much as to be

considered "town bums," the latter being allowed privileges which are

denied to strangers.

In the estimation of the tramp the West does not rank with the East. The

railroads are not so "good"; there are fewer cities; even the towns are

too far apart; in some districts the people are too poor; and taking the

country as a whole, the inhabitants are by no means so generous. I doubt

whether the average gains of Western beggars amount to more than

twenty-five cents a day. In "'Frisco" and Denver, as well as in a few

other large towns, begging is of course much more remunerative, but in

the rural parts the average wage of a beggar is even below twenty cents

a day, besides food; at least, this is the result of my observation. In

general the Western tramp is rough, often kind-hearted, wild and

reckless; he always has his razor with him, and will "cut" whenever

there is provocation. The blanket-stiff is perhaps the least violent of

all; his long walking-tours seem to quiet his passion somewhat, and

overcome his naturally wild tendencies. The ex-prushun is exactly the

opposite, and I know of no roadster so cruel and mean to the weak as

this young fellow, who is, after all, only a graduated kid. This is not

so surprising, however, when one recollects that for years he has been

subject to the whims and passions of various "jockers," or protectors,

and naturally enough, when released from his bondage, he is only too

likely to wreak his pent-up feelings on the nearest victim. After a year

or two of Western life he either subsides and returns to the East, or

becomes more intimately connected with the true criminal class, and

attempts to do "crooked work." Several of the most notorious and

successful thieves have been ex-prushuns.

Just how many tramps there are in the West it is even more difficult to

decide than in the East, because they are scattered over such wide

territory. Experience makes me believe, however, that there are fully

half as many voluntary idlers in this part of the country as in the

East. And the great majority of them, I fear, are even more

irreclaimable than their comrades in other communities. They laugh at

law, sneer at morality, and give free rein to appetite. Because of this

many of them never reach middle age.

THE SOUTH

Tramp life here has its own peculiarities. There are white loafers known

as "hoboes," which is the general technical term among white tramps

everywhere, and there are the "shinies," who are negroes. The odd part

of it all is that these two classes hardly know each other; not that

they hate each other or have any color-line, but simply that they

apparently cannot associate together with profit. The hobo seems to do

better when traveling only with hoboes, and the shiny lives much more

comfortably in his own clan. My explanation of this fact is this: both

parties have learned by experience that alms are much more generously

given to a white man when alone than when in company with a negro. This,

of course, does not apply anywhere but in the South, for a colored tramp

is just as well treated in the East and West as a white one.

My knowledge of the shinies is very meager, for I was compelled to

travel as a hobo when studying vagrancy in the South, and I have never

met a member of that class who knew very much about his negro

_confrères_. From all that I can gather, however, I think that they

resemble very closely the gay-cats, for they do work now and then,

although their being on the road is usually quite voluntary, unless

their natural laziness can be considered as a force impelling them into

trampdom. Their dialect is as different from the usual tramp lingo as

black from white, and I have never been able to master its orthography.

As the South in the main is only skimmed over by most white tramps, and

as a few cities represent the true strongholds of vagrancy, it is

unnecessary to give any detailed account of this region. Besides, it is

only in winter that many tramps, excepting, of course, the shinies, are

found here, and consequently there is not very much to describe, for

they go into this part of the country principally to "rest up" and shun

the cold weather prevalent in other districts. The chief destinations of

wandering beggars in the South are New Orleans, St. Augustine,

Jacksonville, Tallahassee, and Atlanta. Several towns in Texas are also

popular "resting-places," but usually the tramps in Texas have begged

their money in other States, and are there principally for "a great

slopping-up," for which dissipation Texas furnishes much more suitable

accommodations than any other State in the Union. The usual time for

Eastern and Western tramps to start South is in October. During this

month large squads of vagabonds will be found traveling toward

"Orleans." I once was on an Illinois Central freight-train when

seventy-three tramps were fellow-passengers, and nearly every one was

bound for either Florida or Louisiana. These two States may almost be

called the South so far as hoboes are concerned. New Orleans is

especially a tramp-nest, and ranks second to New York in hospitality,

according to my experience. In the older part of the town one can find

beggars of almost every nationality, and its low dives are often

supported by the visiting knights of the road. Begging, as they do, very

fair sums of money, and being only too willing to spend it quickly, they

afford these innkeepers of the baser sort very fair rewards for keeping

up their miserable "hotels." A well-trained beggar can very often

average a dollar a day in New Orleans if he begs diligently. But he must

be careful not to be arrested, for the jails in the South are

man-killing holes in many and many an instance. Even in the East and

West several of the county prisons are bad enough, but they cannot

compare in filth to some of the miserable cells of the South.

Jacksonville and St. Augustine are good hang-outs for tramps, and in the

winter such visitors are very numerous. They make a very decent living

off the transient tourists at these winter resorts. But success is so

short and precarious there that many hoboes prefer New Orleans, on

account of its steadier character, and seldom visit the other towns.

Besides, to batter around the hotels in St. Augustine one should be

respectably clad, and polite in manner and bearing, which, in most

cases, involves far too much trouble.

The most generous people in the South are the poor, but not the negro

poor, who, according to my experience, are by no means large-hearted.

Take them in the East or West, and they are friendly enough, but on

their native heath they are, as a rule, stingy. I have received much

more hospitality from the "poor whites" than from any other people. The

negroes, when I asked them for something to eat, would say: "Oh, go and

ask the Missis. I can't give you anything"; and when I would call upon

the "missis," she was not to be seen. But the poor white would invite me

into his shanty, and treat me as well as was in his power. It was not

much, I must admit; but the spirit was willing though the pantry was

nearly empty. In West Virginia, for instance, I have been entertained by

some of the "hill people" in their log cabins in the most hospitable

manner. The obvious reason of this is a scarcity of tramps; when they

are few, generosity is great, and the few get the benefit.

If the students of this particular phase of sociology will only look

minutely and personally into the conditions under which trampdom thrives

and increases in our country, Barcas's map may yet become famous.

Charles Godfrey Leland once wrote an article entitled "Wanted:

Sign-Posts for Ginx's Baby." It would seem that his prayer has been

answered, and that this unwanted, unprovided-for member of society has

found his way through forest and mountains, over rivers and prairies,

till now he knows the country far better than the philanthropist who

would gladly get on his track. If this topographical survey shall serve

to bring him nearer what should be, and what I am convinced aims to be,

a source of betterment for him, Barcas will not have lived in vain.

FOOTNOTES:

[3] The Baltimore and Ohio Railroad--called "The Dope" because it is so

greasy.

[4] A peddler of bogus jewelry.

V

THE CITY TRAMP

Vagabonds specialize nowadays quite as much as other people. The fight

for existence makes them do it. Although a few tramps are such all-round

men that they can succeed almost anywhere, there are a great many others

who find that they must devote their time to one distinct line of

begging in order to succeed. So to-day we have all sorts of hoboes.

There are house-beggars, office-beggars, street-beggars, old-clothes

beggars, and of late years still another specialization has become

popular in vagabondage. It is called "land-squatting," which means that

the beggar in question has chosen a particular district for his

operations. Of course, a large number of tramps still go over all the

country, but it is becoming quite customary for vagabonds to pick out

certain States and counties for their homes. The country, as a whole, is

so large that no beggar can ever really know it on business principles,

and some clever beggars not long ago decided that it is better to know

thoroughly a small district than to have only a general knowledge of the

entire continent. Consequently our large cities have become overrun with

tramps who make them their homes the year round, till America can almost

compete with England in the number of her "city vags." There is no large

town in the United States that does not support its share, and it is

seldom that these tramps are natives of the towns in which they beg. In

New York, for example, there are scores of beggars who were born in

Chicago, and vice versa. They have simply picked out the city which

pleases them most and gone there. In time they become so numerous that

it is found necessary to specialize still further, and even to divide

the town itself into districts, and to assign them to distinct kinds of

begging. It is of these specialists in vagrancy that I intend to write

in this chapter.

[Illustration: TOMATO-CAN TRAMPS.]

The lowest type is what is called in tramp parlance the "tomato-can

vag." In New York city, which has its full quota of these miserable

creatures, they live in boxes, barrels, cellars, and nooks and corners

of all sorts, where they can curl up and have a "doss" (sleep). They get

their food, if it can be called that, by picking over the refuse in the

slop-barrels and tomato-cans of dirty alleys. They beg very little,

asking usually for the stale beer they find now and then in the kegs

near saloons. Money is something that they seldom touch, and yet a good

many of them have been first-class criminals and hoboes in their day.

I used to know a tomato-can tramp who lived for several months in a

hogshead near the East-Side docks of New York. I visited him one night

when on a stroll in that part of the city, and had a talk with him about

his life. After he had reeled off a fine lot of yarns, he said:

"Why, I remember jes lots o' things. I's been a crook, I's been a

moocher, an' now I's shatin' on me uppers [I am broke]. Why, what I's

seen would keep them blokes up there in Cooper Union readin' all winter,

I guess."

This was probably true. He had been everywhere, had seen and done nearly

everything which the usual outcast can see and do, and he wound up his

life simply "shatin' on his uppers." No one will have any dealings with

such a tramp except the men and women in his own class. He is hated by

all the beggars above him, and they "do" him every chance they get.

A fair example of this class hatred came under my notice in London,

England. I was walking along Holborn one evening when I was suddenly

accosted by an old man who wanted me to give him a drink.

"I wouldn't ask ye," he said, "'cept that I'm nearly dyin' o' cold. Can'

cher help a feller out!"

There was something so pitiful about him that I decided to take him into

a public house. I picked out the lowest one in the neighborhood. The

place was filled with beggars and criminals, but they were all of a

higher class than my friend. However, I called for his gin, and told him

to sit down. It was soon evident that the old man was an unwelcome

guest, for even the bartender looked at him crossly. He noticed this,

and began to grumble, and in a few minutes was in a quarrel with some of

the men. The bartender told him to be quiet, but he claimed that he had

as good a right to talk as any one else. He was finally put out,

although I made all the remonstrance I dared. I started to leave too,

but was prevented. This made me angry, and I turned on the men, and

said:

"What right have you fellows to treat me this way? I came in with the

old man respectably enough."

"Oh, come up 'n' 'ave a drink," said one of the men. "Don't get 'uffy.

Come up 'n' 'ave a bitter."

Then another said: "Say, was that old feller any relation o' yourn?

'Cause ef 'e was, we'll fetch 'im back; but ef 'e wa'n't, 'e kin stay

where 'e is. 'E don't belong in 'ere."

"Why is that?" I asked.

"Why, don' cher know that 'e ain't o' our class? 'E's a' ole

can-moocher. 'E ain't got no right 'ere."

"Well, do you mean to say that you own this place, and no one can come

in who is not of your choosing?"

"The case is jes this, 'n' you know it: it's our biz to do anybody out

o' our class."

"Would you 'do' me if you had a chance?"

"Bet cher life!"

I got out safely soon after this, and had gained knowledge for the

future.

But, hated as he is by the more successful vagabonds, the tomato-can

tramp is just as kind-hearted and jovial as any of them. And for fair

treatment I will risk him every time. As a rule, he is an old man,

sometimes over seventy years of age. He dresses most outlandishly,

seldom having any two garments of the same color, and what he has are

tattered and torn. His beard and hair are allowed to grow as long as

they can, and usually give him the appearance of a hermit. Indeed, that

is just what he is. He has exiled himself from all that is good and

refined, and is like a leper even to his brethren. It is just such a

life as his, however, to which all tramps that drink, as most outcasts

do, are tending. It matters not how clever a criminal or beggar a man

may be, if he is a victim of liquor, and lives long enough, he is sure

to end as a tomato-can tramp. There is a suction in low life which draws

men continually lower. It is an inferno of various little worlds, and

each has its own pitch of degradation.

The next higher type of the town tramp is the "two-cent dosser"--the man

who lives in stale-beer shops. In New York he is usually to be found

about Mulberry Bend, the last resort of metropolitan outcasts before

dropping down into the "barrel-and-box gentry." This district supports

the queer kind of lodging-house called by the men who use it the

"two-cent doss." It is really a makeshift for a restaurant, and is

occasionally kept by an Italian. The lodgers come in late in the

evening, pay two cents for some stale beer or coffee, and then scramble

for "spots" on the benches or floor. All nationalities are represented.

I have found in one of these places Chinamen, Frenchmen, Germans,

Italians, Poles, negroes, Irishmen, Englishmen, and "'Mer'cans," and

they were all as happy as could be. They beg just enough to keep them in

"booze," their food being found mainly at "free lunches." Like the

tomato-can tramp, they have little intercourse with beggars above them.

By this I mean, of course, that they know they will not be treated

sociably outside of their class, and decide very wisely to remain where

they belong. They rarely leave a town which they have picked out as a

home; and some of them never even get out of their narrow district.

In Chicago, for instance, there is a "joint" near Madison Street in

which some men simply live day and night, excepting the few hours they

spend in looking for the pennies they need. In the daytime they sit on

the benches and talk shop, and at night they lie on the floor. There is

a watchman who cares for them at night; he sleeps near the door in order

to let in any belated beggar. But he first lights his candle, and

commands the beggar to show how much money he has. If it is five cents,

the price of a mug of beer, he is allowed to enter.

In New Orleans I once saw a place somewhat similar, the only difference

being that at night ropes were stretched across the bar-room for the

men to lean on while sleeping. Some persons fail to note much difference

in the lives of the two-cent dossers and the tomato-can tramps, but the

two-cent dossers make a sharp class distinction out of their greater

privilege. Personally, I should rather live in a barrel or box than in a

joint, if only for the sake of cleanliness. The joint is simply a nest

of vermin, and cannot be kept clean; whereas, if a man is careful and

works hard, he can keep a barrel fairly habitable for himself, and with

no other occupants. Still, I am sorry to say that few men who do live in

barrels achieve or desire this success. The most unique feature of the

two-cent dosser class is its apparent happiness. The men are always

funny, and crack a joke as easily as they tell a lie. I remember most

vividly a night in one of their joints in St. Louis. All night long some

one was laughing and joking, and my questions always met a witty reply.

I noticed, for instance, that several of the men were blind in one eye,

and I asked the meaning of this.

"Ha! ha! Don' cher know! Why, it's 'cause we're lookin' fer work so

hard."

Another man wanted to know whether I could tell him where he could get a

"kid." I asked him what use he had for one.

"Oh, prushuns [kids] is val'able; when you've got 'em, you're treasurer

of a company."

Nevertheless, these men very seldom have boys, because their life is too

unexciting, and the lads will not stay with them. A prushun, as a rule,

wants something livelier than loafing around saloons and corners, and

consequently is rarely found in these two classes.

The other types of city vagabondage can be classified as the

"lodgin'-house-gang," with the exception of the room-beggar. I must

therefore consider them in relation to their different styles of begging

rather than living; for when once a beggar can live in any sort of

lodging-house, he has a right to belong to the general crowd, no matter

what he pays for his bed. The seven-center house, for instance, is

considerably lower than the ten-center, but its being a lodging-house is

sufficient to separate its inmates entirely from the two classes who

live in boxes and beer-shops. And to make the classifying feature more

intelligible, I shall give first a short account of the lodging-house in

all its grades, omitting only those that are carried on by charity.

Beginning with the lowest, there is the seven-center, in which hammocks

of a bad order are used as beds. The covering is very often the lodger's

coat, unless he happens to have a blanket of his own. In winter there is

a large stove in the middle of the sleeping-room, and this keeps things

fairly warm. The usual lodger in this house is the town tramp, although

the wandering hobo goes there too. I have also seen a few genuine

seekers of work there, but never two nights running. One night is

usually enough, and they sleep out in preference to mixing in such a

crowd as the place shelters.

The ten-center is the next grade above, and is probably the most popular

of all in the United States. It is built after various models, the

commonest being the "double-decker," where the bunks are made of

gas-pipe, one right above the other. In this case the bedding is a straw

tick and a blanket; that is all, as a rule. Yet I have known sheets to

be used. Another model is something like the forecastle of a ship.

Around the walls several tiers of bunks are built, sometimes twelve feet

high, and in the middle is the "sitting-room," with stove and chairs.

Occasionally the only bedding is straw, there being no blanket of any

kind. The class of men found in places of this type is hard to describe;

the town tramp is there, and so is almost every other kind of vagabond.

It is a sort of cesspool into which are drained all sorts of outcasts,

and the only way to distinguish them is to know them personally. Young

and old, the intelligent and the ignorant, the criminal and the newsboy,

all are found in the ten-center.

The fifteen-center comes next, and is very much like the ten-center,

except that its customers are a little more orderly, and that it

furnishes lockers into which the lodgers can put their clothes. This

latter point is really the _raison d'être_ of the fifteen-cent

lodging-house, according to my experience. At any rate, I have failed to

see any other good reason for charging five cents more for the beds,

which are usually no better than those in the ten-center.

In the other grades, at twenty and twenty-five cents a night a man can

have a little room to himself; by "room" I mean a sort of cell without a

roof, in which is a cot, a chair (sometimes), and a locker. I slept in

one of these houses in the Bowery one night. The office and sitting-room

were comparatively cozy, and the lodgers were respectable so far as

dress and general manner were concerned. Up-stairs in the

sleeping-apartments things were not so pleasant. There was a bad odor

about everything, and the beds were decidedly unclean, as are most beds

in most lodging-houses. I left word at the office that I wished to be

called at seven o'clock in the morning, and my order was distinctly

obeyed, for about half-past six I was wakened by a man poking me in the

ribs with a long stick leveled at me from over the partition-wall. After

the man had poked me with the stick, he said, "Eh, bloke, time to get

up."

Some tramps consider this style, and it probably is in their cases, for

they are accustomed to all sorts of places, and the twenty-five-center

is their nearest approach to hotel life. Although I have probably

overlooked some exceptional institutions in this general description of

lodging-houses, I have nevertheless given a fair account of the usual

homes of the "lodgin'-house gang." And, as I said before, the town tramp

is mixed up in this gang so promiscuously that to pick him out of the

general crowd necessitates a personal encounter. All that I can do now

is to portray him in his various guises as a beggar. I shall take four

types to do this--the street-beggar, the house-beggar, the

office-beggar, and the old-clothes beggar. These are all well-known

characters in city vagabondage.

[Illustration: A CITY TRAMP AT WORK.]

The street-beggar is, I believe, the cleverest all-round vagabond in the

world. He knows more about human nature than any other tramp of my

acquaintance, and can read its weak points with surprising ease. I used

to know a New York tramp of this kind who begged almost entirely of

women as they walked along the streets, and he claimed that he could

tell, the minute he had seen their eyes, whether it would pay to "tackle

'em." How he did this I do not pretend to know, and he himself could not

tell, but it was true that he seldom judged a woman wrongly. Fifth

Avenue was his beat, and he knew fully fifty women in that district who

were sure to give him something. His main tricks, if I can call them

that, were those of the voice rather than of the hand. He knew when to

whine and when to "talk straight," and, best of all, he knew when to

make people laugh. This is the highest accomplishment of the

street-beggar, for when a person will laugh with him he is pretty sure

to get something; and if he can succeed in picking out a certain number

of "clients," as he calls them, who will laugh with him every week the

year round, his living is assured. This is the business of the clever

street-beggar; he must scrape acquaintance with enough people in his

chosen district to support him. It matters not to him whether he excites

their pity or mirth so long as he gets their nickels and dimes. I knew a

woman beggar of this sort whose main trick, or "capital," as she called

it, was extreme faith in the chivalry of men. She would clutch a man by

the coat-sleeve, and tragically exclaim:

"How dare you cast me off? Don't you know that I am a woman? Have you no

mother or sisters? Would you treat them as you are treating me?"

Some men are so squeamishly and nervously chivalrous that they will be

taken in by such a beggar every time.

Women very often make the keenest street-beggars. They are more original

in posing and dressing, and if with their other talents they can also

use their voices cleverly, they do very well. Speaking of posing reminds

me of a woman who is usually to be found near the Alhambra music-hall in

London. She dresses very quietly and neatly, and her entire manner is

that of a lady. I believe that she really was one in her day, but liquor

has made her a match-vender; and her clever pose and dress are so

attractive that people give her three times the value of the matches

which she sells them. This match-selling is the main trick of the London

street-beggar. It is a trick of defense against the police, and at the

same time a blind to the public. People think that men and women selling

matches are trying to earn an honest living, and this is true sometimes;

but, according to my observation, the majority of match-venders offer

one hand to the public for alms, and carry their "lights" (matches) in

the other.

The business of the house-beggar is obviously to know a certain number

of good houses in his district, just as the street-beggar knows a

certain number of people in his street or streets. And if he is a

mendicant who can deal with women more successfully than with men, he

must know just when to visit houses in order that only the women may be

at home. If he is a beggar of this style, he usually carries a

"jigger"--an artificially made sore, placed usually on an arm or leg. He

calls at the front door and asks for "the lady." When she appears he

"sizes her up" as best he can, and decides whether it will pay to use

his jigger. If it is necessary, he prefaces this disgusting scene by an

account of his hardships, and claims that he has been very badly burned.

Then he shows his miserable sore, and few women are callous enough to

see it without flinching. If they "squeal," as the tramp says, he is

sure to be rewarded.

Another trick is to send around pretty little girls and boys to do the

begging. A child will succeed at house-begging when an able-bodied man

or woman will fail utterly, and the same is true of a very old man--the

more of a centenarian he looks, the better. But better than any of these

tricks is what is called the "faintin' gag." I myself had the benefit of

an undertaking of this character in Indianapolis some years ago, and I

know it works well. I got into the town one night, and was at a loss to

know what to do, until I accidentally met an old hobo who was trying to

make his living there as a city tramp. He had been in the place only a

few days, and had not yet found his particular district. He was simply

browsing about in search of it, and he suggested that we try a certain

quarter of the town that he had not visited at all. We did try it, and,

after visiting twenty houses, got only two pieces of bread and butter.

This, naturally enough, made my partner angry, and he told me to go back

to the hang-out while he went on another beat. I waited for him nearly

an hour, when he returned with a "poke-out" (food given at the door) and

a "sinker" (a dollar). I, of course, was surprised, and asked for

details.

"Oh, I got 'em right 'nough," he said. "You see, after leavin' you, I

was so dead horstile that I was ready for anything 'n' the first house I

struck was a parson's. At first he didn't want to feed me at all, but I

got into his settin'-room 'n' gave 'im a great story. I tole 'im that I

was nearly a-dyin' with hunger, 'n' ef he didn't feed me, the s'ciety

agen' cruelty to animals 'u'd prosecute 'im. Then I begun to reel a bit

'n' look faintin'-like, 'n' purty soon I flops right on the floor as ef

I was dead. Then the racket begun. The parson called 'Wifey!' an' the

both of 'em peppered 'n' salted me for about ten minutes, when I comes

to an' looks better. Then they couldn't feed me fast 'nough. I had pie,

cake, 'n' a lot o' other things 'fore I wuz done, 'n' when I left the

parson give me the sinker, 'n' 'wifey' the poke-out; hope to die ef they

didn't. See? That's the way ye got ter catch them parsons--right in the

eye."

As the old-clothes beggar is only a subspecies of the house-begging

class, he deserves mention under the same head. His business, as his

name implies, lies principally in looking for old wearing-apparel, which

he sells to dealers in such wares. Sometimes he even pays for his food

in order to devote his entire time and talents to his specialty. In

London, for instance, I know a trio of this sort who live in a cellar

where they keep their "goods." I visited their place one afternoon, and

one of the men was kind enough to let himself be interviewed about his

business. My first question was how he begged.

"Well, o' course our first business is to wear bad togs. F'r instance,

ef I's beggin' fer shoes I wants to put on a pair thet's all gone, else

I can't get any more, 'n' the same when I's beggin' fer coats 'n' 'ats.

It's no use tellin' people that you're beggin' fer somebody else. They

won't believe it."

Then I questioned him as to the sort of garments which were most

profitable.

"Breeches. We kin sell 'em every time. 'Ats does pretty well too, 'n' ef

we get good shoes we kin do a rattlin' business. One o' my pals made

seven bob fer a week jes out o' shoes. Wimmenses' togs hain't up ter the

men's; an' yet we does fairly well wid 'em too. In 'ats, f'r instance,

we does fairly good, 'cause the gals knows where we lives, 'n' they

comes right 'ere instid o' goin' ter the dealers. Petticoats is next

best when we gets good ones, but we don't very often, 'cause these

Whitechapel donners [girls] wants picter-like ones, 'n' we don't always

get 'em. I wish we could jes stick ter beggin' fer men's togs, 'cause

they 's the best. Jes gimme 'nough breeches, 'n' I won't complain."

In American cities also, men's clothing is the most profitable for

beggars of this sort; very few tramps ask for "wimmenses' togs." In

Germany, however, all sorts of old clothes are looked for, and the city

tramps are great competitors of the Jews in this business. An old German

Jew once said to me:

"I wish these Kunden [tramps] were all dead. They spoil our business

right along, because they get their stuff for nothing, and then

undersell us. That isn't right, and I know it isn't."

In Frankfort-on-the-Main I once knew a Swiss beggar who collected

eighteen pairs of shoes in one week, not counting other things that he

asked for also. And he claimed that, after trying various kinds of

begging, he had found the most money in the shoe business. Of course,

all this depends on a beggar's ability to make people believe that he

is really deserving, for clothes-beggars, like a number of other

specialists, must have some natural adaptation for their chosen calling.

This is also true of the office-beggar, or "sticker," as he calls

himself. His specialty brings him almost entirely in contact with men,

and he must be exceedingly clever to deal successfully with them. A man

will argue with a beggar, if he has time, just twice as long as a woman

will, and he will also give just twice as much money if he gives

anything. So the office-beggar has good material to work on if he

understands it. One of his theories is that, when begging of men, the

"story" must be "true to nature"; that is, so simple and direct that

there is no possibility of doubling on his track. For instance, he will

visit a lawyer, tell his story, and then simply hang around as long as

he dares. It is this waiting so patiently that gives him his name of

"sticker." There are fully a hundred tramps of this sort in New York

city alone. They have their separate beats, and seldom leave them unless

they are worked out. I know one beggar who never leaves Newspaper Row

and Wall Street except for amusement, and he makes, on an average,

seventy-five cents a day. And I know another tramp whose business keeps

him confined to Broadway between Barclay Street and the Battery, while

his home is in the Bowery near Houston Street. Men of this stamp have

evidently been lucky in the selection of offices where a certain sum of

money will be given every week. Such good fortune is the ambition of

every energetic city tramp. He wants something definite every day, week,

and month, and as he gets it or fails to get it, rates himself

successful or unsuccessful.

The aristocrat of city vagabondage is represented by what I call the

room-beggar. He cannot be classified with the lodging-house men, because

he has little to do with them, except socially, as at the saloon or

music-hall, for instance. His home is entirely separated from theirs, it

being a room, and sometimes even an apartment, which he rents for

himself and family. If he is successful at his trade, and is careful to

dress with some nicety, he can scarcely be distinguished from the usual

citizen, except by the trained observer; the only mark about him being

that peculiar glance of the eye common to all criminals and beggars.

The room-beggar has no unique line of trade that I have been able to

discover; he goes into anything that pays, and the main difference

between him and the majority of the men in the "lodging-house gang" is

his greater ingenuity in making things pay. He is the brainy man of the

city tramps, and the other beggars know it, and all look up to him, with

the exception of the clever street-beggar, who considers himself his

equal, as I think he really is.

No tramp, for instance, is so clever at the begging-letter "racket," and

this means a good deal. To be able to write a letter to a perfect

stranger and make money out of it requires a skilled hand, and a man

educated in many lines. The public has become somewhat used to this

trick, and will not be deceived every time; only men of an original turn

of mind can do much with it. It is this originality that is the main

talent of the room-beggar. He concocts stories which would do credit to

a literary man, and sometimes makes nearly as much money as the daring

thief.

Women are also found in this class, and do very well at times. In the

city of Berlin, Germany, there lived a "lady" of this sort. She had two

homes. One was a cellar in a poor quarter of the town, and the other was

an aristocratic _étage_ in the West End. She sent letters to well-to-do

people of all sorts, in which she claimed to be _eine hochwohlgeborene

Dame_ in distress. She invited likely philanthropists to visit her in

her cellar in order that they might see how unfortunate her position

really was. People went, were shocked, and, as a result, she had her

apartment in the West End. For about ten months this woman and her two

daughters lived in real luxury, and one of the "young ladies" was to

marry in "high society" about the time that the ruse was made public.

This is by no means a new trick, and yet people are being continually

swindled. Why? Simply because the beggars who undertake it are cleverer

than the people fooled by it. That is the only reason. If charitable

people would only commit charity to skilled hands it would be much

easier to handle beggars. The tramp is a specialist; so why not leave

specialists to deal with him? The whole trouble comes of our willingness

to be more unpractical in our philanthropy than in our business.

There is one more city tramp that I must catalogue. It is the "sponger."

His duty in life consists, he thinks, in simply living off the visiting

knights of the road. He is a parasite fed by parasites, and hated by all

self-respecting beggars. He is found wherever the traveling hoboes

congregate, and there is no town in any country that I have visited

where he does not flourish. In the Bowery his name is legion, and a hobo

can scarcely visit a saloon there without meeting him. The wandering

vagabond considers him the "bunco-man" of the beggars' world, and that

is a good name. He will do anything to get money from a hobo, but I

doubt very much whether he ever begs on his own hook. Exactly how he

comes to exist no one knows, but I fancy that he is a discouraged tramp;

he has found that he is not a born beggar, and has concluded that the

next best thing is to live off men who are. If there were no beggars in

the world, he would probably have to work for his living, for he could

not steal successfully.

As for stealing, few town beggars ever go into that as a business. Of

course, they will take things that do not belong to them if they are

sure of not being caught, but this safety is so vain a hope that it is

seldom "banked on." It is strange that the city tramp is not more of a

thief, for probably no one knows more about the town's chances than he.

Criminals are always anxious to have some acquaintance in his ranks,

knowing only too well that the "town vag" can post them as no one else

can.

Another thing rather more unpopular among town tramps than is usually

supposed is joining a clique. In New York city, for example, there are

various gangs of toughs who prowl about the town committing all sorts of

depredations and making themselves generally feared. Even the policemen

are now and then held at bay by them, and woe to the drunken sailor with

his wages in his pockets who falls into their hands. I have seldom

found the city tramp in such company. He knows too well the dangers of

such crowds, prefers what he calls the "cut-throat principle," or each

man for himself. There is too much slavery for him among toughs of the

gang order, and he cannot move around as freely as he likes. Then, too,

gangs are every now and then fighting one another, and that is usually

harder work than the beggar cares for.

* * * * *

One of the most interesting things in the study of tramps is to get at

their own opinions of themselves. To a certain degree they may be called

rational beings. There is opinion and method and reason in trampdom,--no

doubt of it,--and there are shades of opinion that correspond to

varieties of method. The tramp of the prairies, the "fawny man" in New

England, the city tramp in the Bowery, each has his point of view. If

one catechizes or interviews the last named of these, he says:

"I'm a beggar, and I know it. I know, too, that most people look upon me

as a bad sort of fellow. They want to catch and punish me, and I don't

want them to do it. They are warring against me, and I'm warring against

them. They think that I don't know how I should use my life, and I think

that I do. Somebody must be mistaken; I think that they are, and I'm

doing my best to beat them. If they beat me, well and good; and if I

beat them, well and good."

This is the talk of the real artist in low life; he is in the vagabond

world because it pleases him better than any other. A little different

is the point of view of the drunkard beggar:

"I'm a fool, and I know it. No man with any sense and honor would live

as I do. But the worst of it all is, I can't live otherwise. Liquor

won't leave me alone, and as I've got to live somehow, why, I might as

well live where I can take care of myself. If people are fools enough to

let me swindle them, so much the worse for them and so much the better

for me."

To change such opinions as these is a hard task. The first can be

corrected only when the man who owns it is discouraged. When his spirit

is broken he can be helped, but not until then. The second is the result

of long suffering through passion. Until that passion is conquered

nothing can be done.

VI

WHAT THE TRAMP EATS AND WEARS

I

The tramp is the hungriest fellow in the world. No matter who he

is,--_Chausséegrabentapezirer_, moocher, or hobo,--his appetite is

invariably ravenous. How he comes by that quality of his defects is an

open question even in his own mind. Sometimes he accounts for it on the

ground that he is continually changing climate, and then again

attributes it to his incessant loafing. A tramp once said to me:

"Cigarette, it ain't work that makes blokes hungry; it's bummin'!" I

think there is some truth in this, for I know from personal experience

that no work has ever made me so hungry as simple idling; and while on

the road I also had a larger capacity for food than I have usually. Even

riding on a freight-train for a morning used to make me hungry enough to

eat two dinners, and yet there was almost no work about it. And I feel

safe in saying that the tramp can usually eat nearly twice as much as

the laboring-man of ordinary appetite.

Now, what does he find to satisfy this rapacious craving? There are two

famous diets in vagabondage, called the "hot" and the "cold." Each one

has its advocates and propagandists. The hot is befriended mainly by the

persevering and energetic; the cold belongs exclusively to the lazy and

unsuccessful. The first is remarkable for what its champions call

"set-downs," that is to say, good solid meals three times a day--or

oftener. The second consists almost entirely of "hand-outs" or

"poke-outs," which are nothing but bundles of cold food handed out at

the back door.

Every man on the road takes sides, one way or the other, in regard to

these two systems of feeding, and his standing in the brotherhood is

regulated by his choice. If he joins the set-downers he is considered at

least a true hobo, and although he may have enemies, they will not dare

to speak ill of his gift for begging. If, on the other hand, he contents

himself with hand-outs, he not only loses all prestige among the

genuine hoboes, but is continually in danger of tumbling down into the

very lowest grades of tramp life. There is no middle course for him to

follow.

II

Success in vagabondage depends largely on distinct and indispensable

traits of character--diligence, patience, nerve, and politeness. If a

tramp lacks any one of these qualities he is handicapped, and his chosen

life will go hard with him. He needs diligence in order to keep his

winnings up to a certain standard; he needs patience to help him through

districts where charity is below par; he needs nerve to give him

reputation among his cronies, and he needs politeness to win his way

with strangers and to draw their sympathy and help. If he possesses

these characteristics, no matter what his nationality may be, he will

succeed. If not, he would better work than tramp--he will find it much

easier and twice as profitable. The poke-out beggar is deficient in

every one of these qualities, and his winnings demonstrate it.

I made his acquaintance first about ten years ago. I had just begun my

life on the road, and as I knew but very little about tramping and

nothing about begging, it was only natural that I should fall in with

him, for he is the first person one meets in the vagabond world. The

successful beggars do not show themselves immediately, and the newcomer

must first give some valid evidence of his right to live among them

before they take him in--a custom, by the way, which shows that tramping

is much like other professions. But the poke-out tramp is not so

fastidious; he chums with any one he can, successful or not; and as I

had to associate with somebody, I began with him. After a while I was

graduated out of his rank, and received into the set-down class, but

only after a hard and severe training, which I would not go through

again--even for the sake of Sociology.

III

As a rule, the poke-out beggar has but one meal a day, usually

breakfast. This is the main meal with all vagabonds, and even the lazy

tramp makes frantic efforts to find it. Its quantity as well as its

quality depends largely on the kind of house he visits. His usual

breakfast, if he is lucky, consists of coffee, a little meat, some

potatoes, and "punk 'n' plaster" (bread and butter). Coffee, more than

anything else, is what every hobo wants early in the morning. After

sleeping out of doors or in a box-car, especially during the colder

months, a man is stiff and chilled, and coffee is the thing to revive

him when he cannot get whisky, which is by no means the easiest thing to

beg. I have known tramps to drink over six cups of coffee before they

looked for anything solid, and I myself have often needed three before I

could eat at all.

The dinner of the lazy beggar is a very slim affair. It is either a free

lunch in a saloon, or a hand-out. This latter consists mainly of

sandwiches, but now and then a cold potato will be put into the bundle,

and also, occasionally, a piece of pie. After the tramp has had one or

two of these impromptu lunches he persuades himself that he has had

enough, and goes off for a rest. How often--but on account of

bashfulness, rather than anything else--have I done the same thing! And

what poor dinners they were! They no more satisfy a tramp's appetite

than they would a lion's, but the indolent fellow tries to persuade

himself otherwise. I once overheard a typical member of the class

discussing the matter with himself, or rather with his appetite, which,

for the sake of argument and companionship, he looked upon as a

personality quite apart. He had just finished a slim and slender

hand-out, had tossed into the bushes the paper bag that held it

together, and, when I saw him, was looking up into the sky in a most

confidential manner. Soon, and as if sorry he could not be kinder to it,

he cast his eyes pityingly on his paunch, and said in a sad tone:

"Poor devil! I feel fer y'u--bet cher life I do! But yer'll have to

stand it, I guess. It's the only way I know fer y'u to git along." Then

he patted it gently, and repeated again his sympathetic "poor devil."

But not once did he scold himself for his laziness. Not he! He never

does.

His supper is very similar to his dinner, except that he tries now and

then to wash it down with a cup of tea or coffee. Later in the evening

he also indulges in another hand-out, unless he is on a freight-train or

far from the abodes of men.

Such is the diet of the lazy tramp, and, strange to relate, despite its

unwholesomeness and its meagerness, he is a comparatively healthy

fellow, as are almost all tramps. Their endurance, especially that of

the poke-out tramps, is something remarkable. I have known them to live

on "wind-pudding" as they call air, for over forty-eight hours without

becoming exhausted, and there are cases on record where they have gone

for four and five days without anything to eat or drink, and have lived

to tell the tale. A man with whom I once traveled in Pennsylvania did

this very thing. He was locked into a box-car which was shunted off on

an unused side-track a long distance from any house or place where his

cries could be heard. He was in the car for nearly one hundred and

twenty hours, and although almost dead when found, he picked up in a few

days, and before long was on the road again. I saw him at the World's

Fair at Chicago, and he was just as healthy and happy in his own way as

ever.

In some of the sparsely settled districts in Texas tramps have suffered

most appalling deaths by such accidents, but so long as a beggar keeps

his freedom I do not believe that even a lazy one starves to death in

this country. I know very well that people do not realize this, and that

they feed tramps regularly, laboring under the delusion that it is only

humane so to do.

But although the tramp hates honest labor, he hates starvation still

more, and if he finds it impossible to pick up anything to eat, he will

either go to jail or work. He loves this world altogether too much to

voluntarily explore another of which he knows so little.

IV

The clothes of the poke-out beggar are not much, if any, better than his

food. In summer he seldom has more than a shirt, a pair of trousers, a

coat, some old shoes, and a battered hat. Even in winter he wears little

more, especially if he goes South. I have never seen him with

underclothes or socks, and an overcoat is something he almost never gets

hold of, unless he steals one, which is by no means common. While I

lived with him I wore just such "togs." I shall never forget my first

tramp suit of clothes. The coat was patched in a dozen places, and was

nearly three sizes too large for me; the waistcoat was torn in the back,

and had but two buttons; the trousers were out at the knees, and had to

be turned up in London fashion at the bottom to keep me from tripping;

the hat was an old derby with the crown dented in numerous places; and

the only decent thing I had was a flannel shirt. I purchased this rig of

a Jew, and thought it would be just the thing for the road, and so it

was, but only for the poke-out tramp's road. The hoboes laughed at me

and called me "hoodoo," and I never got in with them in any such garb.

Nevertheless, I wore it for nearly two months, and so long as I

associated with lazy beggars only, it was all right. Many of them were

never dressed so well, and not a few envied me my old coat.

It is by no means uncommon to see a poke-out vagabond wearing a garment

which belongs to a woman's wardrobe. He is so indifferent that he will

wear anything that will shield his nakedness, and I have known him to be

so lazy that he did not even do that.

One old fellow I remember particularly. He had lost his shirt somehow,

and for almost a week went about with only a coat between his body and

the world at large. Some of his pals, although they were of his own

class, told him that he ought to find another shirt, and the more he

delayed it the more they labored with him. One night they were all

gathered at a hang-out near Lima, Ohio, and the old fellow was told that

unless he found a shirt that night they would take away his coat also.

He begged and begged, but they were determined, and as he did not show

any intention of doing as he was bidden, they carried out the threat.

And all that night and the following day he was actually so lazy and

stubborn that he would not yield, and would probably be there still, in

some form or other, had his pals not relented and returned him the coat.

As I said, he went for nearly a week without finding a shirt, and not

once did he show the least shame or embarrassment.

Not long after this experience he got into limbo, and had to wear the

famous "zebra"--the penitentiary dress. It is not popular among tramps,

and they seldom wear it, but that old rascal, in spite of the disgrace

and inconvenience that his confinement brought upon him, was probably

pleased that he did not have to find his own clothes.

Such are the poke-out tramps of every country where I have studied them,

and such they will always be. They are constitutionally incapacitated

for any successful career in vagabondage, and the wonder is that they

live at all. Properly speaking, they have no connection with the real

brotherhood, and I should not have referred to them here, except that

the public mistakes them for the genuine hoboes. They are not hoboes,

and nothing angers the latter so much as to be classed with them.

The hobo is exceedingly proud in his way,--a person of

susceptibilities,--and if you want to offend him, call him a "gay-cat"

or a "poke-outer." He will never forgive you.

V

Almost the first advice given me after I had managed to scramble into

the set-down class came from an old vagabond known among his cronies as

"Portland Shorty." He knew that I had been but a short time on the road,

and that in many respects I had not met with the success which was

necessary to entitle me to respect among men of his class, but

nevertheless he was willing to give me a few pointers, which, by the

way, all hoboes are glad to do, if they feel that the recipient will

turn them to profit.

I met Shorty for the first time in Chicago, and while we were lounging

on the grass in the Lake Front Park, the following conversation took

place:

"Cigarette," he began,--for I had already received my tramp name,--"how

long 'v' y'u been on the road?"

I replied: "About two months."

"Wall, how long d' y'u 'spect to stay there?"

"Oh, 's long 's I'm happy."

"Ez long ez yer happy, eh? Wall, then, I'm goin' to chew the rag wid y'u

fer a little while. Now, 'f yer wants to be happy, here's a little

advice fer y'u. In the first place, make up yer mind jes wha' cher goin'

to be. Ef y'u 'spect to work fer yer living why, get off the road.

Moochin' spiles workin' jes ez workin' spiles moochin'. The two don't go

together nohow. So 'f yer goin' to be a bum fer life, never think o'

work. Jes give yerself entirely to yer own speshul calling fer 'f y'u

don't yer'll regret it. 'N the second place, y'u wan' to decide what

kind o' beggar yer goin' to make. Ef yer a thief, 'n' playin' the beggar

jes as a guy, why, then y'u knows yer bizness better 'n I do. But ef y'u

ain't, 'n' are jes browsin' round lookin' fer a berth, then I wants to

tell yer somethin'. There's diffrent kinds o' beggars; some gits there,

'n' some doesn't. Them what gits there I call arteests, 'n' them what

doesn't I call bankrupts. Now, wha' cher goin' to be, arteest or

bankrupt?"

I replied that I was still undecided, since I had not yet learned

whether I could make a success on the road or not, but added that my

inclination would be toward the "arteest" class.

"That's right," he began afresh. "Be an arteest or nothin'. Beggin' 's a

great bizness 'f yer cut out fer it, 'cause y'u've got everythin' to win

'n' nothin' to lose. Not many callin's has them good points--see? Now,

'f yer goin' to be an arteest, y'u wants to make up yer mind to one

thing, 'n' that is--hard work. Some people thinks that moochin' is easy,

but lemme tell yer 't ain't. Batterin', when it's done well, is the

difficultest job under the moon--take my tip fer that. Y'u got to work

hard all yer life to make boodle, 'n' 'f y'u wan' to save it, y'u

mus'n't booze. Drinkin' 's what spiles bums. If they c'u'd leave it

alone they'd be somethin'. Now, Cig, that's good sound talk, 'n' you'd

better hang on to it."

I did, and it helped me as much as anything else in getting in with the

real hoboes. I have known them, now, for ten years, and feel abundantly

qualified to describe their diet and dress.

VI

In the first place, they eat three good warm meals every day--breakfast

from seven to eight o'clock, dinner at twelve, and supper at six. These

are the set-downs[5] in tramp life, and it is the duty of every

professional to find them regularly. The breakfast is very similar to

the poke-out tramp's breakfast, the main additions being oatmeal and

pancakes, if the beggar is willing to look for them. They can be found

with a little perseverance. There are also some hoboes who want pie for

breakfast, and they have it almost constantly. I once traveled with a

Maine tramp who simply would not consider his breakfast complete until

he had had his usual piece of apple-pie. And he actually had the nerve

to go to houses and ask for that alone. During our companionship, which

lasted over a week, he failed but once to get it, and then it was

because he had to make a train.

The dinner is a more elaborate affair, and the tramp must often visit a

number of houses before he finds the various dishes he desires. I

remember well a hunt I had for a dinner in St. Louis. A Western tramp

was my comrade at the time, and we had both decided upon our bill of

fare. He wanted meat and potatoes, "punk 'n' plaster," some kind of

dessert (pudding preferred), and three cups of coffee. I wanted the same

things minus the dessert, and I had to visit fifteen houses before my

appetite was satisfied. But, as my companion said, the point is that I

finally got my dinner. He too was successful, even to the kind of

pudding he wished.

Not all tramps are so particular as my Western pal, but they must have

the "substanshuls" (meat and potatoes and bread and butter) anyhow.

Unless they get them they are angry, and scold everything and everybody.

I once knew a vagabond to call down all sorts of plagues and miseries on

a certain house because he could not get enough potatoes there. He

prayed that it might be cursed with smallpox, all the fevers that he

knew, and every loathsome disease--and he meant it, too.

There are a number of hoboes who occasionally take their dinners in the

form of what they call the "made-to-order scoff." It is something they

have invented themselves, and for many reasons is their happiest meal.

It takes place at the hang-out, and a more appropriate environment could

not be found. When the scoff is on the program, the vagabonds gather

together and decide who shall beg the meat, the potatoes, the onions,

the corn, the bread and butter, the tea and coffee, and the desserts, if

they are procurable. Then each one starts out on his separate errand,

and if all goes well they return before long and hand their winnings

over to the cook. This official, meanwhile, has collected the fire-wood

and the old tin cans for frying and boiling the food. While the meal is

cooking, the tramps sit around the fire on the stolen railroad-ties and

compare jokes and experiences. Pretty soon dinner is announced, and they

begin. They have no forks and often no knives, but that does not matter.

"Fingers were made before forks." Sometimes they sharpen little sticks

and use them, but fingers are more popular. The table manners of the

Eskimos compare favorably with those of these picnicking hoboes, and I

have often seen a tramp eat meat in a way that would bring a dusky blush

to the cheek of the primeval Alaskan. It is remarkable, however, that no

matter how carelessly they eat their food, they seldom have dyspepsia. I

have known only a few cases, and even then the sufferers were easily

cured.

Supper is seldom much of a meal among hoboes, and mainly because it has

to be looked for, during the greater part of the year, just about dark,

the time when the hobo is either preparing his night's hang-out, or

making arrangements for his night's journey, and the hunt for supper

often occasions unpleasant delays. But he nevertheless looks for it if

he can possibly spare the time. He considers it his bounden duty to eat

regularly, and feels ashamed if he neglects to do it. I have heard him

scold himself for an hour just because he failed to get a meal at the

proper time, although he really did not care for it. Bohemian that he

is, he still respects times and seasons, which is the more surprising

since in other matters he is as reckless as a fool. In quarrels, for

example, he regards neither sense nor custom, and has his own private

point of view every time. But at the very moment that he is planning

some senseless and useless fight, he will look for a meal as

conscientiously as the laborer works for one, although he may not need

it.

For supper he usually has about what other people have--potatoes

(usually fried) and beefsteak, tea or coffee, bread and butter, and some

kind of sauce. For three months of my time on the road I had almost

exactly this bill of fare, and became so accustomed to it that I was

considerably surprised if I found anything else. I mention these various

items to show how closely the tramp's "hot diet" resembles that of most

people. A great mistake is made in thinking that these men, as a class,

have to eat things both uncommon and peculiar. Some of them do, but all

of the set-downers eat about the same things that the respectable and

worthy portion of the community eats.

In Pennsylvania, the "fattenin'-up State,"[6] or "P. A.," as the hobo

calls it, apple-butter is his chief delicacy. I have seen him put it on

his bread, meat, and potatoes, and one beggar that I knew wanted it

"raw." I happened to be with this man one afternoon in the town of

Bethlehem, and while we were sitting on a little bridge crossing the

canal on the outskirts of the town, a Pennsylvania Dutchman hove in

sight. My pal, being a beggar who liked to improve every opportunity,

immediately said to me, in a professional sort of voice:

"Keep quiet, Cig, 'n' I'll tackle 'im."

The man soon passed us, and the beggar followed. He caught up with him

in a moment, and as I had also followed, I managed to overhear a part of

the conversation. It was something like this:

"I say, boss, can' cher gimme the price of a meal?"

"Nein; dat kan ich nit."

"Well, can you take me home 'n' feed me?"

"Nein."

"Well, say; can' cher gimme a cigar?"

"Nein"--in anger.

"Well, say,"--and he put his arm affectionately on the Dutchman's

shoulder,--"let's go 'n' have a drink. Eh?"

"Nein."

"Well, you old hoosier, you, can you gimme some apple-butter?"

Even the Dutchman laughed, but he said, "Nein."

Besides the three meals which every hobo has regularly, there are also

two or three lunches a day, which are included in the hot diet, although

they practically belong to the cold one. The first is taken in the

morning about ten o'clock, and is begged at breakfast-time, the second

about three or four o'clock, and the third late in the evening. Not all

hoboes eat these between-meal "snacks," but the majority beg them at any

rate, and if they do not need them they either throw them away or give

them to some deserving person, often enough a seeker of work. For

although the tramp hates labor, he does not hate the true laborer, and

if he can help him along, he does it willingly. He knows only too well

that it is mainly the laboring-man off whom he lives, and that it is

well to do him a good turn whenever it is possible. Then, too, the hobo

is a generous fellow, no matter what else he is, and is always willing

to share his winnings with any one he really likes. With the gay-cat and

the poke-outer he will have nothing to do, but with the criminal, his

own pals, and the working-man he is always on good terms, unless they

repel his overtures.

As a number of tramps spend considerable time in jails, it seems

appropriate to tell what they eat there, also. Their life in limbo is

often voluntary, for although a great many hoboes go South every winter,

there are others who prefer a jail in the North, and so whatever

hardship they encounter is mainly of their own choosing. And since some

of them do choose jail fare, it is evident that those particular beggars

find it less disagreeable than winter life "outside" either North or

South. The usual food in these places is bread, molasses, and coffee in

the morning, some sort of thick soup or meat and potatoes with bread for

dinner, and bread and molasses and tea for supper. There is generally

enough, also, and although I have often heard the tramps grumble, it was

mainly because they had nothing else to do. Confinement in county

prisons, although it has its diversions, tends to make a man captious

and irritable, and the tramp is no exception to this. Occasionally he

gets into a jail where only two meals a day are given, and he must then

exercise his fortitude. He never intends to be in such a place, but

mistakes will happen even in vagabondage, and it is most interesting to

see how the tramp gets out of them or endures them. He usually grits his

teeth and promises "never to do it again"; and, considering his

self-indulgent nature, I think he stands suffering remarkably well.

VII

What the hot-diet tramp wears is another matter, but a not vastly

different one. His ambition, although he does not always achieve it, is

to have new togs quite as regularly as the man who buys them with hard

cash. He also tries to keep up with the fashions and the seasons as

closely as possible.

But all this must naturally be regulated by the charity of the community

in which he happens to be. If he is near a college, and knows how to beg

of the students, he can usually find just what and about all he needs;

but if he is in a country district where clothes are worn down to the

thread, he is in a hard case. As a rule, however, he dresses nearly as

well as the day-laborer, and sometimes far better. There are tramps of

this type in New York and Chicago whose dress is almost identical with

that of the majority of the men one meets in the streets, and to

distinguish them from the crowd requires an eye able to read their faces

rather than their coats. Such men never allow their clothes to wear

beyond a certain point before begging a fresh supply. And if they are

careful, and do not ride in freight-trains often, a suit will last them

several months, for they understand remarkably well how to take care of

it. Every tramp of this order and grade carries a brush inside of his

coat pocket, and uses it on the slightest provocation. On the road I

also acquired this habit of brushing my clothes as often as they showed

the slightest soil. It is a trick of the trade, and saves not only the

clothes, but the self-respect of the brotherhood.

Dark clothes are the most popular, because they keep clean, or at least

appear clean, for a longer time. I once wore a suit of this kind for

nearly three months, and although I used it rather roughly, it was so

good at the end of that time that I traded it to a tramp for a coat and

vest almost new. The way to make sure of having a serviceable suit is to

gather together several coats, vests, and trousers, and pick out a

complement from the best and most suitable of the lot.

[Illustration: A WESTERN ROADSTER.]

I shall not forget an experience of this sort I had in a Western town. I

had worked all day with my companion looking simply for clothes, and at

night we had six coats, eight vests, four pairs of trousers, and two

overcoats. Out of this collection we chose two fairly good suits, but

the rest were so poor that we had to throw them away. One of the coats

was a clergyman's, and when he gave it to me he said: "It may not fit

you very well, but you can use it as an overcoat, perhaps." It was even

then too large for me, and I gave it to the tramp, who wore it for

nearly a month. His pals laughed at him and called him "Parson Jim"; but

he made more money with that coat than he could possibly have made in

any other. He posed as a theological student among the farmers, and was

most royally entertained. But his luck gave out in a short time, for he

went to prison in his clerical habit not long after.

Hoboes take most delight in what is called the sack-coat. "Tailed

jackets" are inconvenient, especially when one is riding on the trucks

of a train; the skirts are liable to catch on something and thus delay

matters. It is the inside of a tramp s coat, however, that is most

interesting. It is usually furnished with numerous pockets, one of them

being called the "poke-out pocket," in which he stows away his lunches.

The others are used for brushes, tattooing-tools, combs, white rags,

string, and other little notions that may "come handy" to a traveler.

But in none of the pockets will there ever be found one bit of paper

which might identify the bearer or implicate him in any suspicious work.

He is too "foxy" to ever allow his real name to crop out in any telltale

evidence on his person, except, perhaps, when he may have been foolish

enough to have it tattooed somewhere on his body.

He is proudest of his hat and shoes, and with reason. The former is

usually a soft black felt, but stiff hats are also _à la mode_, and I

have even seen a "stove-pipe" on the road. It was unique, however, and

the owner did a good business with it; his "clients" used to feed him

simply on account of his oddity. The foot-gear consists generally of

laced shoes, but boots have to be accepted now and then. Socks, although

much in vogue, often yield to white-linen rags wound smoothly around

the feet. This is particularly true among the tramps of Germany. They

take long walks, and contend that socks chafe the feet too much. There

is truth in this, and while I lived with them I followed their custom to

the extent of wearing the rags next to my feet and then drawing the

socks over them. And I was very little troubled with sore feet while I

did so; but for the one week when I tried to go without the rags I

suffered considerably.