"'Waal, blokey,' she said, 'I hain't a-wearin' them air t'ings any

more. I say, air yer right k'rect that the flyin' mail comes through

these yere parts?' I guv it to her dead straight, 'n' tole 'er I wuz

sartain. Then I asked, 'Mary, ain' cher recognizin' common peoples any

more? Don't chu know old Tom?' Ye sh'u'd 'a' seen 'er look! She put 'er

old bony han's on me shoulders, 'n' stuck 'er old phiz clos't ter mine,

'n' said, 'Who be ye, anyhow? I's gettin' sort o' old-like 'n' bughouse,

'n' I can't call yer name. Who be ye? 'n' kin ye tell me ef I kin make

the flyin' mail?' I tole 'er who I wuz, 'n' ye sh'u'd 'a' seen 'er! Ye

see, I's summat younger than 'er, 'n' she jes treated me like me old

woman. It made me feel sort o' queer-like, I tell ye, for I use' ter

like the old gal in great style.

"Waal, we had a good talk, as ye kin well 'xpect, but she kept askin'

'bout that blasted flyin' mail. I did n' wan' ter ride it that night,

'cause she wuz purty bughouse, 'n' I felt she'd get ditched ef we tried

it. So I jes argeyed with 'er, 'n' did me best ter make 'er stay where

we wuz; but I might jes 's well 'a' tried to batter a dollar in the

place. She was simply stuck on pullin' out that night. I asked 'er why

she didn't go back to Boston, 'n' she said, 'Boston! W'y, I's got the

mooch out o' Boston. Ye see, Tom, I got ter tellin' fortunes, 'n' the

bulls snared me, 'n' his Honor tole me to crawl. I did n' go at first,

but arter a bit it got too hot fer me out at the shanty, 'n' I had ter

mooch. So here I be, 'n' I guess I'm a' right; but I 's bughouse--yes,

bughouse'; 'n' she kept a-squealin' that word till I wuz sick. But she

wuz bughouse, dead sure. An' I guess that's why she wuz on the road, fer

when I use' ter know 'er she wuz too cute ter let any bull get roun'

her; anyhow, no Boston bull c'u'd 'a' done it. P'r'aps a Chicago one

might, but he's all eyes anyhow.

"Waal, ez I wuz sayin', I tried ter keep 'er from ridin' the mail, but

't wa'n't no use. So I made up me mind that I'd go with 'er 'n' help 'er

along. An' when the train whistled roun' the curve, I got 'er over to

the tank, 'n' made 'er lay low till the train wuz ready. Waal, the train

had come, 'n' I looked it over to find a blind baggage, but I c'u'dn't.

So I says to Mary, 'We've got to truck it.' She got horstile 's the

divil when I tole 'er that. 'Truck it!' she said. 'Course we'll truck

it. What else d' ye 'xpect us to do? I use' ter ride out West as well as

any o' ye, but I's gittin' old 'n' sort o' bughouse--yes, I is.' The

train wuz mos' ready to pull out, 'n' the con wuz swingin' his lantern,

so I took 'er hand 'n' got 'er into the baggage-car trucks. 'Get in

carefully,' I said, ''n' be sartain ter hang on to the right rod.' She

clumb in 'tween the wheels, 'n' fixed 'erself with 'er back to the

engine. It would 'a' made ye cry to hear 'er beggin' me to look out fer

'er. 'Don't leave the old gal, will yer, blokey?' I tole 'er I w'u'dn't,

'n' got in alongside her jes ez the whistle blew; 'n' away we went,

ridin', fer all either on us c'u'd tell, to the divil. 'T wa'n't no time

to think 'bout that, though, fer I had to remember the old gal. I didn't

dast ter hold 'er, fer I'd 'a' fallen meself, so I jes had to holler at

'er, 'n' be sure that she hollered back. I kept a-bellerin', 'Hang on,

Mary, hang on!' 'n' she kept sayin', 'I will, blokey, I will!' She

meant, o' course, that she'd do her best, but arter a few minnits I see

clear 'nough she'd never pull through. The way the wind 'n' the gravel

'n' the dirt flew round our faces, 'n' the cramps that took us, settin'

so crooked-like, wuz 'nough to make bigger blokes 'n she give up, 'n'

don' cher forget it. An' to make things worse, her hair blew all over me

face, 'n' matted down me eyes so I c'u'd hardly see. I das'n't brush it

away, fer I'd tumbled sure. The gravel cut me face, too, 'n' onc't a

good-sized stone hit me lips such a rap that I c'u'd feel the blood

tricklin' on me chin. But worse than all, Old Mary got to screamin', 'n'

I c'u'dn't see her fer her hair. She screamed 'n' screamed, 'The flyin'

mail--oh, I say--the flyin' mail,' an' 'er shriekin' 'n' the rattlin' o'

the wheels made me nigh bughouse, too. I called out ev'ry few minnits to

keep 'er down to bizness, 'n' I got one more answer sayin' she was doin'

'er best. An' then some o' her hair flew in me mouth, 'n' try me best I

c'u'dn't get it out, 'n' I didn't dast ter take me hands off the rod. So

I c'u'dn't see 'er or speak to 'er any more. See? I heard 'er screamin'

agen, 'Oh, I say--the flyin' mail--flyin'--bughouse,' an' then nothin'

more. I c'u'dn't say nothin', so I jes made a big noise in me throat to

let 'er know I wuz there. By 'n' by I heerd it agen,--'Bughouse--flyin'

mail--blokey,'--an' agen I lost 'er. I wuz nearly bughouse meself. Ef

that train hed only hauled up! Ef I hed only kept 'er from ever gettin'

on to it! I c'u'd n' hold 'er, I c'u'd n' speak to 'er, I c'u'd n' see

'er, an' all the divils wuz dead agen' us. An' she wuz gettin' wilder

ev'ry minnit. I shook me head up 'n' down, back'urd 'n' for'ard--'t wuz

all I c'u'd do. Once agen she begun her screaming 'Oh, I say, the flyin'

mail--flyin'--flyin',' an' then I said the biggest thankee I ever said

in me life fer bein' blinded in me eyes; fer when her old hair hed

swished away, 'n' me eyes wuz free agen, I wuz hangin' on alone, 'n' the

wheels hed carried me far away from where the old gal wuz lyin'. I

c'u'dn't help it, Cig--no, I c'u'dn't; 'n' you mus' tell the other

blokes that I done my best, but 't wa'n't no use--I done my best."

The tremor of the tone, the terror lest I should think he had not been

faithful to his awful trust, told better than words that his tale was

true, and that he had done his best to save the poor wrecked life so

confidingly placed in his care.

But the end was not unfitting. The "flyin' mail," the cramped and

painful ride, the pelting storm, the dust and gravel, the homeless

goal--what could be more symbolic of Old Mary's career! And on the wings

of steam and wind her Gipsy spirit went flying--flying.

[Illustration: OLD BOSTON MARY.]

II

JAMIE THE KID

It was my last night in San Francisco, and I could not leave without

saying good-by to Old Slim. His place was almost empty when I strolled

in, and he was standing behind his greasy bar counting the day's

winnings. The _adios_ was soon said, and I started for the street again.

I had hardly left the bar when the door suddenly squeaked on its rickety

hinges, and a one-armed man came in with a handsome kid. He was

evidently dying of consumption, and as he shuffled clumsily across the

floor, with the boy following solemnly at his heels, I fancied that he

wanted Slim to help him into a hospital. He called for his drinks, and

asked Slim if he knew of any one "bound East" the next day.

"W'y, yes," Slim replied; "that young feller right back o' ye leaves

ter-morrer: ain't that right, Cigarette?"

The man turned and looked at me. Grabbing my hand, he exclaimed:

"Well, I'll be jiggered! Where d' y'u come from? Don't remember me, eh!

Wy, you little beggar, have you forgotten the time we nearly croaked in

that box-car jus' out of Austin--have you forgotten that?" and he

pinched my fingers as if to punish me.

I scrutinized him closely, trying to trace in his withered and sickened

face the familiar countenance of my old friend Denver Red.

"Yes, that's right, guy me!" he retorted nervously. "I've changed a

little, I know. But look at this arm,"--pushing back his sleeve from the

emaciated hand,--"that crucifix ain't changed, is it? Now d' you know

me?"

There was no longer any reason for doubt, for down in Texas I had seen

New Orleans Fatty put that same piece on his lonely arm. But how changed

he was! The last time we met he was one of the healthiest hoboes on the

"Santa Fé," and now he could just barely move about.

"Why, Red," I asked, "how did this happen? You're nearly dead."

"Sleepin' out done it, I guess," he answered hoarsely. "Anyhow, the

crocus[10] says so, 'n' I s'pose he knows. Can't get well, neither. Be'n

all over--Hot Springs, Yellarstone, Yosem'ty, 'n' jus' the other day

come up from Mex'co. Cough like a horse jus' the same. But say, Cig,

drink out, 'n' we'll go up to Jake's--'s too public here. I've got a lot

to tell you, 'n' a big job fer you, too; 'll you come? A'right. So long,

Slim; I'll be in agen ter-morrer."

We were soon seated in a back room at Jake's. The boy stretched himself

on a bench, and in a moment was asleep.

"Purty kid, ain't he?" Red said, looking proudly at the little fellow.

"An' he's a perfect bank, too, 'f you train 'im right. You oughter seen

'im over in Sac[11] the other day. He drove some o' them Eastern stiffs

nearly wild with the way he throws his feet. Give 'im good weather an' a

lot o' women, 'n' he'll batter his tenner ev'ry day. They get sort o'

stuck on 'im somehow, 'n' 'fore they know it they're shellin' out.

Quarters ev'ry time, too. He don't take no nickels--seems to hate 'em. A

Los Angeles woman tried 'im once, 'n' what d' you think he did! Told 'er

to put it in an orphan 'sylum. Oh, he's cute, bet cher life. But,

Cig,"--and his voice dropped to a lower pitch,--"he's homesick. Think of

it, will you, a hobo kid homesick! Bawls like the devil sometimes. Wants

to see his ma--he's only twelve 'n' a half, see! If 'e was a homely kid,

I'd kick 'im. If there's en'thing I can't stand, it's homely bawlin'

kids. They make me sick. But you can't kick him--he's too purty; ain't

he?" and he glanced at the slumberer.

"You pull out at seven, do you?" he asked, after a pause.

"Well, Cig, I'm mighty glad it's you I found at Slim's. I was hopin' I'd

meet some bloke I knew, but I feared I wouldn't. They're mos' all dead,

I guess. Bummin' does seem to kill us lads, don't it? Ev'ry day I hear

o' some stiff croakin' or gettin' ditched. It's a holy fright. Yer bound

fer York, ain't you, Cig? Well, now, see here; I've got an errand fer

you. What d' you think 't is! Give it up, I s'pose! Well, you see that

kid over there; purty, ain't he?" and he walked over to the bench and

looked into the lad's face.

"Pounds his ear [sleeps] like a baby, don't he?" and he passed his hand

delicately over the boy's brow.

"Now, Cig," he continued, returning to his seat, "I

want--you--to--take--this--kid--back--to--the--Horn. That's where he

lives. What d' you say?"

There was only one thing I could say. A few months more at the outside

and Red would be gone, and it was probably the last favor I could do him

in payment for the many kindnesses he had shown me in the early days.

"If en'thing happens to 'im, Cig, w'y, it's got to happen, I s'pose; but

he's so dead stuck on seein' his ma that I guess he'll be purty foxy.

I'd take 'im myself, but I'm 'fraid I can't pull through. It's a tough

trip 'tween here 'n' Omaha, 'n' I guess he'll be safer with you. I hate

to let 'im go at all, but the devil of it is I ain't got the nerve to

hang on to 'im. You see, I'm goin' to croak 'fore long--oh, you don't

need to snicker; 't's a fact. A few more months 'n' there'll be one less

hobo lookin' fer set-downs. Yes, Cig, that's straight. But that ain't

the only reason I'm sendin' the kid home. I oughter sent 'im home 'bout

a year ago, 'n' I said I would, too, 'f I found 'im. I lied, didn't I?

Ye-es, sir; 'bout twelve months ago I told his mother I'd fetch 'im back

'f I collared 'im. How's that fer a ghost-story, eh? Wouldn't the blokes

laugh, though, if they'd hear it? Denver Red takin' a kid home! Sounds

funny, don't it? But that's jus' what I said I'd do, 'n' I wasn't drunk,

nuther. Fill up yer schooner, Cig, 'n' I'll tell you 'bout it."

He braced himself against the wall, hugged his knees, and told me what

follows.

"You know where the Horn is right 'nough, don't you? Well, 'bout a year

'n' a half ago I got ditched there one night in a little town not far

from the main line. 'T was rainin' like the devil, 'n' I couldn't find

an empty anywheres. Then I tried the barns, but ev'ry one of 'em was

locked tighter 'n a penitentiary. That made me horstile, 'n' I went into

the main street 'n' tackled a bloke fer a quarter. He wouldn't give me

none, but 'e told me 'f I wanted a lodgin' that a woman called College

Jane 'u'd take me in. Says he: 'Go up this street till you strike the

academy; then cross the field, 'n' purty soon you'll find a little row

o' brown houses, 'n' in No. 3 is where Jane lives. You can't miss the

house, 'cause there's a queer sign hangin' over the front door, with a

ball o' yarn 'n' a big needle painted on it. She does mendin'. I guess

she'll take you in. She always does, anyhow.' Course I didn't know

whether he was lyin' or not,--you can never trust them hoosiers,--but I

went up jus' the same, 'n' purty soon, sure 'nough, I struck the house.

I knocked, 'n' in a minnit I heerd some one sayin', 'Is that you,

Jamie?' Course that wasn't my name, but I thought like lightnin', 'n'

made up my mind that 't was my name in the rain, anyhow. So I says, in a

kid's voice, 'Yes, it's Jamie.' The door opened, 'n' there was one o'

the peartest little women y' ever see.

"'Oh, I thought you wasn't Jamie,' she says. 'Come in--come in. You must

be wet.'

[Illustration: BEATING A PASSENGER-TRAIN.]

"I felt sort o' sheepish, but went in, 'n' she set me down in the

dinin'-room. Then I told 'er a story. One o' the best I ever told, I

guess--made 'er eyes run, anyhow. An' she fed me with more pie 'n' cake

than I ever had in my life. Reminded me o' the time we thought we was

drunk on apple-pie in New England. Well, then she told me her story. 'T

wa'n't much, but somehow I ain't forgotten it yet. You see, she come

from the soil, 'n' her man was a carpenter. After they'd be'n West 'bout

six years he up 'n' died, leavin' her a little house 'n' a kid. She

called 'im Jamie. Course she had to live somehow, 'n' purty soon she got

a job mendin' fer the 'cademy lads, 'n' she boarded some of 'em. That's

the way she got her monikey[12]-see? Well, things went along purty well,

'n' she was 'spectin' to put the kid in the 'cademy 'fore long. H-e-e-e

didn't like books very well--hung around the station mos' the time. Sort

o' stuck on the trains, I s'pose. Lots o' kids like that, you know.

Well, to wind up the business, one night when he was 'bout 'leven year

old he sloped. Some bloke snared 'im, prob'ly, an' ever since she's be'n

waitin' 'n' waitin' fer 'im to come back. An' ev'ry night she fixes up

his bed, 'n' 'f anybody knocks she always asks, 'Is that you, Jamie?'

Funny, ain't it? Well, somehow the bums got on to 'er, 'n' ever since

the kid mooched she's be'n entertainin' 'em. Gives them his room ev'ry

time. An' she always asks 'em 'f they know where he is. She asked me

too, 'n' made me promise 'f I found 'im that I'd send 'im home. Course I

never 'spected to see 'im, but I had to say somethin'.

"Well, sir, six months afterward I was sittin' in Sal's place in

K. C.,[13] when who should come in but New York Slim. He called me out,

'n' says, 'Red, wanter buy a kid?' As it happened, I did want one, so I

asked 'im how much 'e wanted. He took me over to a joint 'n' showed me

that kid over there on that bench. 'Give you a sinker [a dollar],' I

said. He was satisfied, 'n' I took the kid.

"Well, sir, as luck would have it, 'bout a week later the kid got so

stuck on me that he told me his story. I didn't know what to do. He

didn't wanter go home, 'n' I didn't want 'im to. Course I didn't tell

'im nothin' 'bout seein' his ma--that 'u'd 'a' spoiled everything. Well,

I didn't say nothin' more 'bout it, 'n' we come out here. I've had 'im

now fer 'bout a year, 'n' I've trained 'im dead fine. Wy, Cig, he's the

best kid on the coast--yes, he is. But, as I've be'n tellin' you, he's

homesick, 'n' I've got to get 'im back to the Horn. I'm 'fraid he won't

stay there--he's seen too much o' the road; but I'll croak jus' a little

bit easier from knowin' that I sent 'im back. I'd like it 'f he'd stay,

too; 'cause, to 'fess up, Cig, I ain't very proud o' this bummin', 'n'

'f 'e keeps at it 'e'll be jus' like me 'fore long. So when 'e wakes up

I'm goin' to lecture 'im, 'n' I don't want you to laugh. May help, you

know; can't tell."

Two hours later we were in the railroad yards waiting for my train to be

made up. There were still about fifteen minutes left, and Red was

lecturing the kid.

"See here, kid," I heard him saying; "what's you learnt since I've had

you--en'thing?"

"Bet cher life I has!" the little fellow returned, with an assumed

dignity that made even Red smile.

"Well, how much? Rattle it off now, quick!"

The boy began to count on his fingers:

"Batterin', one; sloppin' up, two; three-card trick, three;

an'--an'--that song 'n' dance, four--four; an'--an' enhalin' cig'rettes,

five--five--" Here he stopped and asked if he should take the next hand.

"Yes, go on; let's have the hull of it."

"Well, then, I knows that cuss-word you taught me--that long one, you

know; that's six, ain't it? Oh, yes, 'n' I knows that other cuss-word

that that parson told us was never forgiven--remember, don't you? Well,

that's seven--seven. I guess that's about all--jus' an even seven."

"You sure that's all, kid?"

"Well, darn it, Red, ain't that enough fer a prushun? You don't know

much more yerself--no, you don't, 'n' you's three times old's I am"; and

he began to pout.

"Now, kid, d' you know what I wants you to do?"

"Bet cher life I do! Ain' cher be'n tellin' me fer the las' year? You

wants me to be a blowed-in-the-glass stiff. Ain't them the words?"

"No, kid. I've changed my mind. Yer goin' home now, ain' cher?"

"Jus' fer a little while. I'm comin' back to you, ain't I?"

"No, you ain't, kid. Yer goin' home fer good. Cigarette's goin' to take

you, 'n' you mustn't come back. Listenin'?"

"Say, Red, has you gone bughouse? I never heerd you talk like that in my

life."

"See here, kid,"--and there was a firmer tone in his voice,--"we ain't

foolin' now--understan'? An' in about five minnits you'll be gone. Now,

I wants you to promise that ye'll ferget ev'ry darn thing I've taught

you. Listenin'?"

The kid was gazing down the track.

"Listenin'?" Red cried again.

The kid turned and looked at him. "Can't I enhale cig'rettes any more?

Has I got to ferget them, too?"

"Well, kid, you _kin_ tell yer mother that I says you kin do that--but

that's all. Now, 'll you promise?"

"Gosh, Red, it'll be hard work!"

"Can't help it--_you got to do it_. You don't wanter be like me. You

wanter be somethin' dead fine--'spectable."

"Ain't you somethin' dead fine? I heerd 'Frisco Shorty say onc't you was

the fliest bloke in yer line west o' Denver."

"You don't understan', kid"; and he stamped his foot. "I mean like yer

mother. Listenin'? Well, 'll you promise?"

The kid nodded his head, but there was a surprise in his eyes which he

could not conceal.

The train was at last ready, and we had to be quick.

"Well, Cig, so long; take care o' yerself. Be good to the kid."

Then he turned to the boy. It was the tenderest good-by I have ever

seen between a prushun and his jocker. A kiss, a gentle stroke on his

shoulder, and he helped him climb into the box-car.

The last we saw of Red, as we stood at the door while the engine puffed

slowly out of the yards, he was standing on a pile of ties waving his

hat. Six months afterward I was told in the Bowery that he was dead.

The journey to the Horn was full of incident. For six long days and

nights we railroaded and railroaded, sometimes on the trucks and the

blind baggage, and again lying flat on top, dodging the cinders as they

whizzed about our heads, and the brakeman as he came skipping over the

cars to tax us for the ride. It was hard work, and dangerous, too, at

times, but the kid never whimpered. Once he wanted to, I thought, when a

conductor kicked him off the caboose; but he faked a professional little

laugh in place of it. And he also looked rather frightened one night

when he nearly lost his grip climbing up the ladder of a cattle-car, but

he was afterward so ashamed that it was almost pitiful. He was the

"nerviest" child I ever traveled with. Even on the trucks, where old

natives sometimes feel squeamish, he disguised his fear. But he was at

his best at meal-time. Regularly he would plant himself before me in

waiter fashion, and say:

"Well, Cig'rette, what's it to be? Beefsteak 'n' 'taters 'n' a little

pie--'ll that do?"

Or if he thought I was not having enough variety he would suggest a more

delicate dish.

"How'll a piece o' chicken taste, eh?" And the least eagerness on my

part sent him off to find it.

It was not, however, an entirely one-sided affair, for I was in his

service also. I had to protect him from all the hoboes we met, and

sometimes it was not so easy as one might think. He was so handsome and

clever that it was a temptation to any tramp to snare him if he could,

and several wanted to buy him outright.

"I'll give you five balls fer 'im," one old fellow told me, and others

offered smaller sums. A Southern roadster tried to get him free of cost,

and the tales he told him, and the way he told them, would have done

honor to a professional story-teller. Luckily for me, the kid was

considerably smarter than the average boy on the road, and he had also

had much experience.

"They's got to tell better short stories than them 'fore they get me!"

he exclaimed proudly, after several men had tried their influence on

him. "I'm jus' as cute as they is, ain't I? I know what they wants--they

think I'm a purty good moocher, 'n' they'll make sinkers out o' me.

Ain't that it?"

None the less I almost lost him one night, but it was not his fault. We

were nearing Salt Lake City at the time, and a big, burly negro was

riding in our car. We were both sleepy, and although I realized that it

was dangerous to close my eyes with the stranger so near, I could not

help it, and before long the kid and I were dozing. The next thing I

knew the train was slowing up, and the kid was screaming wildly, and

struggling in the arms of the negro as he jumped to the ground. I

followed, and had hardly reached the track when I was greeted with these

words: "Shut up, or I'll t'row de kid under de wheels."

The man looked mean enough to do it; but I saw that the kid had grabbed

him savagely around the neck, and, feeling sure that he would not dare

to risk his own life, I closed with him. It was a fierce tussle, and the

trainmen, as they looked down from the cars and flashed their lanterns

over the scene, cheered and jeered.

"Sick 'em!" I heard them crying. "Go it, kid--go it!"

Our train had almost passed us, and the conductor was standing on the

caboose, taking a last look at the fight. Suddenly he bawled out:

"Look out, lads! The express 's comin'!"

We were standing on the track, and the negro jumped to the ditch. I

snatched the kid from the ground and ran for the caboose. As we tumbled

on to the steps the "con" laughed.

"Didn't I do that well?" he said.

I looked up the track, and, lo and behold! there was no express to be

seen. It was one of the kind deeds which railroad men are continually

doing for knights of the road.

As we approached the Horn the kid became rather serious. The first

symptom I noticed was early one morning while he was practising his

beloved "song 'n' dance." He had been shaking his feet for some time,

and at last broke out lustily into a song I had often heard sung by

jolly crowds at the hang-out:

Oh, we are three bums,

Three jolly old bums,

We live like royal Turks.

We have good luck

In bummin' our chuck.

To hell with the man that works!

After each effort, if perchance there had been one "big sound" at all

like Red's, he chuckled to himself: "Oh, I'm a-gettin' it, bet cher

life! Gosh! I wish Red was here!" And then he would try again. This went

on for about half an hour, and he at last struck a note that pleased him

immensely. He was just going to repeat it, and had his little mouth

perked accordingly, when something stopped him, and he stared at the

floor as if he had lost a dime. He stood there silently, and I wondered

what the matter could be. I was on the point of speaking to him, when he

walked over to the door and looked out at the telegraph-poles. Pretty

soon he returned to the corner where I was reading, and settled down

seriously at my side. In a few moments he was again at the door. He had

been standing in a musing way for some time, when I saw him reach into

his inside coat pocket and bring out the tattered bits of pasteboard

with which he did his three-card trick. Unfolding the packet, he threw

the paper on the track, and then fingered over each card separately.

Four times he pawed them over, going reluctantly from one to the other.

Then, and before I could fancy what he was up to, he tossed them lightly

into the air, and followed them with his eye as the wind sent them

flying against the cars. When he turned around, his hands were shaking

and his face was pale. I cruelly pretended not to notice, and asked him

carelessly what was the matter. He took another look at the world

outside, as if to see where the cards had gone, and then came over to

the corner again. Putting his hands in his trousers pockets, and taking

a long draw at his cigarette, he said, the smoke pouring out of his

nostrils, "I'm tryin' to reform."

He looked so solemn that I did not dare to laugh, but it was all I could

do to keep from it.

"D' you think I'll make it go?" he asked, after a pause, during which

his feet had tried to tempt him from his good resolution, and had almost

led him into the forbidden dance. Almost every hour from that time on he

asked that same question, and sometimes the childish pathos that he

threw into his voice and manner would have unmanned an old stager.

The last day of our journey we had a long talk. He was still trying to

reform, but he had come to certain conclusions, and one of them was that

he could not go to school any more; or, what was more to the point, that

he did not see the need of it.

"Course I don't know ev'rything," he explained, "but I knows a lot. Wy,

I kin beat Red figgerin' a'ready, an' I kin read things he can't, too.

Lots o' words he don't know 't I does; an' when he's drunk he can't read

at all, but I kin. You oughter seen us in Cheyenne, Cig"; and the

reminiscence made him chuckle. "We was both jagged, 'n' the copper

served a paper on us, _'n' I had to read it to Red_. Ain't that purty

good? Red said 't was, anyhow, 'n' he oughter know, oughtn't he? No, I

don't think I need much schoolin'. I don't wanter be President of the

country: 'f I did, p'r'aps I oughter know some more words; but seein' 's

I don't, I can't see the use o' diggin' in readers all the while. I wish

Red had given me a letter 'bout that, 'cause ma 'n' I'll get to fightin'

'bout it, dead sure. You see, she's stuck on puttin' me tru the 'cademy,

'n' I'm stuck on keepin' out of it, 'n' 'f we get to scrappin' agen I'm

afraid I won't reform. She'll kick 'bout my smoking too; but I've got

her there, ain't I? Red said I could smoke, didn't 'e--h'm? Tell you

what I guess I'll do, Cig. Jus' after I've kissed 'er I'll tell 'er

right on the spot jus' what I kin do. Won't that be a good scheme?

Then, you see, she can't jaw 'bout my not bein' square, can she? Yes,

sir; that's jus' what I'll do"; and he rubbed his tattooed hands as if

he had made a good bargain.

The next morning, just as the sun was rising over the prairie-line, our

train switched off the main road, and we were at last rolling along over

the Horn. The kid stood by the door and pointed out the landmarks that

he remembered. Ere long he espied the open belfry of the academy.

"See that cup'la, Cig!" he cried. "Dad helped to build that, but 'e

croaked doin' it. Some people says that 'e was jagged, 'cause 'e

tumbled. Ma says the sun struck 'im."

A few minutes later the train stopped at the watering-tank, and my

errand was done. There was no need to jocker the boy any longer. His

welfare depended upon his mother and his determination to reform. He

kissed me good-by, and then marched manfully up the silent street toward

the academy. I watched him till the train pulled out. Thus ended one of

the hardest trips of my life in Hoboland.

* * * * *

One warm summer evening, about three years after leaving the Horn, I was

sitting in a music-hall in the Bowery. I had long since given up my

membership in the hobo fraternity, but I liked to stroll about now and

then and visit the old resorts; and it was while on such an excursion

that I drifted into the variety show. I watched the people as they came

and went, hoping to recognize some old acquaintance. I had often had

odd experiences and renewal of friendships under similar circumstances,

and as I sat there I wondered who it would be that I should meet that

night. The thought had hardly recorded itself when some one grabbed my

shoulder in policeman style, and said, "Shake!" I looked around, and

found one of the burliest rowdies in the room. He turned out to be a pal

that I had known on the New York Central, and, as usual, I had to go

over my remembrances. He also had yarns to spin, and he brought them so

up to date that I learned he was just free of a Virginia jail. Then

began a tirade against Southern prisons. As he was finishing it he

happened to remember that he had met a friend of mine in the Virginian

limbo. "Said 'e knew you well, Cig, but I couldn't place 'im. Little

feller; somethin' of a kid, I guess; up fer thirty days. One o' the

blokes called 'im the Horn kid, 'n' said 'e use' ter be a fly prushun

out in the coast country. Old Denver Red trained 'im, he said. Who is

he? D' you know 'im? He was a nice little feller. W'y, what's wrong,

Cig? You look spiked [upset]."

I probably did. It was such a disappointment as I had hardly imagined.

Poor kid! He probably did so well that his mother tried to put him into

the academy, and then he "sloped" once more. I told the tramp the tale I

have just finished. He was too obtuse to see the pathetic side of it,

but one of his comments is worth repeating:

"You can't do nothin' with them kids, Cig. After they's turfed it a bit

they're gone. Better let 'em alone."

But I cannot believe that that kind-hearted little fellow is really

gone. Whoever meets him now, policeman or philanthropist, pray send him

back to the Horn again.

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Doctor.

[11] Sacramento.

[12] Nickname.

[13] Kansas City.

III

ONE NIGHT ON THE "Q"

If there is any one thing that the hobo prizes more than another it is

his privilege to ride on the railroads free of charge. He is as proud of

it as the American is of his country, and brags about it from morning to

night. Even the blanket-stiff in the far West, who almost never sees the

inside of a railroad-car, will wax patriotic when on this subject. And

well he may, for no other country in the world provides such means of

travel for its vagabonds. From Maine to "'Frisco" the railroads are at

the tramp's disposal, if he knows how to use them, and seldom does he

take to the turnpike from any necessity.

[Illustration: A RIDE ON A TRUCK.]

There are, however, some difficulties and trials even in his railroad

life. When he rides a "passenger," for instance, either on top or

between the wheels, he encounters numerous dangers and hardships, and it

is months before he knows how to meet them heroically. Even on freight

trains his task is not so easy as some people think. A man must train

for such work, just as a pugilist trains for a fight, and it is only

when he is a real artist that he can enjoy it. The main difficulty in

riding freight-trains is with the brakeman. No matter where the hobo

goes, he runs the risk of meeting this ubiquitous official. If he is on

the "bumpers," the brakeman is usually "guying" him from the top of a

car; and if he goes "inside," so too does the brakeman. Even at night

the "brakey" and his free passenger are continually running up against

each other. Sometimes they become fast friends. The tramp will help put

on the brakes, and the brakeman will help conceal the tramp. But there

are other times when things are different. The brakeman tries to "ditch"

the tramp, and the latter tries to "beat" the brakeman. On such

occasions something happens. Usually the brakeman "gets left." The hobo

is too clever, and beats him at his own game. But now and then even the

hobo falls into a trap. Of course he gets out sooner or later, but while

in it he is an interesting study. When free again, he usually tells his

cronies all about it, and they pity or applaud him, as the case may be.

But once in a long while the trap he falls into turns out such a joke

that he says nothing about it, out of respect for the profession. He

hates to be laughed at just as much as other people, and no matter how

good the joke is, he keeps it to himself if it will tell against him.

I happen to know of just such a joke. It has been kept quiet now for a

number of years, but I think that it can do no harm to tell it, since I

was one of the sufferers.

One night I chanced to be in Galesburg, Illinois, situated on the

Chicago, Burlington, and Quincy Railroad. I was with a hobo called

"Elmira Fatty," and we were on our way to "Chi," or Chicago, as polite

people call it. We had just come in from the West, where we had spent

some time with the blanket-stiffs, and as far as Galesburg we had had no

misfortune or bad luck to report. In fact, from Salt Lake City on

everything had gone just as we had planned, and we were hoping that

night that nothing might interfere to prevent us from arriving in "Chi"

the next morning. We expected to travel on a freight-train that was due

in Galesburg about nine o'clock. It was a mean night for traveling, for

the rain came down in torrents and the wind blew most exasperatingly.

Nevertheless, we wanted to push on if practicable, and about half-past

eight went over to the railroad yards to wait for the freight. It came

in on time, and Fatty and I immediately took different sections of it in

search of an "empty." He looked over the forward part, and I inspected

the cars near the caboose. We met again in a few minutes, and reported

that "there wasn't an empty in the whole line."

"Wy," said Fatty, "it's nothin' but a ---- ole steer-train! Ev'ry

blasted car is full of 'em."

I suggested that we wait for another, but he would not listen to me.

"No, sir. If we break our necks, we'll ride that train."

"But where are you going to ride?" I queried.

"On top, o' course."

I knew that it was useless to argue with him, and followed him up the

ladder. We sat down on the top of a car, with the rain simply pouring

down upon us. Pretty soon the whistle tooted and the train started. As

we pulled out of the yards the brakeman came over the train, and espied

me instantly.

"Hello, Shorty!" he said, in a jovial way. "Where you goin'?"

"Oh, just up the road a bit. No objections, have you?"

"No, I guess I ain't got no objections. But say, you lads are big

fools."

"Here, here!" said Fatty, angrily. "Who you callin' fools?"

"I'm callin' you fools, 'n' y' are, too."

"See here," continued Fatty; "if you call me a fool agen I'll put yer

face in--I will, by gosh!" and he stood up to make good his threat.

"Don't get 'uffy; don't get 'uffy," said the brakey, soothingly. "Lemme

tell you somethin'. See them hay-boxes over there on the corner o' the

car?"

"Hay-boxes!" exclaimed Fatty, and he looked at me in surprise.

"Come over 'n' look at 'em."

We followed him to the end of the car, and there, true enough, after he

had lifted the lid, was a most comfortable hay-box, nearly full of nice

soft hay.

Fatty was almost wild with delight, and patting me on the back, said:

"W'y, Cig, this is a perfect palace-car, ain't it! Gosh!"

The brakeman held his lantern while I got into the box. The opening was

not very large, hardly more than a foot wide--plenty large enough for

me, it is true, but I was much smaller than Fatty. When he tried to get

in there was some trouble. His head and shoulders went through all

right, but then he stopped, for his paunch was the broadest part of him,

and he complained that "it pinched ter'bly." Exactly what to do was a

poser, but finally he nerved himself for another squeeze. He twisted,

slipped, and grunted, and at last had to beg me to hold his head and

steer him, so helpless had his exertions made him. I guided him as best

I could, and pretty soon he came "ka-plunk," as he called it, on the

hay. The brakey closed the lid and left.

Fatty had hardly settled himself before he began to wonder how he would

get out in the morning.

"By gosh!" he said, "p'r'aps I'll jus' have to stay here, 'n' they'll

carry me right over to the stock-yards. Wouldn't I be a great steer,

eh?"

But I was too tired to speculate, and in a few minutes was asleep. What

Fatty did for the next fifty miles I can't say, but in about two hours

he cruelly awakened me and asked for a match.

"Why, you're not going to smoke here?" I said.

"Cert," he crisply replied. "Why not?"

"You'll set the place afire, with all this loose hay about."

"Set yer gran'mother afire! Gimme a lucifer."

I told him I had none, and then he wanted me to get out and ask the

brakey for one. I did not want to do it, but I felt sure that he would

trouble me all night unless I did, so I consented to go. But, lo and

behold! when I tried to lift the lid it would not lift.

"Fatty," I said, "we're ditched."

"Ditched yer gran'mother! What's the matter?"

"This lid won't move."

"Lemme get at it."

Fatty weighed two hundred and fifty pounds,--"punds," he called

them,--and he put every one against that lid. It squeaked a little, but

still would not lift.

"Fatty," I repeated, "we're ditched."

But he was determined not to give in, and lay on his back to kick the

lid. He reasoned that that ought to mean fifty pounds more, and if three

hundred "punds' couldn't budge the thing, then something was going to

happen. He kicked and kicked. The lid squeaked a good deal, but was as

stubborn as ever. Then you should have heard Fatty scold. He scolded

everybody, from the president of the road down to the humblest

switchman, and then, as if he had not done enough, said:

"By gosh, Cig, we'll prosecute 'em! This is simply scandalous! Tramps

can't ride this way, and they ought to know it. Yes, sir, we'll

prosecute 'em."

Then he began to swear, and never in my life have I heard such

maledictions hurled at poor erring railroad officials. Soon even cursing

tired him, and he tumbled back on the hay exhausted. After he had rested

a bit, a new phase of the situation presented itself to him, and he felt

around in the box to see how much hay there was between us and the

steers.

"There ain't much, Cig," he whined; "---- little; an here we are locked

in! By the hoky-poky, I'd like to git hold o' that brakey's throat! I'd

squeeze it, take my tip for that. An', by gosh, if them steers kill us,

he'll croak for it, an' don' cher forget it!"

"Steers!" I exclaimed. "What do you mean, Fatty!"

"Wy, don' cher know them steers is right under us?"

"Well, what of that?"

"W'y, they've got horns--big ones, too."

"Well, what of that, Fatty?"

"Wy, you fool, we ain't got any."

"But, Fatty, what does that matter?"

"Matter! Matter! Ain' cher got no sense? Don' cher know nothin'? Ain'

cher never heard o' steers hookin' a bloke before? You must be a

tenderfoot."

Then I grasped the situation. We were at the mercy of those Texas

steers! Soon I heard Fatty saying, in a most pitiful voice:

"Cig, I guess we'd better say our little prayers right now, 'cause if we

get to sleep we'll forget all about it. So you begin, 'n' while yer

chewin' the rag I'll watch the hay."

He wanted me to pray, and actually thought that that was the only thing

that would save us. He always was a religious fellow in great

emergencies, and his scheme did not much surprise me; but as I knew of

no prayer fitted for such an occasion, I told him so, and added that

even if I did know one I should prefer to leave it unsaid, considering

the circumstances.

"We had no business letting the brakey lock us in here, and you know it,

too. So we'll have to get out the best way we can."

This bravery was a little faked, but I thought it best to keep as cool

as possible, for Fatty was continually fuming and scolding. And every

few minutes he would feel around in the hay, and then say, most

forlornly:

"Cig, them pokers is gettin' nearer. Prepare to die."

Once I thought he was joking, and told him to stop if he thought he was

scaring me.

"I ain't tryin' to scare you," he whined; "I'm simply tellin' you the

truth."

This was certainly alarming, and I almost confessed my fear. But I

managed to control myself, and persevered in my artificial boldness.

"Well, Fatty, let's die game, anyhow. If the horns come up here we can

kick at them, and perhaps the steers will be frightened. Can't tell, you

know."

"No, that won't work," he replied hopelessly, and he measured the hay

once more. This time his hand struck the thin and widely separated

slats, the only barriers between us and the steers. We both knew that if

the horns ever came through them, we would be done for.

"We're gone, Cig," Fatty continued; "no doubt of it. But, jus' the

samey, I'm goin' to pound my ear, anyhow. I'd rather die asleep than

awake. So, so long, Cig; if you croak first, I'll pray for you."

Then, much to my surprise and indignation, he curled into a big ball and

"pounded his ear." I remained awake for a while longer, listening to the

steers chewing away at the hay. But, in spite of the nearing danger, I

became sleepy, too, and was soon lying beside Fatty. In the morning,

about half-past five, we awoke simultaneously. I felt around in the box,

and the hay seemed almost gone.

"I wish that I'd died in the night," said Fatty, angrily. "Now I've got

to go when I'm awake."

The train began to slow up--perhaps we were to be saved, after all. It

came to a full stop, and we could hear footsteps. Some one was walking

along the path near the track.

"Shall I holler?" asked Fatty.

"Perhaps it's a policeman," I returned, "and that means thirty days in

the Bridewell. Wouldn't you rather die?"

"But p'r'aps 't ain't!" And he called through one of the cracks, "Hobo!

Hobo!"

Luckily it was a hobo.

"Come up here," cried Fatty, "'n' unjail us, for heavin's sake. We're

locked in the hay-boxes; climb on top 'n' loose the cover."

We heard him quickly obeying the call. He climbed up the ladder,

loosened the latch, and seemed to wonder at our eagerness to leave such

a nest of comfort. Fatty was helped out immediately, although we were

still six miles from "Chi"; but I made him wait while I looked to see

just what danger we had escaped. There is so much compensating

consolation in a view of perils safely passed. There was still a fair

amount of hay in the box. I rooted down to the slats for a last look at

our tormentors, and there, right before me, stood those awful beasts,

wild and fresh from the fields of the Lone Star State. There were nearly

twenty of them, I should say, but not a single one had a horn!

Fatty sneaked off to the watering-tank, and I waved adieu to him from

the top of the car. His face wore the grimmest of grins, and his last

words were, "If you ever tell this joke at the hang-out, Cig--" And I

never have.

IV

A PULQUE DREAM

The freight had just pulled out of Querétaro, and Barcas and I were

lying on the floor of the car near one of the side doors, commenting on

the landscape. We were on our way to the city of Mexico, and it was my

first visit. Barcas had been there before, three times, he said, and as

the train drew nearer the town he fell to telling me of what I should

see and how I should act. I was still quite a tenderfoot in Hoboland,

and needed Barcas's instruction.

He had just finished a very comprehensive explanation of the Spanish

language and its uncalled-for differences, as he thought, from his

mother-tongue, and was beginning to describe certain hang-outs that he

was sure I would like, when the train stopped again for a moment at a

little station. Some half-breed Indians were standing on the platform,

sharing the contents of a green bottle. It was being passed around for

another "draw" when Barcas happened to notice it.

"See that, Cig?" he said, tapping me quickly on the shoulder. "That's

pulky [pulque]. I mus' tell you 'bout that, too."

The train started just then, and he waited until it was well under way.

It was rolling along at a lively pace, and the brakes were rattling as

they only can over a Mexican railroad. Barcas had to use the very top of

his voice, but he chattered on, just the same.

"Yes, Cig, that's the most important thing this side the line. Course

the langwich's important, too, 'n' y'u got to learn it, but y'u mus'

understan' pulky first. If I'd understood it when I was down here in

'78, I'd never got into trouble, at all. Shorty 'n' Slim was with me,

'n' a lot o' other blokes that I don't rek'lect. But we was sixteen

altogether. I'd never been here before, couldn't even say _adios_, so I

thought I'd jus' look roun' a bit. An' for nigh on to a month we had a

rip-snortin' time--drunk ev'ry day, 'n' so much to chew that I actually

had to let my belt out a couple o' notches. An' we learned the langwich,

too; by gosh! I could say ev'rythin' I wanted to. Course I didn't wanter

say very much, I was so jagged, but I said enough, anyhow--see?

"Well, this went on for pretty nigh a month, as I said, 'n' we was

sloppin' up ev'ry day--but not on whisky. We went on the principle, do

in Rome as the Dagoes does; so we drunk what them Indians was drinkin',

pulky--mighty fine drink, too. Ain't had such dreams in a tenner as I

had then. It jus' makes you feel 'appy all over, 'n' I use' to dream the

whole twenty-four hours. Once I thought I was the pres'dent o' the New

York Central--hope to die 'f I didn't. An' my pal he woke me up one

night 'bout twelve o'clock 'n' told me that he was the Emp'rer o' the

North Pole. An' the rest of 'em was jus' about as bad. We all thought we

was kings 'n' queens 'n' royal flushes. Even tried to play poker with

oursel's, 'n' I was the jack-pot for a while.

"Well, one afternoon we was specially stuck on ourse's, 'n' went

paradin' roun' the hang-out as if we was the high-monkey-monks of

ev'rythin'. An' pretty soon a bloke called Curly soogested that we go

over 'n' steal some more pulky at a Mexy's shanty clos't by. We was jus'

drunk 'nough to do it, 'n' piled over there 'n' drunk ev'ry drop we

could find. An' when we was through there wasn't en'thin' too good for

us. We all thought we was royal families, an' a bloke called Red thought

he was the chief of all. He was a big fella, 'n' that prob'ly swelled

his head--see? Well, Red swaggered about for a while, 'n' then all of a

sudden he swung his arms up Indian fashion, 'n says, 'Blokes, let's take

the town.' He meant the city o' Mexico, the place we're goin' to see.

Well, somehow or other it jus' struck us as a grand idee, 'n' we whooped

'n' hollered 'n' swore we'd foller 'im. Pretty soon we started. I was so

jagged I could hardly keep on me pins, but that didn't matter; I was

goin' to help take the city or break my neck.

"It took us nearly four hours to reach the town, though it was only a

mile away. We'd go a few steps, y'u know, 'n' then sprawl all over

oursel's. I have to laugh now when I think of it. An' once we locked

arms, thinkin' we could go it more steady-like. 'Fore we'd taken ten

steps we tumbled ka-plunk, jus' like dominoes when y'u set 'em up in a

row 'n' then knock the firs' one down. Well, that's the way we went, 'n'

y'u should 'a' seen us when we struck the town. We looked 's if we'd

drilled two thousand miles, 'n' was blowin' 'n' a-puffin' like an injin

in a snow-bank. So o' course we had to rest a bit, 'n' while we was

a-doin' it Red gave us instructions.

"'Now, blokes,' says he, 'you want to do yer best. 'Member yer all

'Mericans, 'n' that yer fightin' Mexies. If we lick 'em it'll go up in

history, dead sure. An' I'll bet a sinker it'll beat that Bally Klavvy

bizness if we do it well. So put in yer best licks, 'n' keep yer eyes on

me.' Then he told us who was of'sers 'n' who wasn't. I was nothin' but

a sojer, a private, but he made my pal, the Emp'rer o' the North Pole,

he made him firs' leftenant, so I didn't mind much s' long 's he was

somethin'.

"Well, 'bout half-pas' seven in the evenin' we was ready 'n' still

pretty jagged, too. But Red said we oughter begin, so we started single

file for the insides o' the town. The only weapons we had was a few ole

razors 'n' our fists, but we was so bughouse we cal'lated they oughter

do the biz. Red said the Mexies was cowards, anyhow, 'n' that we could

do 'em easy enough; but he told a big whoppin' lie, 'n' we foun' it out,

too, 'fore we'd been scrappin' twenty minnits. The firs' street we

struck where there was many people we begun fightin', 'n' for a few

minnits we did well. We knocked down ev'rybody we saw, 'n' was so stuck

on oursel's that Red said, 'Now, let's go to the prison 'n' free the

priz'ners.' That fired us,--a big scheme,--'n' we piped off for the

jail. But we hadn't gone more 'n two blocks when we was all sewed up.

Seemed 's if ev'ry jay in the town was against us, 'n' I couldn't see

en'thin' but heads 'n' heads. Looked 's if the whole world was

there--see? Red wouldn't give in, though, 'n' knocked a policeman into a

cocked hat. That started the rest of us. We slashed right 'n' left with

our razors, 'n' I put my fist into more Mexies' faces than y'u can

figger up. It reminded me o' the time I got into that scrap with the

bulls [policemen] in Chi [Chicago]. An' all the while Red was gettin'

fiercer.

"'Come on, blokes,' I heard him hollerin'; 'we'll make history 'fore

we're done. Come on; knock 'em down, 'n' keep yer eyes on me.' Then he

waded into that crowd for all he was worth, 'n' he did it well, too.

But they was too many for us; as soon as one would tumble down another

would step into his shoes, 'n' o' course that beat us.

"Well, in a few minnits there was only five of us left, 'n' Red saw 't

wa'n't' no use to keep on, so he bellered out, 'Make a break, anyhow,

'n' perhaps we'll give 'em the slip.' You should 'a' seen 'im then! He

started right plump for the crowd, wavin' his knife 'n' swearin' like

the devil. How he ever got through I can't tell, but he did, 'n' they

ain't caught 'im yet. The rest of us was so played out that we had to

s'render uncondish'nully on the spot. We thought, o' course, that they'd

treat us like priz'ners o' war, else we'd kept on scrappin' till we

croaked. But them hoosiers couldn't see the thing in that way, 'n'

actually wanted to lynch us. But some cool-headed bloke got 'em out o'

doin' it, 'n' made 'em take us to the jail, where we stayed jus' one

year. You see, the judge gave us ten months apiece, 'n' we had to wait

two months for trial.

"That's the way we captured the city o' Mexico, 'n' lemme tell y'u, Cig,

if you 'n' pulky fall in love down here, don't you try any funny work,

'cause it's jus' like a woman, pulky is. It tempts you 'n' then leaves

you in the soup."

He had no time for further comment, for the engineer was already blowing

his whistle, and the lights in the yards could be seen. But Barcas did

not postpone action long. At the first joint we visited he illustrated

the effects of pulque in a manner even more vivid than his story. The

next morning I had to make a heavy draft on my small exchequer to free

him from limbo.

V

A HOBO PRECEDENT

The trouble began in this way: Ohio Slim had made up his mind to reform

and go home. He was lying in jail in western Pennsylvania at the time,

in company with Chicago Bud and several other cronies. Bud was his chum,

and Slim told him of his decision. This was his first mistake. When a

tramp wants to reform he should say nothing about it to anybody, but

scamper from the road as fast as his legs will carry him. Slim knew this

perfectly well, but he was so tickled to find that he had nerve enough

to make the resolution that he was obliged to tell his pal. Bud did not

exactly see the point of it all, but he patted him on the back just the

same and wished him good luck. Then Slim made friends with the Galway

(the Catholic priest) who visited the jail on Sundays, and asked him to

write a letter to his parents, explaining his yearning for home and

stating that he needed five dollars to get there respectably. The good

man did all this, and in due time the money came. Slim cautiously asked

the Galway to keep it for him until he was free.

The day of release arrived at last, and the men marched out of their

cells pale but hopeful. Slim, of course, looked up the Galway

immediately. He got his money, and then returned to the park where the

men were waiting to bid him good-by. Just before separating from them,

he called Bud aside and had a few last words with him.

"I'd like to give you more, Bud," he said, as he handed him a fifty-cent

piece, "but I've only got enough for my ticket and a dinner on the

way--understand, don't cher?"

Bud did not want to take the money, but Slim pressed it upon him, and

then they parted, Slim starting for the railway-station, and Bud, with a

few pals, for a saloon. They never expected to meet again.

But the best-laid plans of mice and men go wrong just as easily in

Hoboland as anywhere else. Poor Slim simply could not get to the

station. He stopped at every saloon on the way, and by the time the

train was ready to leave, his money was half gone and he was don't-care

drunk. I got a glimpse of him in the afternoon as he stood, or rather

staggered, in front of a billiard-hall. He was singing some verses of

the song "Gwine Home." His voice was all in his nose, and he wheezed out

the words like a tired-out barrel-organ. But he was clever enough not to

be too uproarious, and later in the afternoon laid himself away in a

brick-yard. The next morning he was sober.

Meanwhile Bud and a pal, called "Rochester Curly," had also got drunk.

They invested the fifty cents in whisky well called "rot-gut," and it

unhinged their brains. At night they were so bad that when a little

policeman tried to arrest them they both took it as an insult, and drew

their razors. The officer called for assistance, and after a severe

tussle, in which Bud had his head badly bruised, they were landed at the

police station. The next morning the magistrate gave them ninety days

apiece.

How Bud ever learned of Slim's conduct remains a mystery to this day.

The Galway did not tell him, I did not, the other men had left town, and

neither he nor Curly saw Slim in the streets, but he got wind of it

just the same. Possibly a city tramp told him. "If I ever meet that

fella again," he said to some friends who visited him in the jail the

following day, "I'll break his head into sixty-seven pieces. Wy, I

wouldn't have treated a dog that way. I don't care if he did want to

reform; he had no right to change his mind without divvyin' that boodle.

Fifty cents! H'm! He wanted all the good booze himself, that's what was

botherin' him. But he'll suffer fer it, take my tip fer that. He knew

well enough that Curly an' me would drink rot-gut if we couldn't get

anythin' else, 'n' he was jus' mean enough to let us do it. Oh, I'll

teach him such a lesson when I find him that that thing won't happen

again in this country. If he'd been square, Curly 'n' me wouldn't be

where we is now."

Everybody knew that Bud was a man of his word, but fancied, none the

less, that his wrath was more the result of his bruises than of any

deep-seated hatred of his old comrade. Slim had in the meantime looked

up the Galway again and confessed his behavior. He was so sincerely

penitent that the good man bought him a ticket out of his own pocket,

and sent him home. He stayed there for just three months. Some days he

did very well, hardly swore, and then, without the slightest notice, he

would break through all restraints and go on a terrible tear. He had

been too long on the road; he could not conquer the wild habits that he

had formed; they had become an everlasting part of him; and, one day,

when his people thought he was doing better than ever, he stole away and

wandered back to his old haunts. They never saw him again.

This, I believe, is a straightforward account of the quarrel, and both

Bud's friends and Slim's tell the same story. It is what happened after

this that divides them into parties. I did not see the fight myself, but

I have heard it described so often that I believe I can do it justice.

It took place one cold autumn night, nearly two years after the quarrel,

in a barn not far from Newark, New Jersey. Some twenty hoboes had

gathered there for the night, and Bud was among them. His friends say

that he was in a most peaceable mood and with no thought of Slim in his

mind, but they do admit that he had been looking for him ever since the

separation. It was almost time to blow out the candle, and several of

the men had already selected their nooks in the hay. Suddenly the door

squeaked on its rusty hinges, and three newcomers walked in. The tallest

one was Slim. He recognized Bud immediately, walked up to him as to an

old pal, and said, "Well, Bud, old socks, how are you? S'pose you didn't

expect to see me again? I couldn't make it go, Bud; liquor wouldn't

leave me alone. But shake, anyhow," and he held out his hand.

It was certainly a friendly greeting, but Bud returned it with a blow in

the face which knocked Slim off his feet. He was so stunned that all he

could do was to lie there and exclaim against the surprise Bud had been

keeping for him. "W'y, Bud, have you gone bughouse? Don't cher know that

I'm Slim? What cher knockin' me about that way for?"

"Get up out o' that, you long-legged devil, you!" cried Bud, in a sudden

rage. "Mean to tell me that you's forgotten how you did me 'n' Curly

with yer rotten fifty cents? Well, you'll 'member it 'fore you get out

o' here. Stand up till I put cher face in fer you!"

Slim was not a coward, and got up and squared for the row. Then Bud

decided that he preferred to fight with razors, and drew one from under

his shirt-bosom. This was serious, and the crowd gathered around and

asked for explanations. Both men gave their separate accounts of the

trouble. All agreed that Slim had been greedy, even he himself, and he

offered to beg Bud's pardon; but the majority claimed that the offense

could not be settled that way, and the fight must consequently go on.

Nevertheless, several tried to stop it, and argued earnestly with both

men. Slim was willing enough not to quarrel further, but Bud would hear

of nothing but satisfaction.

"I said I'd do that fella," he cried to those trying to pacify him, "and

I will. Jus' let me alone; if you don't, you'll get the worst of it."

It was no use to argue with him while in such a mood, and he threw off

his coat. Slim did likewise, and a friend lent him a razor. A Canadian

was chosen for referee.

"Is this thing for a finish?" he asked, as he examined their razors.

"'T is 'f I can make it so," said Bud, doggedly.

"And you, Slim?" queried the Canadian, further.

"Well," Slim replied, in his slow and measured way, "I guess I'll do my

share; but before the show begins I jus' want to ask you a question,

Bud. Ain't got any objections, have you?"

"No; but be spry about it," snarled Bud.

"Well, now, Bud, d' you 'member the time when I took thirty days fer you

down in Alabama so that you could go off 'n' cure yer diseases? 'Member

how we worked it, don't cher--how I walked in to see you to let you walk

out in my togs? Guess y' ain't forgotten that, have you?"

"What's that got to do with this circus?" Bud sneeringly returned.

Slim looked at him steadily, and his friends say that Bud winced; but

that was all it amounted to, for in a minute the referee was calling

them to action.

"Get ready," he commanded, handing them their razors.

They pushed the blades back against the handles and held them tightly

with their fingers, leaving the edges bare.

"Y' all right?" asked the Canadian.

"I am," Bud answered.

"Here, too," drawled Slim.

"Then drive away," the referee shouted, stepping back at the same time

out of harm's reach; and the crowd followed his example.

Both men were trained "cutters," and it is said that there has not been

another such exhibition of skill of this sort in Hoboland in the last

ten years. There were three rounds. The first was merely preliminary.

Each studied the tactics of the other and noted his weak points. It is

reported that Slim was not in the best of form, and that even the

referee, on seeing him parry, advised him to demand a fight with fists;

but it was too late. He had warmed to the work, and, handicapped or not,

he intended to see it through. Slash, slash, slash, went the razors, but

all that one heard was the tiptoeing backward and forward of the

fighters, as they charged or defended. A half-minute rest, and the third

round began. Both Bud and Slim were badly cut, and their faces showed

it, but Slim's pals claim that Bud was getting the worst of it. They say

that he was misjudging his reach more and more, and that a wound over

his right eye damaged his sight. This may be true; at any rate, one of

Bud's cronies, who was holding the candle, suddenly dropped it. Whether

Bud sprang quickly for Slim's neck or was lively enough to make a pass

at him while he was unguarded, I cannot say, but when the candle was

lighted again Slim lay on the floor, mortally wounded. He died that same

night in a Newark hospital.

Bud carries to-day a useless right arm and a blind eye. He is the

proprietor of an outcasts' saloon in St. Louis, and sometimes when in

his cups he brags of the deed done in the barn. But no one has ever

heard him tell that incident of the story which, if not accident as

well, made a dark deed forever darker.

PART IV

THE TRAMPS JARGON

PART IV--THE TRAMP'S JARGON

Almost the first thing that one remarks on getting acquainted with

tramps is their peculiar language. In every country where they live they

have dialects of their own choosing and making, and the stranger who

goes among them must learn to speak these before he can associate with

them on terms of intimacy. Indeed, the "tenderfoot" in tramp life, the

beginner, is recognized by his ignorance of the "lingo." The way he

carries himself, shakes hands, and begs are also signs by which the

"professional" determines the newcomer's standing in the brotherhood;

but they are not so unmistakable as his use of the tramp dialect, and it

is seldom necessary to talk with him for more than a few minutes to

discover how long he has been on the road.

On starting out on my first trip among the hoboes, I thought that I had

provided myself with a sufficient number of words and phrases to

converse with them more or less as one of their own kind; but I soon

discovered how little I knew of their language. My stock of slang

consisted of expressions taken from dictionaries and acquired in

association with gamins of the street, and I was naïve enough to think

that it would suffice for companionship with the regular tramps. It is

true that the hoboes make use of a great deal of slang that is popular

in the streets and not unknown to "respectable" people, but for social

intercourse they rely mainly on their own jargon. In Germany, where the

police collect tramp and criminal slang into dictionaries, in order that

they may be able to understand the conversations of the

_Chausséegrabentapezirer_ and _Gauner_, it is less difficult for one to

pick up the local tramp lingo; but in the United States there is no

dictionary sufficiently up to date to give the beginner much assistance.

Martin Luther was one of the first in Germany to take an interest in

collecting the vagabond's "cant" phrases. He published in Latin a small

volume, called "The Book of Vagabonds," which includes all the tramp

slang he could pick up; and ever since the publication of this

interesting little work, which is now very rare, German philologists

and policemen have printed, from time to time, supplementary

dictionaries and glossaries.

In all Continental countries the Hebrew and Gipsy languages have been

levied upon by the tramps for contributions to their dialects, and even

in England the tramp jargon contains a number of words which have been

imported from Germany, Bohemia, Russia, and France. In this country, on

the other hand, the tramps have relied largely on their own ingenuity

for cant phrases, and they often claim that expressions thus invented

are much more forcible and succinct than any that they might have

borrowed from foreign languages. They think that a good word is as much

the result of inspiration as is a successful begging trick; and they

believe, furthermore, that America is entitled to a cant language of its

own.

It is easy to see how this dialect originated. It came into existence

primarily as a means of talking in public without being understood by

others than those intimately connected with the life. It is also true

that some of the words have sprung from those necessities of expression

which ignorance and lack of education could not supply. In the United

States, as a general rule, thanks to reformatories and prison libraries

the majority of tramps are fairly well read, and can speak English with

considerable correctness; but it often happens that they have thoughts

and feelings which their faulty vocabularies cannot make clear, and they

are obliged to invent their own words and phrases.

Take the word "bughouse," for example. As it is now used it means

actually crazy, and when first used it signified a state of mind

bordering on insanity; but it was not invented for purposes of secrecy.

Old Boston Mary was the originator of it. Sitting in her little shanty

one day, and talking with some tramps seated about her, she exclaimed

suddenly: "Blokes, I'm bughouse." Asked what she meant, she said: "I'm

losin' me brain." It hit off exactly her poor, failing condition, and

the word went like a flash all over America. To-day it is the most

popular word in the lingo for the ordinary word "insane." "Crippled

under the hat" is also heard, but "bughouse" supplants this expression

on all occasions when men talk to their fellows, and not to the public.

It is most interesting to ferret out the origin of these words. Many of

them are so old that no one remembers exactly how they came into

popularity, and even about words more or less modern there are different

explanations; but I have succeeded in a number of cases in getting

fairly trustworthy stories.

In Chicago I met, one day, the man who, according to report, was the

first to use the tramp word for a Catholic priest, "Galway." He was

nearly eighty years old when I saw him, but remembered very distinctly

how he came by it.

"I was batterin'," he said, "one moon [night] on the Dope [Baltimore and

Ohio Railroad], an' a stiff 'e says: 'Blokey, squeal at that house over

there--it's a priest; he'll scoff ye.' I goes over 'n' toots the ringer

[bell]. The baldy [old man] 'e comes himself, 'n' asted what I wanted.

'I'm starvin', father,' I yapped, 'n' begun to flicker. 'Go 'way, you

lazy man,' 'e said; 'I've fed ten like you since noon.' I was horstile.

I dunno how the word come to me, but I yapped it in his phiz: 'Y' ole

Galway, you, yer an ole hypocrite'; 'n' then I mooched. Lots o' words

comes to me that way when I'm horstile."

"Punk" is another interesting word. Some say that it comes from the

French word _pain_, and immigrated to the United States from Canada,

where the hoboes had heard their Canadian _confrères_ use it; and this

may be the case. Certainly it is as near the French pronunciation as the

average vagabond can come. But a more natural explanation is that punk

being dry, and bread, particularly that given to tramps, being also

often dry, the resemblance of the two impressed itself on some sensitive

tramp's mind. The disgust with which beggars frequently speak the word

helps to substantiate this theory.

"Flicker," meaning to faint, comes from the flickering of a light,

"battering" (begging) from knocking at back doors, and "bull"

(policeman) from the plunging, bullying attitude of these officers when

dealing with rowdies.

A number of words used by tramps are also in vogue among criminals, who

are even more in need of a secret language than are vagabonds. It must

be remembered, however, that in America at least, and to some extent in

other countries as well, a great many tramps are merely discouraged

criminals, and it is not unnatural that they should cling to

expressions which they found valuable when they were more intimately

connected with criminal life. Even as tramps they are continually making

the acquaintance of criminals, and it is one of their main delights to

be seen in the company of notorious thieves and burglars; they enjoy

such companionship as much as certain "middle-class" people enjoy the

society of "aristocrats."

The word "elbow," meaning detective, is one of the slang terms common

among both hoboes and criminals. It comes from the detective's habit of

elbowing his way through a crowd, and it is the gloomiest word, as I

heard a hobo once say, that the outcast ever hears by way of warning. Be

he beggar or thief, a shiver invariably runs down his spinal column if a

pal whispers or shouts "Elbow" to him while he is "at work" in a public

thoroughfare. The word "finger," which is synonymous with "bull," has

very nearly, but not quite, the same effect, because the finger is in

uniform, whereas the elbow prowls about in citizen's clothes. "Finger"

comes from the policeman's supposed love of grabbing offenders. "They

like to finger us," a hobo said to me, one night, in a Western town

where we were both doing our best to dodge the local police force. "Some

people calls 'em the eye o' the law, but that ain't what they is;

they're the finger o' the law."

"Revolver," or "repeater," is both a tramp and a criminal term for the

professional offender, the man who is continually being brought up for

trial. "Lighthouse" is one of the most picturesque words in the lingo.

It means a man who knows every detective of a town by sight, and can

"tip them off" to visiting hoboes and criminals. As mariners at sea look

for the beacon light which is to guide them safely into harbor, so

tramps and criminals look for their "lighthouse." He is one of the most

valuable acquaintances in the outcast world, and more advice is taken

from him than from any other inhabitant. Such expressions as a "yellow

one" for a gold watch, a "white one" for a silver watch, a "leather" for

a pocket-book, and a "spark" for a diamond, explain themselves, and I

have heard them used by others than those in criminal life; but they are

distinctly lingo terms.

"Flagged" is a word which is not so clear, although it has been taken

from the railroader's parlance. It is used a great deal by pickpockets,

and means that they have allowed a certain person whom they intended to

victimize to pass on unmolested. It comes from the flagging of a train,

which can be either stopped or made to go on by the waving of a flag.

The person "flagged" seldom knows what has taken place, and every day in

city streets people are thus favored by gracious "dips," or pickpockets.

The dip's companion, the one who bumps up against the victim or

otherwise diverts his attention while the dip robs him, is called the

"stall."

"Just broken out" and "squared it" are phrases which very few would

understand on hearing them spoken by tramps and criminals in public. The

man who has "just broken out" is not, as I thought when I first heard

the words, one who has escaped from limbo, but rather one who has newly

joined the fraternity. The term is used in the sense in which it might

be applied to an epidemic. _Wanderlust_ (love of tramping, thieving,

drunkenness) is the disease with which the newcomer in outcast life is

supposed to be afflicted, and on allying himself with the brotherhood,

the malady is "officially" recognized as having appeared, or broken out.

"Squared it" I took to mean that a bargain or a quarrel had been

settled, but I was again mistaken. It signifies that a tramp or criminal

has reformed and become respectable. One who leaves the "road" for this

reason is said to have "squared it," because he has settled his account

with the brotherhood--he has finished with it.

The word "dead" is practically synonymous with "squared it." In using it

the tramp does not mean that the pal of whom he is speaking has departed

this life; "croaked" is the term for that. "Dead" means that he has left

the fraternity and is trying to live respectably. On one of my tramp

trips I was entertained at supper by a carpenter in Detroit, and during

the meal he confessed that he used to belong to my "push," the tramp

brotherhood.

"I've be'n dead now about ten years," he said, "I learned my trade in

the pen, 'n' when I got out I decided to square it. I was petered out."

On leaving his house he cautioned me not to say anything to the "'boes"

(hoboes) about his being my "meal-ticket." This is a tramp term for a

person who is "good" for a meal, and the carpenter did not care to have

this reputation.

When a man denounces to the police a beggar who has accosted him in the

street, the latter, in relating the experience at the "hang-out," says

that the "bloke beefed" on him (gave him away). In Cincinnati, one day,

I met an old tramp acquaintance who had been given away by a pal. He had

just come out of prison when I saw him, and looked so poorly, even for a

recently discharged convict, that I asked him for an explanation.

"Oh, it was a soaker [a sickening experience], Cig," he said. "Mike, my

pal, he beefed [turned state's evidence], 'n' the screws [prison

officers] they did me dirt from the start. Got the cooler [dark cell]

ev'ry time I did en'thin'. Had fifteen days there twice. It was that

killed me. But wait till I catch that gun Mike. It'll be his last beef

if I ever find him."

"Gun" means practically what "bloke," "stiff," and "plug" do--a fellow;

but there is a shade of difference. It comes from the verb "to gun," to

do "crooked work." Consequently a "gun" is more of a professional thief

than is the "bloke." "Mug," on the contrary, is the exact equivalent of

"bloke," but the verb "to mug" implies photography. In some cities

suspicious characters are arrested on general principles and immediately

photographed by the police authorities. Such towns are called "muggin'

joints," and the police authorities "muggin' fiends."

Some tramp words are popular for only a few years, and are then

supplanted by others which seem to make the thing in question more vivid

and "feelable." Not so very long ago, "timber" was the favorite word to

describe the clubbing given to tramps in certain "horstile" towns. A

hobo has recently written me that this word is gradually giving way to

"saps," because the sticks or clubs used in the fracas come from

saplings cut down for the purpose.

On account of this continual change it is difficult to keep up with the

growth of the language, and in my case it has been particularly so

because I am not regularly in the life. If one, however, is always in

the way of hearing the latest expressions, and can remember them, there

is not much else in the language that is hard. The main rule of the

grammar is that the sentence must be as short as possible, and the verb

omitted whenever convenient. As a general thing the hoboes say in two

words as much as ordinary people do in four, and prefer, not only for

purposes of secrecy, but also for general intercourse, if in a hurry, to

use their own lingo.

How many words this lingo contains it is impossible to say absolutely,

but it is my opinion that during the last twenty years at least three

thousand separate and distinct expressions have been in vogue, at one

time or another, among the tramps and criminals in the United States.

The tramp who wrote to me concerning the word "timber" added the

information that for practically everything with which the hobo comes in

contact he has a word of his own choosing, and if this is true, then my

estimate of the number of words that he has used during the last two

decades would seem to be too small; but I am inclined to think that my

correspondent gives the hobo's inventive powers more credit than is due

them. It is not to be denied that he has a talent for coining words, but

he has also a talent for letting other people do work which he is too

lazy to do, and my finding is that, although he has a full-fledged

lingo, he is continually supplementing it with well-known English words

which he is too lazy to supplant with words of his own manufacture.

When detectives and policemen surround him, and it is necessary to keep

them from understanding what is being discussed, he manages to say a

great deal without having recourse to English; but it is a strain on

both his temper and lingo to have to do this, and he gladly makes use of

our articles, conjunctions, and prepositions again when out of ear-shot

of the eavesdropping officers.

So far as I know he has not yet attempted to write anything exclusively

in his jargon which can be termed tramp literature; but he knows a

number of songs which are made up largely of tramp words, and his

stories at hang-outs are almost invariably told in the lingo, or, at any

rate, with so little English interspersed that a stranger would fail to

appreciate the most interesting points.

Nevertheless, it is one of the regrets of the hobo that his dialect is

losing much of its privacy. Ten years ago it was understood by a much

smaller number of people than at present, and ten years hence it will be

known to far more than it is now. There are hundreds of "stake-men" and

"gay-cats" on the road to-day where there were dozens a decade ago, and

they are continually going and coming between civilization and Hoboland.

The hobo dislikes them, and, when he can, refuses to associate with

them; but they pick up his jargon whether he will or no, and on leaving

the road temporarily in order to get a "stake," they tell the world at

large of what they have seen and heard. In this way the secrets of

Hoboland are becoming common property, and the hobo is being deprived of

a picturesque isolation which formerly few disturbed.

At present he likens himself to the Indian. "They can never kill us off

the way they have the Injuns," a hobo once said to me, "but they're

doin' us dirt in ev'ry other way they can. They're stealin' our lingo,

breakin' up our camps, timberin' us, 'n' generally hemmin' us in, 'n'

that's what they're doin' to the Injuns. But they can never croak us

all, anyhow. We're too strong for that, thank God!"

No, Hoboland can never be completely depopulated. It will change with

the years, as all things change, but it is impossible to wipe it off the

map. As long as there are lazy people, discouraged criminals, drunkards,

and boys possessed of _Wanderlust_, Hoboland will have its place in our

social geography, and a jargon more or less exclusively its own.

GLOSSARY

The following collection of tramp words and phrases is not intended to

be at all exhaustive. I have merely explained the slang used in the

text, and added certain other words which I thought might interest the

reader.

BALDY: an old man.

BALL: a dollar.

BATTER: to beg.

BEEFEr: one who "squeals" on, or gives away, a tramp or criminal.

BLANKET-STIFF: a Western tramp; he generally carries a blanket

with him on his travels.

BLIND-BAGGAGE: the front end of a baggage-car having no door.

BLOKE: a fellow; synonymous with "plug," "mug," and "stiff."

BLOWED-IN-THE-GLASS STIFF: a trustworthy "pal"; a professional.

'BO: a hobo.

BRAKEY: a brakeman.

BUGHOUSE: crazy.

BULL: a policeman.

BUNDLE: plunder from a robbery.

CHEW: to eat or "feed."

CHEW THE RAG: to talk.

CHI (pronounced "Shi"): Chicago.

CINCIE: Cincinnati.

CON: a conductor.

COOLER: a dark cell.

COP: a policeman. To be "copped" is to get arrested. A "fly-cop"

is a detective.

CRIB: a saloon or gambling-place; more or less synonymous with

"joint" and "hang-out."

CROAK: to die, or to kill.

CROCUS: a doctor.

CROOK: a professional criminal. "Crooked work" means thieving.

DEAD: reformed. A "dead" criminal is either discouraged or

reformed.

DICER: a hat.

DIP: a pickpocket.

DITCH, or BE DITCHED: to get into trouble, or to fail at what one

has undertaken. To be "ditched" when riding on trains means to be

put off, or to get locked into a car.

DOPE, THE: the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad.

DOSS: _noun_, sleep; _verb_, to sleep.

DOSS-HOUSE: a lodging-house.

DUMP: a lodging-house or restaurant; synonymous with "hang-out."

ELBOW: a detective.

FAWNY MAN: a peddler of bogus jewelry.

FENCE: a receiver of stolen goods.

FINGER: }

FLATTY: } a Policeman; synonymous with "bull."

FLAGGED: when a man is said by criminals or tramps to be

"flagged," it means that he is permitted to go unmolested.

FLICKER: _noun_, a faint; _verb_, to faint or pretend to faint.

GAG: any begging trick.

GALWAY: a Catholic priest.

GAY-CAT: an amateur tramp who works when his begging courage fails

him.

GHOST-STORY: any statement or report that is not true. When told

to young boys it means a "faked" story of tramp life.

GRAFT: a line of business; synonymous with "spiel."

GRAFTER: a pickpocket.

GUN: a fellow; more or less synonymous with "bloke," "stiff,"

"mug," and "plug."

GUY: a fellow.

HAND-OUT: a bundle of food handed out to a beggar at the back

door.

HANG-OUT: the hobo's home.

HIT THE ROAD: to go tramping.

HOBO: a tramp. Derivation obscure. Farmer's "Americanisms" gives:

"HO-BOY, or HAUT-BOY: a New York night-scavenger."

HOISTER, or HYSTER: a shoplifter.

HOOSIER: a "farmer." Everybody who does not know the world as the

hobo knows it is to him a "farmer," "hoosier," or outsider.

HORN, THE: a triangular extension of the Chicago, Burlington and

Quincy Railroad, running from Red Oak, Iowa, southwest some twenty

miles, and then northwest to Pacific Junction on the main line.

HORSTILE: angry, unfriendly, hostile.

JIGGER: a sore, artificially made, to excite sympathy.

JIGGERED: "done," beaten. When used as an exclamation, as in "I'll

be jiggered," it means "I'll be damned," or words to that effect.

JOCKER: a tramp who travels with a boy and "jockers" him--trains

him as a beggar and protects him from persecution by others.

JOINT: practically, any place where tramps congregate, drink, and

feel at home.

KIP-HOUSE: a lodging-house.

KIP TOWN: a good lodging-house town.

LEATHER: a pocket-book. "To reef a leather" means that the

pickpocket pulls out the lining of a pocket containing the

"leather"; this is frequently the best way of capturing a

pocket-book.

LIGHTHOUSE: one who knows every detective by sight, and can "tip

him off" to his comrades.

MAIN GUY: the leader.

MARK: a person or house "good" for food, clothes, or money.

MEAL-TICKET: a person "good" for a meal.

MONIKEY: the tramp's nickname, as "New Orleans Blackie,"

"Mississippi Red," etc.

MOOCH: to beg; also, to "light out," "clear out."

MOOCHER: a beggar. This word is the generic term for tramps in

England.

MUG: _noun_, a fellow; _verb_, to photograph.

MUSH-FAKIR: an umbrella-mender. The umbrellas which he collects

are frequently not returned.

OFFICE: to "give the office" is to give a signal to a confederate.

It is usually done by raising the hat.

ON THE HOG: on the tramp; also, "busted," "dead broke."

P. A.: Pennsylvania.

PAPER: stocks and bonds.

PEN: a penitentiary

PENNSYLVANIA SALVE: apple-butter.

PENNYWEIGHTERS: jewelry thieves.

PETER: a safe thief. "Knock-out drops" are also "peter."

PHILLIE: Philadelphia.

PLUG: a fellow; synonymous with "bloke" and "stiff."

POKE-OUT: a lunch; synonymous with "hand-out."

POUND THE EAR: to sleep.

PRUSHUN: a tramp boy. An "ex-prushun" is one who has served his

apprenticeship as a "kid" and is "looking for revenge," _i. e._,

for a lad that he can "snare" and "jocker," as he himself was

"snared" and "jockered."

PUNK AND PLASTER: bread and butter.

PUSH: a gang.

Q.: the Chicago, Burlington and Quincy Railroad, popularly known

as the C. B. & Q.

QUEER, THE: counterfeit money.

REPEATER, or REVOLVER: an old-timer; a professional criminal and a

"blowed-in-the-glass" tramp.

RINGER: a bell.

RUBE: a "hoosier," or "farmer."

SAPS: a clubbing with weapons made from saplings; synonymous with

"timber." (See below.)

SCOFF: _noun_, food, "nourishment"; _verb_, to "feed," to "gorge."

SCRAPPER: a victim of either tramps or criminals who "puts up a

fight."

SCREW: a prison turnkey.

SET-DOWN: a square meal.

SETTLED: in prison.

SHACK: a brakeman.

SHATIN' ON ME UPPERS: to be "shatin'" on one's "uppers" is to be

"dead broke."

SHOVE: a gang.

SHOVER: a man who passes counterfeit money.

SIDE-DOOR PULLMAN: a box-car.

SINKER: a dollar; synonymous with "ball."

SLOPE: to run away.

SLOPPING-UP: a big drunk.

SNARE: to entice a boy into tramp life.

SNEAKS: flat or house thieves. A bank sneak is a bank thief.

SNIPE: cigar-butts--the favorite tobacco among hoboes.

SONG AND DANCE: a begging story or trick.

SPARK: a diamond.

SPIEL: something to peddle. Hoboes often carry needles, pins,

court-plaster, and the like. On meeting one another, they ask:

"What's your spiel?" ("What are you hawking?") (See "graft.")

SPIKED: upset, chagrined, disappointed, disgusted.

SQUEALER: one who gives away the gang.

STAKE-MAN: a fellow who holds a position only long enough to get a

"stake"--enough money to keep him in "booze" and tobacco while he

is on the road. The tramps call him a "gay-cat."

STALL: the pickpocket's companion.

STIFF: a fellow; synonymous with "bloke" and "plug."

SUCKER: a victim of both tramps and criminals.

THROW THE FEET: to beg, "hustle," or do anything that involves

much action.

TIMBER: a clubbing at the hands of the toughs of a town unfriendly

to tramps. (See "Saps.")

TOMATO-CAN VAG: the outcast of Hoboland; a tramp of the lowest

order, who drains the dregs of a beer-barrel into an empty

tomato-can and drinks them; he generally lives on the refuse that

he finds in scavenger barrels.

TOOT THE RINGER: ring the bell.

TURF: the road, or low life in general.

TURF IT: to be on the road.

YAP: _noun_, a farmer or "hoosier"; _verb_, to say or to tell.

YORK: New York city.