_August 22nd. On the Sacramento River._
Well, little book, my entries are almost finished, for the business of
building a new niche in the world with nothing but our bare hands will
leave scant time for keeping a diary.
Dan had several days’ work in Ogden. Then we took a passenger to the
first stop west as usual and there boarded a freight. We had not gone
far when a trainman thrust his head into the car in which we were
riding, and failing to see me huddled in a corner, accosted Dan.
“Hello, Jack. What are you riding on?”
“A union card,” replied Dan, following the accepted formula, and pulling
the card from his pocket for inspection.
“And what else?” queried the brakeman.
“A dollar,” said Dan.
“Not enough, Jacko. It’s two dollars or nothing on this division. Cough
up.”
So Dan gave him the two dollars and the train moved out.
On the edge of the Great Salt Lake the freight stopped again and another
brakeman leaped into the car. He gaped in amazement at sight of me, then
turned to Dan, “You’ll have to come through, old sport. This kind of
baggage is worth a five spot. Come across now, or you’ll have to swim
the lake.”
“Here, Dan,” I broke in sharply, as he hesitated. “Don’t you give those
petty grafters another penny. Let’s get out.”
The trainman turned on us threateningly, but one good look sufficed, so
we were left undisturbed beside the track. We had heard more than once
of trainmen who not only took money from hoboes, but also relieved them
of Ingersoll, knife, or any little trinket they happened to have about
them, but this was our first experience with the breed.
With our bundles for pillows we slept through the night, and awakened at
dawn when another freight stopped for a last drink before crossing the
lake. We piled into a gondola just as the train gathered speed and felt
that we would at least cross the lake in safety. We had not gone a mile
when a trainman leaped in beside us.
“What are you riding on, friends?” he inquired.
“A union card,” said Dan.
“And what else?”
“Not another blamed thing,” Dan answered determinedly.
“Well, that don’t listen very good to me,” the fellow growled. “Where
did you come from and where are you going?”
While we gave him a sketch of our experiences and reasons for riding
freights, he drew a stub of a pencil from his pocket and began scrawling
on the back of a time table.
“Loan me your knife a minute, old man,” he said to Dan.
Dan passed over the knife, a very fine one that I had given him the
first Christmas after our marriage, and the brakeman sharpened his
pencil.
“Well, so long,” said he, turning on his heel, and starting to slip
Dan’s knife into his pocket.
I seized his arm like a flash and wrested the knife from his hand before
he could recover from the unexpected assault.
“No, you don’t. Oh, no you don’t,” I hissed furiously. “That’s my knife
and I propose to keep it.”
“Why, you little hell-cat, you.” He burst into a laugh. “I didn’t mean
to steal your knife. Gee, she’s some scrapper,” turning to Dan.
“Wouldn’t mind having a pal like that myself.”
With another laugh he made his way to the rear of the train.
A half hour had passed when we were amazed to see him coming over the
top with a coffee pot in one hand and a pan in the other.
“Thought maybe you might be hungry,” he said with an embarrassed laugh,
as he set the pan of boiled meat and doughnuts on the bottom of the car.
As he bolted toward the head of the train, we attacked the food with
ravenous appetites.
We were so engaged when a man leaped from the boxcar behind, landing in
the gondola with a clatter. I looked up into the amazed face of the
conductor.
“Good Lord!” he ejaculated. “Well, good Lord, so this is what old
Tight-wad was up to. What have you done to him anyhow? Hypnotised him?”
“What are you talking about?” asked Dan.
“Why, that front brakeman of mine. He’s the meanest cuss on this
division, bar none. He’ll hold up a ’bo and pry the gold out of his
teeth. I noticed him skirmishing around in the caboose a while back, and
he acted so blamed mysterious that I had to come up front and see what
in blazes he was up to. Well, I’ll be jim swiggled if ever I expected to
see old Tight-wad pulling any charitable stunts.”
The conductor proceeded to ply us with the usual questions, which we
answered to his entire satisfaction.
“There’s an empty refrigerator car up ahead,” he declared, “that is
billed straight through to Sacto. She’s locked all right, but the
ventilator in one of the ice chests is sealed open, and you can slide in
there and lie snug till you land in Sacramento.”
Swallowing the last drops of coffee, we followed him over the tops to
the fruit car. Sure enough, the little door that covered the hatch at
the end of the car stood open, the support bound with the lead seal,
which must never be broken except by the proper officials.
Gathering my skirts closely about my ankles, I slid into the opening
feet first, and catching the edges with my hands, swung inside the ice
chest and let go. Dan followed, and we found ourselves in peculiar
surroundings. The floor of the cubby-hole was formed of scantlings laid
on their edges, with wide interstices for drainage. There was scarcely
room to move and the only light entered the little opening high above
our heads. As I gazed upward, I felt caught in a trap. We curled down on
the grating and resigned ourselves to fate.
As the sun climbed the sky the heat increased, and it was then that we
noticed that our canteen was empty. Nobody came near. We dared not show
ourselves. So the day passed in great discomfort. Night fell and we
slept fitfully. Morning came and again the sun blazed down on the desert
wastes and the tortures of thirst became intense.
We had been twenty-four hours without food or water when Dan decided to
risk a reconnoitre. Taking the canteen, he swung himself up to the hatch
and thrust out his head and shoulders. A brakeman came on the run. After
considerable parley he took the canteen and promised to fetch us water
at the first stop. But the afternoon wore away and he failed to appear.
We were almost insane from thirst and heat when at last he lowered the
dripping canteen into our prison.
In Winnemucca the car was shunted back and forth for an hour, but at
nightfall we were off on the long climb to the summit. I climbed hand
over hand to the hatchway, and after a cautious survey of the
surroundings, drew myself out and perched on the roof of the car. The
Overland Limited shot past, the roof covered with the crouching forms of
hoboes, thick as barnacles on an old pier. The desolate expanse of
desert seemed full of mystery, as the long train, dotted here and there
with lanterns, crawled like a gigantic snake up the steep grade. Far
ahead two engines coughed and laboured, the black smoke rolling in great
billows from their stacks. As I realised that we were nearing the
boundary of California a great contentment filled my soul. Thus I
revelled in thoughts of home, while the cool night wind fanned my face
and the Big Dipper swung across the northern sky and the speeding wheels
clanked a cheerful refrain.
Early next morning the brakeman made us a visit and said we would be in
Sparks before noon, where we must make another change.
Just outside the city limits we dropped off, and as guests of the
trainmen were soon eating our first restaurant meal for months. About
two o’clock we wandered to the outskirts of town, for it was useless to
attempt to catch a freight in daylight. We came to an irrigating ditch
lined with a tall growth of weeds, and slipping off our footgear, were
soon paddling about like a couple of kids in the swift running water.
Late in the day we cooked and ate a meal, took a farewell wash in the
stream and returned to the railroad yard. Word had gone forth not to
molest us, so we boarded the night freight without difficulty. The only
available place was a cattle car loaded high with lumber. The end door
was unlocked and there was quite a space between the piles of boards and
the roof of the car. I settled myself in a corner with back against the
siding, and Dan lay at my feet.
It was pitch dark when the train clanked through the streets of Reno. As
we drew slowly out of town, dim forms appeared, and hoboes began piling
into the car through both doors. In the darkness I could sense the
presence of a large number of men. Two lads curled down at my right,
their voices proclaiming their youthfulness. On the left two hoboes lay
so close that I could have touched them. They had come from a long ride
on a limited passenger and were completely exhausted. A group of men in
the far end of the car began smoking, and as each match flared, some
face would stand out in bold relief. They talked with perfect
comradeship, and though they were totally unaware of the presence of a
woman, there was little to complain of in their conversation. In fact, I
can truthfully say that I heard more profane language in one year’s
attendance at Medical College than on this entire trip.
At the first stop out of Reno still more men came aboard. A trainman
came to the far door with a lantern, but one look sufficed and he
returned no more. At Truckee the car was switched to a siding.
“Beat it, boys, here come the bulls!” shouted a hobo.
Like dry peas out of a pod, the hoboes scattered out of that car and
fled in all directions as officers flung open the door at our side and
emptied their revolvers into the interior. We remained motionless as the
bullets thudded into the wood, and in a few minutes looked out to see
the detectives chasing the fleeing hoboes across the yards.
“Now is our chance,” whispered Dan. “Make for the round-house yonder.”
We dived within the yawning portal and crouched within the engine pit.
The place seemed empty and we sat in silence for a time. What to do we
did not know. It was impossible to remain where we were for long;
discovery meant a trip to jail and a month on the chain-gang for Dan.
The town lies in a mountain fastness with snowsheds protecting the
tracks, so that foot travel was out of the question, and our money was
almost gone. While we studied the problem, a long freight came through
without stopping. We ran out to the main track and the first thing that
caught my eye was the familiar old refrigerator car with the open hatch
in which we had already ridden so many miles.
“Quick, quick!” I cried. “We must catch that train.”
The engine had cleared the yard and was gathering headway with each turn
of the wheels. Racing madly beside the track, I made a desperate lunge
and caught a hand rod. My arms seemed torn from their sockets as my body
was snapped into a horizontal position by the speeding train. A moment I
clung, unable to move, then with a fierce scramble, I found my footing
and clambered to the top of the car. Dan had landed on the car behind
and together we started for the head of the train.
A brakeman appeared on the top of a boxcar. At sight of a woman coolly
parading the roof of the freight, his jaw dropped and he started so
violently as to make me fear for his safety. We stopped on a flat car
and gave him a brief explanation, then hurried forward and swung
ourselves into the familiar ice chest, for we were nearing the
snowsheds.
The trainman soon joined us. He told a long story about some division
official who was death on hoboes, and who made a practice of travelling
up and down the line and pouncing on the train crews at unexpected
places in hope of catching them in some infraction of the rules, which
would enable him to indulge in his love of discipline. This martinet
took a special delight in harrying the men, and would suspend an employé
for sixty days on the smallest pretext, or deprive a man of his credits
for the slightest infraction of some unimportant rule.
“He’s a Company pet, who was born with the big head and then bitten by
the efficiency bug,” our companion concluded, “and if he should catch a
woman on this freight it would be as much as all our jobs are worth.”
At that moment a man thrust his head into the manhole and called the
brakeman out. He ascended quickly and his place was taken by the other,
who proved to be the conductor. Dan started to speak, but was
interrupted.
“Let the woman talk. I’ll get the truth from her.”
So I began the old, old story, and after a bit secured permission to
ride as close to Sacramento as we dared. We were well outside the
snowsheds when the conductor left us, and I settled down with the
thought that the worst was over.
As the train pulled out of a station the light was cut off abruptly and
a young man in a business suit bounced into the ice chest. As he landed,
I looked up and caught sight of the horrified face of the brakeman
leaning over the manhole.
“Who put you in here? How much did you pay that brakeman to let you
ride?” he demanded fiercely.
“Why, we haven’t paid anybody—we haven’t seen any brakeman. We just got
in when the train slowed up back there a ways; and we took good care not
to see any brakeman or let any brakeman see us,” I answered innocently.
“But what are you doing here, and where are you going?”
“Oh, we came up from Sacramento for a little camping trip. My husband
thought he could get a little work in the mountains, but he couldn’t
find any, and we spent most of our money, and then started to walk home.
This old freight came crawling along, and there wasn’t anybody on the
far side of the track, so just for a lark we slipped in here.”
“So, you’re sure your husband didn’t pay the brakeman for the chance,
are you?”
“You bet I am. Do you suppose anybody would pay good money for riding in
this old hole? Besides, we haven’t any money. I couldn’t see anything
wrong about riding, exactly. But, of course, we didn’t want the trainmen
to see us. I was afraid they might not like it, and I’m dead sure nobody
but you knows we’re here.”
The brakeman’s face appeared for an instant in the manhole above, then
disappeared from view.
“You’re not going to put us off, way out here, are you?” I asked
pleadingly. “It’s awful hard to walk clear down to Sacramento this hot
weather, and carry these heavy bundles. It didn’t cost the railroad
company anything for us to ride here. We ain’t doing any harm.”
The young man’s face softened a trifle and he launched into a long
dissertation on the evils of jumping trains, the hobo menace, and
kindred topics, to all of which I listened with wide eyes and bated
breath. The train drew into a station and out again, while he was thus
absorbed, and he made no move to put us off. I was drawing him on with
deft questions and flattering attention when the brakeman’s head
appeared once more.
“What in blazes is all this?” he bawled. “Hey, you bums, come out of
there.”
Our kind instructor cast a startled look aloft. “Why, hello, Condon,” he
called ingratiatingly. “You are on the job, I see. But these people
don’t happen to be bums. Everything is all right. I’ll assume the
responsibility, so just trot along and leave us alone.”
He resumed his pompous attitude and took up the delightful task of
enlightening me on the importance of his position, which he declared was
extremely difficult to fill. I gathered that the destinies of the entire
railroad system rested on his narrow shoulders; that he was the original
efficiency expert; and that all other employés of the Company, from
train boy to superintendent, were a lot of mutts, if not worse, and were
it not for his constant supervision and stern discipline, the division
would just naturally go to the bow-wows. The miles slipped by as I drank
in this information with greedy ears. His chest expanded like a pouter
pigeon and his hat band seemed to stretch visibly.
The three of us were standing in one end of the restricted space when
once more the daylight was cut off and the conductor slid down beside
us. Completely ignoring our existence he turned a cold and hostile eye
upon our companion.
“Sir,” he began stiffly, “I have been informed by a member of my crew
that a high official of this division has taken it upon himself not
alone to disregard the strict rules of this company regarding the
carrying of passengers on freight trains, but has arrogated to himself
the control and management of those directly responsible to me. Such a
situation is unprecedented, sir, and I hereby make formal protest
against its continuance.”
While he was speaking I saw the shadow of a man pass the opening
overhead.
“But, my dear man,” stammered the “high official,” wholly taken aback.
“How can you make such statements? I had absolutely no intention—no such
intentions at all. How can you make such a charge?”
“The facts, sir, speak for themselves. My brakeman discovers his
superior closeted in the ice chest of a refrigerator car with a young
woman and an unknown man. When he endeavours to exercise that authority
with which he is vested by the rules of this company and requests the
said young woman and unknown man to leave the train at once, you, my
dear sir, impose the force of your superior station, and taking all
responsibility upon yourself order him to ‘trot along.’ I claim that
such conduct destroys efficiency and is fatal to discipline.”
Our young entertainer seemed at a loss for a reply; then he plunged into
a long explanation of our presence and his intentions regarding us. The
conductor listened with an air of undiminished coldness.
“Very well, sir,” he said shortly, at the close of the harangue. “Your
conduct is, of course, highly irregular, but I shall make no report of
it—at least not at present,” fixing the unfortunate “high official” with
a piercing glance. “As to your er—guests, I shall leave the matter of
their disposition entirely in your hands, since you have assumed the
responsibility.”
The conductor swung himself out of the ice box while the young man
turned his harassed gaze upon us.
“You better get off at Auburn,” he said weakly. “Climb out as soon as
the train stops, so nobody will see you.”
As he clambered slowly out, the general impression was that of a man
about three sizes smaller than the one who had entered.
We left the car the instant the train stopped at Auburn, but as we
hastened away we were hailed with loud shouts by the train crew, who
followed us on the run, headed by the brakeman. We stopped behind a row
of boxcars as they joined us. With whoops and howls they slapped one
another on the back, danced about, doubled up and fairly rolled on the
ground in convulsions of laughter.
“Say, didn’t our old man hand that fellow some chunks of language? Say
now; didn’t he?” gasped the brakeman when he could speak.
“He passed it out like a regular dictionary. Just the same kind of dope
that Little Tom-tit has been feeding us on so long,” sputtered the
fireman, who it seems had left the engine on the way down to join the
gleeful circle about the manhole while the circus was going on within.
“Well, I guess I punctured his tire, all right,” vouchsafed the
conductor. “Guess he’ll go a little easy on efficiency and discipline
with this crew for a while.”
“I wouldn’t have missed that performance for five hundred dollars,”
broke in the rear brakeman. “It was the richest thing I ever heard.”
“You should have heard Miss Innocence here stringing him along when he
first came aboard. Her eyes kept a-glowing bigger and bigger, and his
chest kept a-swelling and a-swelling, till I thought I’d bust. Oh, he
was a wonderful man, all right, all right.”
“Well, boys,” remarked the conductor, whipping off his cap. “You all
admit you enjoyed a good show, that would have had a very different
ending if it hadn’t been for the quick wit of this gritty lady. Chip in
now, and pay for your reserved seats.”
Money rattled into the cap and despite our protestations the conductor
forced it into Dan’s hands. With quip and jest the men bade us good-bye,
and we passed over to the main street in search of a restaurant. Our
hunger appeased, we marched boldly to the station and took a passenger
train to Sacramento, where we made connection with the river boat for
San Francisco.
So now I sit on the deck of the steamer and watch the green and fertile
country glide past. From time to time a signal flutters on the bank, the
boat swings over and the crew rapidly loads great boxes of plums,
luscious peaches, early pears, and crates of seedless grapes. Here comes
a man with a truckload of magnificent Burbank plums. I once read of the
little plum with the enormous pit, from which the California wizard
evolved this beautiful fruit. He did not attempt to change the nature of
the plum to that of some transcendental fruit. He simply modified the
environment so that the inherent qualities of the plum might develop.
Would that the environment of the little children of the slums and sweat
shops, to whom the meanest cull that lies in yonder orchard would be a
gracious treat, might be so modified as to give their essentially
beautiful, natural qualities an opportunity for healthy, normal growth.
I give a sigh of contentment and happiness as I realise that the
hazardous journey is ended. And now I realise another fact. For weeks I
have been free from colds or cough; my digestion is superior to that of
an ostrich; a ten-mile jaunt with twenty pounds of baggage on my back
would be mere child’s play. A more healthy human specimen than myself it
would be hard to find, so I feel free to dismiss the spectre of
tuberculosis along with the other horrors of the slums.
But physical benefit is not the greatest gain. A change has taken place
in my psychology. My belief in the inherent kindliness and unselfishness
of the human heart has been strengthened. In cases of cruelty I
recognise an outside influence or pressure that warps natural instincts.
Toward the trainmen especially I am deeply grateful. When one realises
the risks they ran to aid a couple of outcasts, and the kindness and
consideration so often manifested, a wonderful appreciation of their
sterling manhood is born. Never again will I think it necessary to
change human nature before we can improve social conditions. I am
conscious of a deeper human sympathy; a wider vision; a greater
understanding of the problems of the under dog and a closer sense of
fellowship with him. I feel that I am learning the divine lesson of
human unity, which is rooted in the Fatherhood of God and manifests
itself as the Brotherhood of Man.
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