WORKING MY WAY
AROUND THE WORLD
[Illustration: HARRY A. FRANCK]
WORKING MY WAY AROUND THE WORLD
REWRITTEN BY
LENA M. FRANCK
FROM
HARRY A. FRANCK’S “VAGABOND JOURNEY AROUND THE WORLD”
ILLUSTRATED WITH PHOTOGRAPHS AND WITH MAPS
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
1918
Copyright, 1918, by
THE CENTURY CO.
_Published, September, 1918_
DEDICATED TO
ALL YOUNG FIRESIDE TRAVELERS
Still, as my Horizon grew,
Larger grew my riches, too.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I “CROSSIN’ THE POND WI’ THE BULLOCKS” 3
II “ON THE ROAD” IN THE BRITISH ISLES 7
III IN CLEAN HOLLAND 12
IV NOT WELCOME IN THE FATHERLAND 17
V TRAMPING THROUGH FRANCE 24
VI CLIMBING OVER THE ALPS 29
VII IN SUNNY ITALY 32
VIII AMONG THE ARABS 56
IX A LONELY JOURNEY 75
X CITIES OF OLD 82
XI THE WILDS OF PALESTINE 106
XII CAIRO AND THE PYRAMIDS 129
XIII A TRIP UP THE NILE 146
XIV STEALING A MARCH ON THE FAR EAST 164
XV IN THE LAND OF THE WANDERING PRINCE 180
XVI THE MERRY CIRCUS DAYS 194
XVII THREE WANDERERS IN INDIA 204
XVIII THE WAYS OF THE HINDU 216
XIX IN THE HEART OF INDIA 224
XX BEYOND THE GANGES 242
XXI TRAMPING THROUGH BURMA 250
XXII IN THE JUNGLES OF BURMA 265
XXIII IN SIAM 276
XXIV HUNGRY DAYS 287
XXV FOLLOWING THE MENAM RIVER TO BANGKOK 304
XXVI ON THE WAY TO HONG-KONG 316
XXVII WANDERING IN JAPAN 322
XXVIII HOMEWARD BOUND 332
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Harry A. Franck _Frontispiece_
PAGE
A baker’s cart of Holland on the morning round 14
Boundary line between France and Germany 21
My entrance into Paris 22
The Bridge of Sighs 39
My gondolier on the Grand Canal 41
Country family returning from market 49
Italian peasants returning from the vineyards to the
village 53
The lonely, Bedouin-infected road over the Lebanon 76
On the road between Haifa and Nazareth I met a road
repair gang 98
The shopkeeper and traveling salesman with whom I spent
two nights and a day on the lonely road to
Jerusalem 117
The Palestine beast of burden 119
A woman of Alexandria, Egypt, carrying two bushels of
oranges 130
An abandoned mosque outside the walls of Cairo 132
An Arab café in Old Cairo 134
Sais or carriage runners of Cairo, clearing the streets
for their master 138
An Arab gardener 140
Egypt—A young Arab climbing down the pyramid 142
On the top of the largest pyramid 143
A trip to the pyramids 144
“Along the way shadoofs were ceaselessly dipping up the
water” 147
The Egyptian fellah dwells in a hut of reeds and mud 156
Soudan steamer on the Nile 160
Arab passengers on the Nile steamer 162
A Singhalese woman stops often to give her children a
bath 182
The yogi who ate twenty-eight of the bananas at a
sitting 187
The thatch roof at the roadside 190
I take a last ’rickshaw ride before taking the steamer
for India 205
“Haywood” snaps me as I am getting a shave in
Trichinopoly 209
The Hindu street-sprinkler does not lay much dust 228
I do a bit of laundry work 235
A lady of Delhi out for a drive in a bullock cart 240
The chief of a jungle village agrees to guide us for one
day’s journey 267
A freight carrier crossing the stream that separates
Burma from Siam 277
My companion, Gerald James of Perth, Australia, crossing
the boundary line between Burma and Siam 279
The sort of jungle through which we cut our way for
three weeks 292
Myself after four days in the jungle, and the Siamese
soldiers who invited us to eat a frog and lizard
supper 297
An elephant, with a Mahout dozing on his head, was
advancing toward us 307
Bangkok is a city of many canals 317
My ’rickshaw man 322
Numadzu 323
Some street urchins near Tokio 325
Osaka 326
Horses are rare in Japan 328
Japanese children playing in the streets of Kioto 329
Women do most of the work in the rice-fields of Japan 330
Yokohama decorated in honor of Secretary Taft’s party 334
A Yokohama street decorated for the Taft party 338
WORKING MY WAY AROUND THE WORLD
CHAPTER I
“CROSSIN’ THE POND WI’ THE BULLOCKS”
After spending some sixteen years in schools and colleges, I decided,
one spring, to take a year off and make a trip around the world. I had
no money for such a journey; but that didn’t matter for I meant to “work
my way” from place to place. I spoke French and German, and had some
knowledge of Spanish and Italian. I believed that if I had to work among
the people of foreign countries I would learn more of them and of their
languages than in any other way. So I was not sorry that I had to start
my journey with only my camera and one hundred and four dollars for
films.
As a beginning I had arranged to cross the Atlantic on a cattle-boat in
the employ of a company in Walkerville, Canada. This company ships
thousands of cattle to the markets of England every year. When I asked
for a job as cattleman, they employed me at once. So it happened that on
the eighteenth of June, 1904, I crossed the Detroit River to Canada, and
walked two miles to the Walkerville cattle-barns. From the long rows of
low brick buildings sounded now and then a deep bellow, or the song or
whistle of a stock feeder at his labor. I left my bag at the office and
joined the crew in the yard.
The cattlemen had already begun driving the cattle from the stables. It
was no easy task. As soon as they were free, the sleek animals began to
prance, to race, and to bellow, leading the stockmen a merry chase all
around the yard. Little by little, however, the men managed to urge them
slowly up the chute into the waiting cars. The setting sun had reddened
the western sky, and darkness had fallen in the alleyways between the
endless stables, before the last bull was tied and the last car door
locked. The engine gave a warning whistle. We who were to care for the
stock on the way raced to the office for our bundles, tossed them on top
of the freight-cars, and climbed aboard after them.
The train began to move. The stockmen left behind called out farewells
to their friends who were “crossin’ the pond wi’ the bullocks”: “So
long, Jim.” “Don’t fergit that smokin’ tobacco for me, Bob.” And we were
off.
After a short run we came to the main line of the Canadian Pacific. Here
our cars were joined to a long train that was being made up. We were to
travel in the caboose. As we came into the glare of the tail lights,
carrying our bundles and long poles, the trainmen saw us, and began
growling: “Huh! more cow-punchers!”
We rode for thirty-six hours. When we reached Montreal at last, we left
the stock to the care of the feeders at the railroad pens, and went at
once to the “Stockyards Hotel”—a building filled from bar-room to garret
with the odor of cattle.
Where were we going, and when? Up to this time I had not even learned on
what ship we were to sail. Then I heard some one say “Glasgow,” and soon
the news leaked out that we were to sail on the _Sardinian_ two days
later.
On the second evening I went on board the _Sardinian_ with the rest of
our crew, and wandered around among the empty cattle-pens built on the
four decks. Toward midnight loads of baled straw were brought on board,
and we began to “bed down” the pens. When this was finished, we threw
ourselves down in the empty stalls and fell asleep.
We were awakened before daylight by a rush of excited cattle and the
cries of their drivers. The hubbub lasted for three hours. By that time
the animals were securely tied in their stalls, the winch had yanked up
on deck three bulls that, having been killed in the rush, were to be
dumped in the outer bay, and we were off down the St. Lawrence. The crew
fell to coiling up the shore lines and joined the cattlemen in a glad
chorus:
“We’re homeward bound, boys, for Glasgow town;
Good-by, fare thee well; good-by, fare thee well!”
The passage across was like other cattle-boat trips. There were a few
quarrels, a free-for-all fight now and then, among the cattlemen: the
work was hard, the food poor, and the sailors’ quarters in the
forecastle unfit to live in. But the voyage was no worse than I had
expected.
On the tenth day out, we came on deck to see, a few miles off, the
sloping coast of Ireland. Patches of growing and ripening grain made the
island look like a huge tilted checkerboard. Before night fell we had
left Ireland behind, and it was near the mouth of the Clyde River that
we fed the cattle for the last time.
A mighty uproar awakened us at dawn. Glasgow longshoremen, shouting at
the top of their voices, were driving the cattle, slipping and sliding,
down the gangway. We had reached Europe at last! An hour later the
cattlemen were scattering along the silent streets of Sunday morning
Glasgow.