HOW TRAMPS BEG.
It is a popular notion that tramps have a mysterious sign-language in
which they communicate secrets to one another in regard to professional
matters. It is thought, for instance, that they make peculiar chalk and
pencil marks on fences and horse-blocks, indicating to the brotherhood
such things as whether a certain house is "good" or not, where a
ferocious dog is kept, at what time the police are least likely, or most
likely, to put in an appearance, how late in the morning a barn can be
occupied before the farmer will be up and about, and where a convenient
chicken-coop is located.
Elaborate accounts have been written in newspapers about the amount of
information they give to one another in this way, and many persons
believe that tramps rely on a sign-language in their begging.
It is well to state at the outset that this is a false conception of
their methods. They all have jargons and lingoes of their own choosing
and making, and they converse in them when among themselves, but the
reported puzzling signs and marks which are supposed to obviate all
verbal speech are a fabrication so far as the majority of roadsters are
concerned. Among the "Blanket Stiffs" in the far West, and among the
"Bindle Men," "Mush Fakirs," and "Turnpikers," of the middle West, the
East, and Canada, there exists a crude system of marking "good" houses,
but these vagrants do not belong to the rank and file of the tramp army,
and are comparatively few in numbers.
It is furthermore to be said that the marking referred to is occasional
rather than usual. Probably one of the main reasons why the public has
imagined that tramps use hieroglyphics, in their profession is that when
charity is shown to one of them the giver is frequently plagued with a
visitation from a raft of beggars.
This phenomenon, however, is easily explained without recourse to the
sign-language theory. Outside of nearly all towns of ten thousand
inhabitants and more the tramps have little camps or "hang-outs," where
they make their headquarters while "working" the community. Naturally
they compare notes at meal-time, and if one beggar has discovered what
he considers an easy "mark,"--a good house,--he tells his pals about it,
so that they may also get the benefit of its hospitality. The finder of
the house cannot visit it himself again until his face has been
forgotten, at any rate he seldom does visit it more than once during a
week's stay in the town; but his companions can, so he tells them where
it is, and what kind of a story they must use.
Although the hoboes do not make use of the marks and signs with which
the popular fancy has credited them, they have a number of interesting
theories about begging and a large variety of clever ruses to deceive
people, and it is well for the public to keep as up-to-date in regard to
these matters as they keep in regard to the public's sympathies. Not all
tramps are either clever or successful; the "road" is travelled by a
great many more amateurs than professionals, but it is the earnest
endeavour of all at least to make a living, and there are thousands who
make something besides.
Roughly estimated, there are from sixty to seventy-five thousand tramps
in the United States, and probably a fifth of all may be classified as
"first-class" tramps. There is a second and a third class, and even a
fourth, but it is the "A Number One men," as they call themselves, who
are the most interesting.
The main distinction between these tramps and the less successful
members of the craft is that they have completely conquered the
amateur's squeamishness about begging. It seems comparatively easy to go
to a back door and ask for something to eat, and the mere wording of the
request is easy,--all too easy,--but the hard part of the transaction is
to screw up courage enough to open the front gate. The beginner in
tramp life goes to a dozen front gates before he can brace himself for
the interview at the back door, and there are men to whom a vagrant life
is attractive who never overcome the "tenderfoot's" bashfulness.
It was once my lot to have a rather successful professional burglar for
a companion on a short tramp trip in the middle West. We had come
together in the haphazard way that all tramp acquaintanceships are
formed. We met at a railroad watering-tank. The man's sojourn in
trampdom, however, was only temporary; it was a good hiding-place until
the detectives should give up the hunt for him. He had "planted" his
money elsewhere, and meanwhile he had to take his chances with the
"'boes."
He was not a man who would ordinarily arouse much pity, but a tramp
could not have helped having sympathy for him at meal-time. At every
interview he had at back doors he was seized with the "tenderfoot's"
bashfulness, and during the ten days that our companionship lasted he
got but one "square meal." His profession of robber gave him no
assistance.
"I can steal," he said, "go into houses at night, and take my chances in
a shootin' scrape, but I'll be ---- if I can beg. 'Taint like swipin'.
When ye swipe, ye don't ask no questions, an' ye don't answer none. In
this business ye got to cough up yer whole soul jus' to get a lump
(hand-out). I'd rather swipe."
This is the testimony of practically all beginners in the beggar's
business; at the start thieving seems to them a much easier task. As the
weeks and months pass by, however, they become hardened and discover
that their "nerve" needs only to be developed to assert itself, and the
time comes when nothing is so valuable that they do not feel justified
in asking for it. They then definitely identify themselves with the
profession and build up reputations as "first-class" tramps.
Each man's experience suggests to him how this reputation can best be
acquired. One man, for example, finds that he does best with a "graft"
peculiarly his own, and another discovers that it is only at a certain
time of the year, or in a particular part of the country, that he comes
out winner. The tramp has to experiment in all kinds of ways ere he
understands himself or his public, and he makes mistakes even after an
apprenticeship extending over years of time.
In every country where he lives, however, there is a common fund of
experience and fact by which he regulates his conduct in the majority of
cases. It is the collective testimony of generations and generations of
tramps who have lived before him, and he acts upon it in about the same
way that human beings in general act upon ordinary human experience.
Emergencies arise when his own ingenuity alone avails and the "average
finding" is of no use to him, and on such occasions he makes a note on
the case and reports about it at the next "hang-out" conclave. If he has
invented something of real value, a good begging story, for instance,
and it is generally accepted as good, it is labelled "Shorty's Gag," or
"Slim's," as the man's name may be, and becomes his contribution to the
general collection of "gags."
It is the man who has memorised the greatest number of "gags" or "ghost
stories," as they are also called, and can handle them deftly as
circumstances suggest, that is the most successful beggar. There are
other requirements to be observed, but unless a man has a good stock of
stories with which to "fool" people, he cannot expect to gain a foothold
among "the blowed in the glass stiffs." He must also keep continually
working over his stock. "Ghost stories" are like bonnets; those that
were fashionable and _comme il faut_ last year are this year out of
date, and they must be changed to suit new tastes and conditions, or be
replaced by new ones. Frequently a fresh version of an old story has to
be improvised on the spot, so to speak.
The following personal experience illustrates under what circumstances
"gags" are invented. It also shows how even the professionals forget
themselves and their pose on occasions.
One morning, about eight years ago, I arrived in a small town in the
Mohawk valley in company with a tramp called Indianapolis Red. We had
ridden all night in a box-car in the hope of reaching New York by
morning, but the freight had been delayed on account of a wreck, and we
were so hungry when we reached the town in question that we simply had
to get off and look for something to eat. It was not a place, as we well
knew, where tramps were welcome, but the train would not stop again at a
town of any size until long after breakfast, so we decided to take our
chances.
We had an hour at our disposal until the next "freight" was due. The
great question was what story we should tell, and we both rummaged
through our collections to find a good one. Finally, after each of us
had suggested a number of different stories and had refused them in
turn, on the ground that they were too old for such a "hostile" place,
Red suggested that we try "the deef 'n' dum' gag." There are several
"gags" of this description, and I asked him which one he meant.
"Let's work it this way," he said, and he began to improvise. "I'm your
deef 'n' dum' brother, see? An' we're on our way to New York, where I'm
going to get a job. I'm a clerk, and you're seein' me down to the city
so's't nothin'll happen to me. Our money's given out, an' we've simply
got to ask fer assistance. We're ter'bly hungry, an' you want to know if
the lady o' the house'll be good enough to help yer brother along. See?"
I "saw" all right, and accepted the proposition, but the odds seemed
against us, because the town was one of the most unfriendly along the
line. We picked out a house near the track. As a rule such houses have
been "begged out," but we reasoned that if our story would go at all it
would go there, and besides the house was convenient for catching the
next freight-train.
As we approached the back door I was careful to talk to Red on my
fingers, thinking that somebody might be watching us. A motherly old
lady answered our knock. I told her Red's story in my best manner,
filling it out with convincing details. She heard me out, and then
scrutinised Red in the way that we all look at creatures who are
peculiar or abnormal. Then she smiled and invited us into the
dining-room where the rest of the family were at breakfast. It turned
out to be a Free Methodist clergyman's household. We were given places
at the table, and ate as rapidly as we could, or rather Red did; I was
continually being interrupted by the family asking me questions about my
"unfortunate brother."
"Was he born that way?" they asked, in hushed voices. "How did he learn
to write? Can he ever get well?" and other like queries which I had to
answer in turn. By the time I had finished my meal, however, I saw by a
clock on the wall that we had still fifteen minutes to catch our train,
and gave Red a nudge under the table as a hint that we ought to be
going. We were about to get up and thank our hostess for her kindness
when the man of the house, the clergyman, suggested that we stay to
family prayers.
"Glad to have you," he said; "if you can remain. You may get good out of
it." I told him frankly that we wanted to catch a train and had only a
few minutes to spare, but he assured me that he would not be long and
asked me to explain the situation to Red. I did so with my fingers,
telling the parson afterward that Red's wiggling of his fingers meant
that he would be delighted to stay, but a wink of his left eye, meant
for me alone, said plainly enough to "let the prayers go."
We stood committed, however, and there was nothing to do but join the
family in the sitting-room, where I was given a Bible to read two
verses, one for Red and one for myself. This part of the program
finished, the parson began to pray. All went well until he came to that
part of his prayer where he referred to the "unfortunate brother in our
midst," and asked that Red's speech and hearing be restored.
Just then Red heard the whistle of our freight. He forgot everything,
all that I had said and all that he had tried to act out, and with a
wild whoop he sprang for the door, shouting back to me, as he went out:
"Hustle, Cigarette, there's our rattler."
There was nothing to do but follow after him as fast as my legs would
carry me, and I did so in my liveliest manner. I have never been in the
town since this experience, and it is to be hoped that the parson's
family have forgiven and forgotten both Red and me.
Besides studying the persons of whom he begs, and to whom he adapts his
"ghost stories" as their different natures require, the tramp also has
to keep in mind the time of the day, the state of the weather, and the
character of the community in which he is begging. I refer, of course,
to the expert tramp. The amateur blunders on regardless of these
important details, and asks for things which have no relation with the
time of the day, the season, or the locality.
It is bad form, for instance, to ask early in the morning for money to
buy a glass of whiskey, and it is equally inopportune to request a
contribution toward the purchase of a railway ticket late at night. The
"tenderfoot" is apt to make both of these mistakes; the expert, never.
The steady patrons of beggars, and all old hands at the business have
such, seldom realise how completely adjusted to local conditions "ghost
stories" are. They probably think that they have heard the story told to
them time and again and in the same way, but if they observe carefully
they will generally find that, either in the modulation of the voice, or
the tone of expression, it is different on rainy days, for instance,
from what it is when the sun shines. It takes a trained ear to
discriminate, and expert beggars realise that much of their finesse is
lost even on persons who give to them; but they are artists in their
way, and believe in "art for art's sake." Then, too, it is always
possible that they will encounter somebody who will appreciate their
talent, and this is also a gratification.
Speaking generally, there is more begging done in winter than in summer,
and in the East and North than in the South and West; but some of the
cleverest begging takes place in the warm months. It is comparatively
easy to get something to eat and a bed in a lodging-house when the
thermometer stands ten degrees below zero. A man feels mean in refusing
an appeal to his generosity at this time of the year. "I may be cold and
hungry some day myself," he thinks, and he gives the beggar a dime or
two.
In summer, on the other hand, the tramp has no freezing weather to help
him out, and has to invent excuses. Even a story of "no work" is of
little use in the summer. This is the season, as a rule, when work is
most plentiful, and when wages are highest, and the tramp knows it, and
is aware that the public also understands this much of political
economy. Nevertheless, he must live in summer as well as in winter, and
he has to plan differently for both seasons.
The main difference between his summer and winter campaigns is that he
generally travels in summer, taking in the small towns where people are
less "on to him," and where there are all kinds of free "dosses" (places
to sleep), in the shape of barns and empty houses. In November he
returns to the cities again to get the benefit of the cold weather
"dodge," or goes South to Florida, Louisiana, and Texas.
Probably fifteen thousand Eastern and Northern tramps winter in the
South every year. Their luck there seems to be entirely individual; some
do well and others barely live. They are all glad, however, to return to
the North in April and go over their old routes again.
An amusing experience that I had not long ago illustrates the different
kind of tactics necessary in the tramp's summer campaign. So far as I
know, he has never made use of the story that did me such good service,
and that was told in all truthfulness, but it has since occurred to me
that he might find it useful, and I relate it here so that the reader
may not be taken unawares if some tramp should attempt to get the
benefit of it.
I was travelling with some tramps in western Pennsylvania at the time,
and we were "beating" our way on a freight-train toward a town where we
expected to spend the night. Noontime found us all hungry, and we got
off the train at a small village to look for lunch. It was such a small
place that it was decided that each man should pick out his particular
"beat," and confine his search to the few houses it contained. If some
failed to get anything, those who were more successful were to bring
them back "hand-outs."
My "beat" was so sparsely settled that I hardly expected to get so much
as a piece of bread, because the entire village was known to hate
tramps; but an inspiration came to me as I was crossing the fields, and
I got a "set-down" and a "hand-out" at the first house I visited.
The interview at the back door ran thus:
"Madam,"--she was rather a severe-looking woman,--"I have exactly five
cents in my pocket and I am awfully hungry. I know that you don't keep a
boarding-house, but I have come to you thinking that you will give me
more for my nickel than the storekeeper will over in the village. I
shall be obliged to you if you will help me out."
A look of surprise came into the woman's face. I was a new species to
her, and I knew it, and she knew it.
"Don't know whether we've got anything you want," she said, as if I were
a guest rather than a wayfarer.
"Anything will do, madam, anything," I replied, throwing into my words
all the sincerity of which a hungry man is capable. She invited me into
the dining-room, and gave me a most satisfying meal. There were no
conversational interruptions. I ate my meal in silence and the woman
watched me. The new species interested her.
Just as I was finishing, she put some sandwiches, cake, and pie into a
newspaper. I had made a good impression.
"There," she said, as I was about to go. "You may need it."
I held out my nickel and thanked her. She blushed, and put her hands
behind her back.
"I don't keep a hotel," she said, rather indignantly.
"But, madam, I want to pay you. I'm no beggar."
"You wouldn't have got it if you had been. Good-bye."
The tramps' methods of begging, as has been said, are largely regulated
by circumstances and experience, but even the amateurs have theories
about the profession, and they are never more interesting than when
sitting around some "hang-out" camp-fire, discussing their notions of
the kind of "ghost stories" that go best with different sorts of people.
Indeed, the bulk of their time is passed in conferences of this
character. Each man, like the passionate gambler, has a "system," and he
enjoys "chewing the rag" about its intricacies. The majority of the
systems are founded on the tramp's knowledge of women. Taking the
country by and large, he sees more of women on his begging tours than
of men, and it is only natural that his theoretical calculations should
be busied mainly with women. Some tramps believe that they can tell to a
nicety what a blonde woman will give in excess of a brunette, or vice
versa, and the same of a large woman in contra-distinction to a small
one. Much of their theorising in these matters is as futile as is the
gambler's estimate of his chances of luck, but certain it is that after
a long apprenticeship they become phenomenally accurate in "sizing up"
people; and it is he who can correctly "size up" the greatest number of
people at first glance and adapt himself to their peculiarities, that
comes out winner in the struggle.
Next in importance to the ability to appraise correctly the generous
tendencies of his patrons, and to modulate his voice and to concoct
stories according to their tastes, come the tramp's clothes and the way
he wears them. It probably seems to most persons that the tramp never
changes his clothes, and that he always looks as tattered and torn as
when they happen to see him, but the expert has almost as many
"changes" as the actor. Some days he dresses very poorly; this is
generally the case in winter; and on other days he looks as neat and
clean as the ordinary business man. It all depends on the weather and
the "beat" he has chosen for the day's work. Every morning, before he
starts out on his tour, he takes a look at the weather and decides upon
his "beat." The "beat" selected, he puts on the "togs" which he thinks
suit the weather, and away he goes for better or worse. In New York city
there are probably a hundred scientific beggars of this character, and
they live as well as does the man with a yearly income of $2,000.
Sunday is the most dismal day in the week to the average tramp,--the
beggar who is content with his three meals a day and a place to lie down
in at night. But few men who go on tramp for the first time expect that
Sunday is going to be any different from any other day in the week. They
usually reach "the road" on a week-day after a debauch, and they find
that their soiled clothes and general unkempt condition differentiate
them in public thoroughfares very little from hundreds of workingmen. No
policeman worries them with suspicious glances, and in large cities they
pass unchallenged even in the dead of night. Indeed, they receive so
little notice from any one that they wonder how they had ever imagined
that outcasts were such marked human beings.
Then comes their first Sunday. They get up out of their hayloft, or
wherever it may be that they lay down the night before, prepared to look
for their breakfast just as they did on the previous day, and after
brushing off their clothes and washing themselves at some pump or public
faucet, they start out. In a small town they feel that something is
wrong before they have gone a block, and by nine o'clock in large towns
they decide to go without their breakfast if they have not yet got it. A
change has come over the earth; they seem out of place even to
themselves, and they return through back streets to their lodging-houses
or retreats on the outskirts of the town, sincerely regretting that
they are travellers of "the road."
A number of men in the world have to thank this Sunday nausea that they
are to-day workers and not tramps. The latter feel the effects of it to
the end of their days; it is as unescapable as death, but like certain
seafaring men who never get entirely free of seasickness and yet
continue as sailors, so old vagabonds learn to expect and endure the
miserable sensations which they experience on the first day of the week.
These sensations are due to the remnant of manhood which is to be found
in nearly all tramps. The majority of them are for all practical
purposes outcasts, but at breakfast-time, on Sunday morning, they have
emotions which on week-days no one would give them credit for.
It was my fate, some years ago, to be one of a collection of wanderers
who had to while away a Sunday in a "dugout" on a bleak prairie in
western Kansas. We had nothing to eat or drink and practically nothing
to talk about except our dismal lot. Toward nightfall we got to
discussing in all earnestness the miserableness of our existence, and I
have always remembered the remarks of a fellow sufferer whom we called
"West Virginia Brown." He was supposed to be the degenerate scion of a
noble English family, and was one of the best educated men I have ever
met in Hoboland. He took little part in the general grumbling, but at
last there was a lull in the conversation, and he spoke up.
"I wonder," he said, "whether the good people who rest on Sunday, go to
church, and have their best dinner in the week, realise how life is
turned upside down for us on that day. There have always been men like
us in the world, and it is for us as much as for any one, so far as I
know, that religion exists, and yet the day in the week set apart for
religion is the hardest of all for us to worry through. Was it, or
wasn't it, the intention that outcasts were to have religion? The way
things are now, we are made to look upon Sunday and all that it means
with hatred, and yet I don't believe that there's any one in the world
who tries to be any squarer to his pals than we do, and that's what I
call being good."
The last "the road" knew of Brown, he was serving a five years' sentence
in a Canadian prison. His lot cannot be pleasant, but methinks that on
Sundays, at least, he is glad that he is not "outside."