TWITTER OR TWEET
Hiram Hooker washed in the community lavatory in the hall next morning.
Then he sought the squint-eyed landlord and paid a week's room rent in
advance, thereby saving fifty cents.
He wished to strike out at once after breakfast to begin justifying
Uncle Sebastian's faith in him, but so far he had not laid a plan. He
noticed lettering on a door in the hall which dignified what lay beyond
as a "lounging room." The door stood ajar, and he saw that the room
was empty. He decided to go in and think. A thousand and one wonders
awaited his curious eyes, but they must wait. His hundred dollars had
dwindled perceptibly; it was time to give his future a practical
thought or two.
In the "lounging room" were a long plain board writing-table, ten
yellow kitchen chairs. Hiram took a seat by a window overlooking
Kearny Street.
He could not plan, he found, for his ideas of seeking employment were
of the vaguest; he did not know where to look for it, nor what duties
he should state that he could perform. Dreaming of it up there in
Mendocino County, climbing up in the world from the bottom rung had
seemed so easy.
He began feeling a little lonesome. He had resolved to brave the
fascinating eyes of the girl of the restaurant again, and perhaps speak
to her if occasion offered, when the door opened and three men came
into the lounging room.
Two of them scraped chairs to the table and from a drawer took a dirty
pack of cards and a homemade cribbage board, with headless matches for
markers. The third took from his pocket a folded newspaper and sat
down at the window opposite Hiram. He at once began reading, and
seemed not to be a companion of the other two. Hiram took note that he
perused the want-ad sheets.
Hiram studied the two at cards. He resolved that he did not like their
unkempt looks, so turned his attention to the man with the paper.
In dress this man was in a class with the other two, though perhaps a
little better groomed. But a careful observer would have taken note of
certain finer characteristics in the face. It was the face of a man in
the thirties, robust and good-natured, with bushy brows, slate-blue
eyes, and a nose that would have been termed Grecian if it had not been
for a semiconical twist to the left. He was of stalky build, carefully
shaved that morning, and wore a dingy turndown collar. His shoes,
though scuffed with wear, were polished.
In the midst of this scrutiny the man suddenly lowered the paper and
leveled his eyes at Hiram. The look almost said "What do you want?" in
a disinterested though not antagonistic way. Hiram was caught
unawares. He felt the question and had answered it, to cover his
embarrassment, before he knew the words were coming.
"D'ye find any jobs in the paper?"
The two at cards looked quickly at Hiram and shrugged, and the game
went on in silence, as before.
"What d'ye follow?" asked the man with the twisted nose in a sort of
rollicking voice by no means unpleasant.
"D'ye mean what c'n I do?"
The man with the paper nodded.
Hiram scraped his chair a foot closer. "Why, I don't exactly know.
I'm willin' to do anything--that is, try."
The slate-blue eyes quizzically studied Hiram a little longer, then
settled on the paper once more.
A few moments they scanned the column. Then:
"Maybe some o' these'll look attractive ol'-timer. 'Wanted three
bushelmen; one coat-maker; first-class pants operator; shoe shiner; two
farm carpenters, Arizona, four dollars a day, fare refunded; two
carpenters, city, five dollars a day; one hundred muckers, New Mexico,
two-fifty day; one trammer, three-fifty day; one hundred laborers, New
Mexico, three dollars day; porter in bakery, city, must be sober; boy,
sixteen years old, make himself generally useful in pickle plant; two
jerkline drivers--must be good, southern California; cooks, waiters,
teamsters, muckers galore. Call and see us. Morgan & Stroud,
Four-hundred-and-fifteen Clay Street.'"
He lowered the paper and once more fixed the slate-blue eyes on Hiram.
"There you are, ol'-timer--pick yer road to wealth and prominence."
His smile brought Hiram's chair closer.
"How d'ye get any o' these jobs?" he asked.
"Part with two dollars to Morgan & Stroud for the address o' the
advertiser, then beat the other fella to it," was the reply.
"But they wanted a hundred muckers, you read."
"Oh, that's different. They ship you out for two dollars to where the
job is. The contractor deducts your fare from your first month's pay
and refunds it to the railroad company, or sticks it in his pocket if
he's wise. Le's see--where they shippin'?" He glanced at the column
again. "N' Mexico, eh? Yes, they'll ship you down there for two
dollars, and you c'n go to work and grow up with the country. C'n you
drive a team?"
"Sure," said Hiram. "I c'n drive eight or ten, or even sixteen
jerkline, too. You read something about jerkline skinners."
"Then I'd go as a jerkline skinner at--what is it?--fifty-five and
found. Found means board, you know."
"And you're sure they'll send me down to southern California for two
dollars and gi' me a job drivin' mules?"
"They'll be tickled to death to do it. Where you from?"
Hiram heaved a sigh. "Mendocino County," he replied.
"Hittin' the trail for the first time, eh?"
The questioner evidently knew it, so Hiram did not reply.
"M'm-m! Fine big country--Mendocino. You oughta stayed there. That
country'll go to work and come out with a loud report some day."
"You've been there?" asked Hiram eagerly.
"Been everywhere."
"What do you follow?" Hiram used the new expression almost
unconsciously.
"I'm a promoter and capitalist."
"A promoter and capitalist," Hiram repeated vaguely.
"Yep. At present, though, I ain't workin' at the capitalist end. But
I'm always a promoter."
Hiram was growing uncomfortable. He had been warming toward this
genial stranger; now he felt he was being ridiculed. He kept silent
and looked out the window.
The other nonchalantly resumed his paper as if the conversation were
over.
But Hiram did not wish it to end here. Despite the stranger's
fantastic statement, there was that in his bearing which told Hiram he
meant what he said, and that, furthermore, it was with him a matter of
indifference whether any one believed him or not. He wished the two
tramps would leave. He felt that then he could talk to the other man
with less reserve.
As he sat there silently thinking, this wish was granted. A third
unkempt individual thrust his head in at the door and remarked, "Hey,
youse!"
The cribbage players looked up.
In explanation the man in the door held up a quarter between a
calloused forefinger and thumb.
A broad grin broke on the face of one of the players as he scraped back
his chair and rose. "Cheese, Thumbscrew, where'd youse glom it?" he
gasped ecstatically.
"Never mind w'ere I glommed it, Scully," was the retort. "De point is,
are youse guys in on helpin' me lick up a growler?"
The other tramp had risen, and spoke for both as he strode toward the
door. "Lead us to it, Thumbscrew," he swaggered portentously; "lead us
to it, ol'-timer!" And the door slammed behind the three.
Hiram glanced back at the man behind the newspaper. He had not so much
as slanted a look toward the door.
Hiram's chance had come. After a silent minute he essayed:
"But I didn't come to the city to leave it right away and go to drivin'
mules. I came here to get a start."
The other politely lowered his paper. "What're you doin'--breakin'
loose from home to make yer fortune?" he asked.
Hiram nodded and smiled.
The man surveyed him for the first time from head to foot. "Been a
farmer up in Mendocino?" he queried.
"Sorta," Hiram admitted. Then in a low voice: "To tell the truth, this
is my first time in a city. I got in last night. I've never been out
o' Mendocino County but once before."
A few wrinkles of puzzlement came between the other's brows. "How old
are you?"
"Twenty-six," was Hiram's meek confession.
The stranger studied, a whimsical smile twisting his lips, a far-away
look in the slate-blue eyes. With a little jerk he emerged from
reverie and asked:
"And what d'ye expect to take up here in Frisco?"
Hiram scraped his chair still closer. "I don't know," he acknowledged.
"To tell the truth, I'm pretty green. I don't know anybody here and
don't know where to begin."
"Don't say green," corrected the other. "That's obsolete. Say raw, or
that you're a hick, or a come-on. Well, what d'ye want to follow?"
"I thought if I could get into some big man's office and work up, I
might reach----"
The other man raised his hand protestingly and his face assumed a sick
expression.
"Forget it! Forget it!" he cried. "Say, that's the biggest mistake a
fella like you could make. Your feet are too big for an office. Say,
take this from me: An office man is always an office man. He knows the
figgers--nothing else. The fella out on the works is the lad that
knows the fundamentals of the job. Take this railroad-construction
business, for instance: When the contractor wants a new general
superintendent he don't make him out of an office man. He goes out on
the job and gets him. You get offices outa your head, and get out and
learn something." He was thoughtful a minute, then finished with the
question: "How long are you on cash?"
"I haven't got much," Hiram confessed--"sixty some dollars."
"M'm-m," the other said musingly. Then, after another thoughtful
pause: "Say, I suppose you're a little shy about bracin' these
employment men, ain't you?"
Hiram nodded.
"Then I'll tell you what I'll do: You go to work and dig up my fee, and
I'll go down to southern California with you on the jerkline job. I
been wantin' to get outa Frisco for a week, but couldn't raise the
price. Anywhere'll suit me, where there's a chance o' makin' a little
stake. That's what you wanta do--go to work and make a stake. Then
look about for something you c'n float for yourself. There's nothin'
in working for somebody else. Work for yourself if it's only running a
peanut stand. Southern California'll do. What d'ye say?"
"D'ye mean you're broke?"
"Broke! I'm ruined!"
"How did you lose your money?" Hiram asked innocently.
"You're askin' for the story o' my life. What d'ye say, now? Le's go
to work and get breakfast, then enter Morgan & Stroud's in our usual
graceful manner and tell 'em we've decided to accept their kind offer
and let 'em ship us south. You'll probably learn a few things on that
trip."
"Are you a jerkline skinner?"
"I dunno. Maybe I am. I never tried. But if that's what you wanta
hit--me, too. Say, what's your name?"
"Hiram Hooker."
"That's a peach, all right. They sure labeled you for the part. Mine
ain't much better though. They call me Twitter-or-Tweet."
"What!"
"Proves I'm a bird, don't it? My name is Orr Tweet. Can you beat it?
So they call me Twitter-or-Tweet, or just Twitter--or sometimes
Playmate. I'm gregarious. I gotta have a partner all the time. I'll
play with any o' the little boys so long as they're nice to me."
He handed Hiram a card. It read:
ORR TWEET
REPRESENTING THE CUCAMONGA
DEVELOPMENT COMPANY
Cerro Gordo, Mexico
THE HOMESEEKERS' PROMISED LAND
OF MILK AND HONEY
"That Cucamonga Development Company and the milk-and-honey business is
passé," explained Mr. Tweet, "but I've got no other card. They pinched
the owners, and I flew the coop before they could lay it onto me.
Crooked deal."
"What was it?" Hiram asked vaguely.
"Banana plantation," Tweet replied lightly. "At least they called it
that--I never saw it. I was just promotin' the deal. Well, what d'ye
say?" he persisted. "I'm broke and I need a little cash. But I'm a
money getter! You tide me over this little depression and I'll
remember you. We may strike somethin' that'll look good anywhere
between here and there. If so, we'll drop off and look into it."
Hiram did not know what to say. He had no experience in reading human
nature, and Mr. Tweet would have appeared as an enigma to many more
astute than Hiram.
"What do you want me to do?" he hedged.
"Hold me up, if your coin lasts, till I hit the ball--that's all.
You'll never regret it." Tweet sat pulling his twisted nose from side
to side, as if trying to straighten it.
"But I don't understand. You seem to be--that is, you call yourself a
capitalist, and you're only--I mean it seems funny----"
"I get you. I talk like a millionaire and travel with tramps." Tweet
sighed. "Well, my faculty for breedin' confidence in others is one o'
the big secrets o' my success. Success, I say--get that? If this
faculty won't work on you, then I lose this time. I'll say no more.
Think it over."
He yawned, rose, and started for the door.
"Are--are you goin' down on the street?" Hiram asked timidly.
"Yes, I thought I'd stroll about a bit."
"I--I guess I'll go with you, if you don't mind."
"Sure not--come on."
Hiram rose quickly and followed him out. Even though he were to
distrust this man, in the end, the thought of losing him now was
appalling.
Down on the street he thought of breakfast and paused before the
restaurant.
"Have you had breakfast, Mr. Tweet?" he asked.
Tweet stopped and looked at him soberly. "Are you invitin' me to
dine?" he said quizzically.
"Well, kinda that way," admitted Hiram with a foolish grin. "I haven't
eaten myself, and----"
"I haven't eaten myself either, nor anybody else since yesterday
mornin'. I accept."
And promptly Mr. Tweet pushed ahead through the swinging doors.