DISPOSSESSED
If one is tired enough such luxuries as beds and blankets may be
dispensed with. Wayne and June slept more uninterruptedly that night
than for many nights past. Toward morning they were conscious of the
cold, for Wayne’s coat and an old gunny-sack discovered in a corner of
the shed were not sufficient to more than cover their feet and legs.
Sam, curled up in Wayne’s arms, doubtless fared better than the boys.
When morning came they were stiff and achy and were glad enough to get
up at the first signs of sunrise and move around. The want of a place
to wash resulted in the discovery of a veritable haven of warmth and
rest, for Wayne, peering about from the front of the shed, descried the
railroad station only a few blocks down the track, and toward that they
made their way. They found the waiting-room door unlocked and warmth
and comfort inside. After washing up they settled themselves on a bench
removed from the sight of the ticket window and fairly luxuriated in
the warmth. June fell asleep again and snored so loudly that Wayne
had to arouse him for fear that someone would hear him and drive them
out. Wayne himself didn’t actually slumber, but he leaned back in a
half-doze that was almost as restful as sleep, and Sam, restraining his
desire to investigate these new surroundings, presently slept, too.
It was hunger that finally aroused them to action. The clock on the
wall told them that it was almost half-past seven, and they left the
waiting-room and passed out again into the chill of the March morning.
But the sun was shining strongly now and there was a spring softness
in the air that made June whistle gaily as they made their way back up
the railroad in search of “Mister Denny’s” lunch-wagon. There they had
some steaming hot coffee, and some crisp rolls and butter and, since
there was still a nickel in the exchequer, three bananas which they
consumed outside. To be sure, that left them penniless, but somehow
that didn’t seem to matter so much this morning. There was something
in the spring-like air that gave them courage and confidence. Besides,
whatever happened, they had a home, such as it was, in the old shed.
Presently they again set forth on their search for employment, agreeing
to meet at five o’clock.
But again it was June who prospered and Wayne who returned empty-handed.
June proudly displayed forty cents in dimes and nickels which he had
earned in as many capacities as there were coins in his hand. Not only
had he earned that forty cents, but he had dined sumptuously on a pork
chop, having traded a quarter of an hour of his time and labour for that
delicacy at a little restaurant. For his part, Wayne had gone dinnerless
and was thoroughly discouraged. Even the tattered but still useful horse
blanket which June had picked up outside a flour mill across the town
could not cheer Wayne’s spirits.
“Reckon,” said June, spreading the blanket out proudly, “someone done
lose that as didn’t mean to, Mas’ Wayne, ’cause it’s a powerful nice
blanket, ain’ it?” Wayne listlessly agreed and June dropped it through
the window which was their means of ingress and egress. “It’s goin’ to
keep us fine an’ warm tonight, that little ol’ blanket is. Tomorrow I’m
goin’ to find me a bed to go with it! You hungry enough to eat, Mas’
Wayne?”
Wayne shook his head. “I don’t want any supper,” he replied.
“Don’ want no supper! How come? What-all you have for your dinner,
please?”
“I had enough,” answered Wayne. “You go ahead and have your supper,
June.”
June snorted. “Mighty likely, ain’ it?” he demanded scathingly. “Reckon
you can see this nigger eatin’ all by his lonely. No, sir, Mas’ Wayne,
you-all’s goin’ to eat, too. If you don’ there ain’ goin’ to be no
supper for nobody.”
“I tell you I’m not hungry,” replied Wayne irritably. “Besides, if you
must know, I haven’t any money.”
“Say you ain’? You’ve got forty cents. How come that ain’ enough money
to buy us some supper?”
“That’s your money, not mine,” said Wayne bitterly. “You earned it. I
didn’t. I’m not going to live off you. You go get your supper and let
me alone.”
“I earned it for all of us,” said June earnestly. “Reckon you paid a
heap of money to buy victuals for me, Mas’ Wayne, all the way up from
Sleepersville, didn’ you, sir?”
“That’s different,” muttered the other.
“How come it’s different? Please, sir, don’ you be uppity an’ proud.
Ever since we was little fellers together, Mas’ Wayne, you done give me
money; two bits here, an’ two bits there, an’ a dime yonder. How come I
can’ pay it back to you?”
“A gentleman doesn’t--doesn’t do that,” returned Wayne stubbornly.
“You mean ’cause you’re white an’ I’m black?”
“Never mind what I mean. Anyway, I’m not hungry, so shut up.”
June obeyed, scuffling his shoes in the cinders underfoot and staring
sadly at the sunset glow beyond the factory roofs to the west. Sam had
found a very old and very dry bone somewhere and was pretending that it
was quite new and delicious. He even growled once or twice, although
there was no other dog in sight, perhaps to convince himself that he
really had discovered a prize. Minutes passed and the western sky faded
from crimson to yellow, and from yellow to gray. Finally Wayne stole a
look at June.
“You’d better be going,” he growled.
“I ain’ aimin’ to go, Mas’ Wayne,” replied June earnestly. “Reckon I
ain’ no hungrier than you is.”
“I don’t care whether you are or not,” declared the other angrily. “I
say you’re to go and get some supper. Now you go.”
June shook his head. “Not without you come along,” he answered.
“You do as I tell you, June!”
“I’m wishin’ to, Mas’ Wayne, but I jus’ can’, sir.”
“Well, you just will! If you don’t start right along I’ll whale you,
Junius!”
“Yes, sir, Mas’ Wayne, you can do that, but you-all can’ make me eat no
supper. That’s somethin’ you _can’_ do.”
“If you can’t do as I tell you you’ll have to get out. You think just
because you’re up North here you can do as you please. Well, I’ll show
you. Are you going to obey me?”
“Please, sir, Mas’ Wayne, I’m goin’ to do everythin’ just like you tell
me, savin’ that! I jus’ can’ go an’ eat anythin’ ’less you come along.
I’m powerful sorry, hones’ to goodness, Mas’ Wayne, but you can see how
’tis.”
Wayne muttered something that sounded far from complimentary, and
relapsed into dignified silence. The white stars came out one by one
and the chill of evening made itself felt. Sam tired of pretending and
begged to be taken up by Wayne, but Wayne brushed his paws aside. June
sat motionless on his end of the old wheelbarrow and made no sound.
Now, when you haven’t had anything to eat since early morning and
have tramped miles over city pavements pride is all very well but it
doesn’t butter any parsnips. Besides, Wayne realised just as clearly
as you or I, or almost as clearly, that he was making a mountain of a
molehill and that if he wasn’t so tired and discouraged he wouldn’t
have hesitated to share June’s earnings. But pride, even false pride,
is always stubborn, and it was well toward dark before Wayne shrugged
his shoulders impatiently and jumped up from his seat.
“Oh, come on then, you stubborn mule,” he muttered. “If you won’t eat
without me I reckon I’ll have to go along.”
He stalked off into the twilight and June and Sam followed, the former
with a little shuffling caper unseen of Wayne and the latter with an
ecstatic bark.
In the morning, when they had again breakfasted none too grandly, at
the lunch-wagon, they were once more reduced to penury. Not only that,
but both boys were discovering that forty or fifty cents a day, while
sufficient to keep them from starvation, was not enough to satisfy two
healthy appetites. Neither made mention of his discovery, but Wayne,
again encouraged by food and rest, told himself resolutely that today
must end the matter, that he would find something to do before he
returned to the little shed, and June as resolutely determined to try
harder and earn more money. What Sam’s thoughts were I don’t know. Sam
didn’t seem to care much what happened so long as he could be with
Wayne.
But all the good resolutions in the world and all the grim determination
sometimes fail, and again Fortune turned a deaf ear to Wayne’s
petitions. The nearest he came to landing a place was when a foreman at
a rambling old factory at the far end of the town offered him a job
packing spools if he could produce a union card. Wayne not only couldn’t
produce such a thing but didn’t know what it was until the foreman
impatiently explained, assuring him that there was no use in his seeking
work in the factories unless he first became a member of a union. This
was something of an exaggeration, as Wayne ultimately learned, but for
the present it was sufficient to just about double his load of
discouragement. He confined his efforts to shops and places of retail
business after that but had no luck, and returned to the shed when the
street lights began to appear, hungry and tired and ready to give up, to
find that Fate was not yet through with him for that day.
For once June had fared almost as sadly as Wayne and only a solitary
ten-cent piece was the result of his efforts. June was apologetic and
would have recited his experiences at length, but Wayne didn’t have
the heart to listen. “It doesn’t matter, June,” he said listlessly.
“It wasn’t your fault. At that, you made ten cents more than I did. I
reckon there’s only one thing to do now.”
“What’s that, Mas’ Wayne?”
“Buy a stamp with two cents of that ten and write back to Mr. Higgins
for money to get home with. I reckon we’re just about at the end of the
halter, June.”
“Don’ you believe that, Mas’ Wayne,” replied June stoutly. “An’ don’
you go writin’ no letter to that old skinflint stepdaddy of yours.
Jus’ you give me another chance an’ see what I goin’ to bring home
tomorrow! We’ll go get us a cup of coffee an’ then we’ll feel a heap
perkier, yes, sir! An’ then we’ll jus’ go to sleep an’ get up in the
mornin’ feelin’ fine an’ start right out an’ lan’ somethin’. Don’ you
go gettin’ discouraged, Mas’ Wayne. We’s goin’ to be livin’ on the fat
of the lan’ in two-three days!”
“There’s another town, bigger than this, June, about twenty miles from
here. Maybe we’d better mosey along over there and see if things are
any better. Seems to me I’ve been in most every place in this town
asking for work now, and I’m beginning to forget which ones I’ve been
to and which ones I haven’t.”
“Well, I don’ know,” answered June. “Sometimes it seems like it’s the
wisest thing to stay right to home an’ not go projeckin’ ’roun’. We’s
got a comfor’ble place to sleep here, Mas’ Wayne, an’ there ain’ no
tellin’ what would happen to us if we went totin’ off to this other
place, is there? ’Spose you an’ me goes an’ has that coffee first.
Seems like I can always think a heap better after meals.”
“A cup of coffee isn’t much of a meal,” objected Wayne, “but I reckon
it’s going to taste mighty good to me. We’ll go to the lunch-wagon for
it. You get better coffee there than the other places we’ve been to.”
The lunch-wagon was crowded and they had to wait for several minutes
before they could get waited on by Mr. Connor. He always seemed glad
to see them and still took a great interest in Sam, but usually there
were too many others there to allow of much conversation. Tonight he
only nodded and smiled as he passed the cups to them, and they retired
to the side of the wagon and drank the beverage gratefully, wishing
there was more of it and trying hard to keep their gaze from the viands
displayed beyond the long counter. Fortunately for Sam, he had already
become acquainted with a number of the regular patrons of the Golden
Star Lunch and was almost always certain of food. The men who took
their meals there, workers in the nearby factories and railroad hands,
were for the most part rough but kindly and many crusts of bread and
scraps of meat went to Sam, who, duly grateful and willing to show
his few tricks in return for the favours bestowed on him, allowed no
familiarities. When anyone other than Wayne or June tried to pat him
he backed away, politely but firmly.
The coffee did the boys good, although it felt awfully lonesome where
they put it, and they returned to the shed in a more cheerful frame
of mind. It was still too early to go to bed, but the station was
several blocks away and there was no nearer place to resort to, and so
presently they stretched themselves out on the floor of the shed, drew
the horse blanket over them, and were soon asleep. How much later it
was when Wayne awoke with a blinding glare of light in his eyes there
was no way of telling.
For a moment he blinked dazedly, his brain still fogged with sleep.
Then he sat up, and Sam, disturbed, sniffed and broke into shrill
barking. June, a sounder sleeper, still snored when a gruff voice came
from the direction of the light which Wayne now realised was thrown by
a lantern.
“What are you doing in here? Come on now! Get out!” said the voice.
Wayne scrambled to his feet, commanding Sam to be still, and June
groaned and snorted himself awake. The light was thrown aside and,
framed in the window, Wayne could see the form of a policeman.
“We aren’t doing any harm, sir,” said the boy. “Just sleeping here.”
“Sleeping here, eh? Haven’t you got a home? How many are there of you?”
“Two, sir. We are on our way to New York and we didn’t have any other
place to sleep, so we came in here.”
“Hoboes, eh? Well, you’d better beat it before the lieutenant lamps
you. He’s down on you fellows this spring.”
“We aren’t hoboes, sir. We’re looking for work.”
“Yes, I know,” was the ironical response. “Well, come on out of it.”
“But we haven’t any other place, sir. We aren’t doing any harm and----”
“It doesn’t matter about that. What’s your name and where’d you come
from?” Wayne told him and the officer grunted. Then: “Get the other
fellow up,” he ordered, and, when June had crawled sleepily to his
feet, “Hello, a nig, eh? Travelling together, are you?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Wayne. “We’re going to New York, but our money
gave out and we’ve been trying to earn enough to go on with.”
“That straight goods?”
“Yes, sir, it’s the truth, really.”
“Well, all right. Stay where you are tonight, kids, but you’ll have
to get out tomorrow. This is private property and I can’t have you
trespassing. You’d be welcome to stay as long as you liked if I had
the say, but I haven’t. So don’t let me find you here tomorrow night or
I’ll have to run you in. Good night, boys.”
The lantern’s glare vanished and the policeman’s steps went crunching
off on the cinders.