Beggars of Life (12 page)

W
E
clung to the Fast Flyer Virginia for twenty-one hours, climbing the Blue Ridge Mountains, roaring through tunnels, dashing by country stations. We watched the sun rise to the meridian, and then watched it slant westward down the sky. We wished food and drink, but flying trains stop not while hoboes dine. There was only one alternative if we wished to reach Washington, and that was to stand the gaff and stick with the train. It was not easy riding either. We hid behind box cars, or piles of railroad ties at division points. At Clifton Forge, Virginia, we crawled under the engine to escape the eyes of the fireman while he filled the tank with water. We were challenging the combined forces of the Chesapeake and Ohio Railroad, and it was only by being alert and indefatigable that we could win. Passengers waiting for trains at depots would gaze in open-eyed astonishment at us as we flew past the stations gripping the iron ladders.

A test of endurance is a wonderful thing when the blood flows swiftly and the years are young. Twenty-one hours of punishment to satisfy the ego of youthful tramps. There was no object, save that around camp-fires by running brooks we could brag to grizzled and decrepit hoboes how we had ridden a mail train nearly six hundred miles through a populated section of the country. We knew that less daring men in a ragged profession would admire us for the feat. No object at all—yet it was about the same object that actuates the rest of humanity of every class and creed, the admiration that humans have for others who do the thing of which they are not capable, or daring, or foolish enough to do.

With parching throats and smoke-streaked faces we reached Alexandria, Virginia, in the middle of the next afternoon. Leaving the train there, for reasons of safety, we caught a slow freight, commonly called a “drag,” across the Potomac river to the edge of the Capitol City.

The Federal soldiers who ran into the city from Bull Run were no whit wearier than we. We left the freight and straggled to a cheap restaurant where we were allowed to wash our sun-scorched faces with cold water.

There was relief in sight. The negro's silver dollar would purchase food anyhow. We walked to the lunch counter and seated ourselves upon high stools. I felt in my pocket for the silver piece. It was gone.

There followed a mortified silence. “I lost the buck, Dutch. Have you got any kale?” I asked.

“Sure, Red. I got thirty cents.” He laid the three dimes on the pine counter.

Like men who had dined well, we strolled out to view the city. We walked from the White House down Pennsylvania Avenue to the Capitol steps.

At last, worn out from futile wandering, we spied a box car on a side track. It contained hay. Oblivious of everything but rest, we crawled inside and slept soundly—for a short while.

We were awakened by a man who held a flashlight in his hand. “Pile out o' here,” he said.

We crawled out of the car, holding our shoes in our hands. Two policemen stood at the door awaiting us. The man followed us, still holding the flashlight.

“Ah, ha!” said the larger of the policemen, “two disperate characters, eh?”

Immediately I framed a tale of a lonely mother waiting for me in a far-off city. Dutch had no home and stayed with me. Work was slack in our city, and we were bound for Baltimore to heat rivets. I ignored the man with the flashlight and the other policeman, concentrating all my attention on the man who had spoken with a slight Irish brogue.

“How old are ye?” asked the man when I stopped for breath.

“Fifteen,” I answered.

“Well, well, indade. I have a lad yere age, an' I'd hate to see him driftin' 'round the country like a lost sparrow.” The three men started walking with us to a well-lit part of the city. They debated among themselves the advisability of locking us up or turning us loose. It dawned upon me that the man in citizen's clothes was a railroad detective. The police seemed willing to let us go, but were loath to take the initiative, in fear of the detective informing on them. Under the sputtering light of the street, I again probed the well of sentiment in the Irish policeman's heart. He wavered a short moment, and then came to a quick decision. “Ye kin go on to Baltimore, lad, for all o' me,” he said. So saying, he walked away, followed by his comrade. The detective followed.

They walked about twenty feet away, when the Irishman turned and said, “Git back to yere flop in the car. We 're all willin'.”

We turned at once in the direction of the car. “I don't like the look in the railroad dick's eyes,” said Dutch.

“Oh, that's all right,” I replied. “He won't bother us no more to-night.”

We trudged wearily to the car, and were soon forgetful of the road.

We slept, we knew not how long, when we were awakened by a man with a flashlight in one hand and a blue-steel revolver in the other. He handcuffed us quickly and marched us to the city jail.

Our simple belongings were left with the desk sergeant. They consisted of a knife, a comb, and the stray things that find their way to a boy's pockets. We were then taken by a policeman to a large room which contained many cells. The doors of our cells clamped shut with a heavy bang. The policeman sprung a lock on each cell and went shuffling down the dimly lit corridor. The sound of his feet died away, and we were left with our own thoughts until morning.

I sat on the edge of my iron cot and watched Dutch remove his coat and roll it up for a pillow, going nonchalantly about the task of preparing for bed. “I hope to thunder they let me get my sleep out this time,” he said.

“They will,” I replied.

“Know what?” he asked. “That dick called his pardner. They framed on us just as sure as all detectives go to hell.”

“Don't be too sure, Dutch. Maybe it was the Irish cop. All the Irish doublecross each other,” I answered sleepily.

“Oh, well, let's flop. They may not hang us,” said Dutch.

I stretched out on the iron cot and watched the stars peek through the bars of the window, and wondered what the next day would bring.

The heavy breathing of prisoners could be heard all around me. A bed creaked as its occupant rolled over. In a short time, Dutch slept, his conscience unbothered by the memory of a battered negro in an alley.

Dawn crept through the barred windows of the smudgy prison, and was greeted lustily by the inmates in their cells. A prisoner called out the number of the remaining days he had to serve. “Five more days to-morrow.” “One moah yeah to-morreh,” yelled a negro's voice. This was kept up until each prisoner had announced the remaining days of his sentence.

T
HE
cells were unlocked at seven o'clock. We were marched, with other prisoners, to a long table at the end of the jail, where a breakfast of wieners, rye bread, and weak coffee was served. A man with an immense stomach and three chins stood near the table “in order to keep order,” as he said.

It was Sunday morning, and, perhaps out of courtesy to President Roosevelt, who believed in the strenuous life, the cell doors were left open so that the derelicts might exchange social gossip.

The prisoners noticed Dutch and myself, and immediately formed a kangaroo court after the meal.

We were charged with breaking into the prison without the consent of the inmates.

A one-legged hobo bailiff led us before “His Honour,” a decrepit, bewhiskered derelict who scratched himself constantly. He wore a black and white striped “hickory” shirt, and his right cheek was swollen with a large quid of tobacco. Every now and then he aimed with accurate precision at a square wooden box filled with sawdust. “His Honour” wiped his lips as the saliva spattered into the box, and then his Adam's apple was seen to work up and down like a frog crawling under a yellow sheet.

As we faced the judge, he asked us from which state we hailed. Upon answering “Ohio,” a vagrant from that state was appointed to defend us.

The vagrant lawyer from Ohio walked toward the judge and said, “Damn your honour.” The one-legged bailiff pounded the floor with his crutch and yelled, “Hear ye! Hear ye! Damn it—can't you hear me.”

The fat man who watched us “in order to keep order” was laughing heartily. His three chins and belly shook with mirth.

I had heard of kangaroo courts, and knew that the man who told the wildest tale of a crooked life would find mercy from the court. Innocence alone was frowned upon.

I stood before “His Honour.” “Give some account of your life outside, so that we may judge of your fitness to be among us. Speak candidly, an' remember that the court has no mercy on poor men.” He spat again, and his Adam's apple worked convulsively. He missed the box. The one-legged bailiff stood near it, and the brown stream ran down his crutch like sap down a maple tree.

“What the hell, yer honour,” he shouted, as the crowded court laughed.

“Order in the court,” yelled the judge.

“Well, to presume,” went on “His Honour,” “you are charged wit' bein' a Jesus-shouter when little kids're hungry.”

My lawyer answered, “That's a lie, Your Honour. His record's clean as a nigger in a coal mine. He's not an honest man. He denies it. He makes tame girls wild. He runs a Law School. His brother's a perfessor. He's no preacher. While it can't be said he's fool enough to work for a livin'—still, Yer Honour, his hands ain't smooth from pattin' women on the back. They hain't fer a fact.”

The prosecuting attorney cut in. His shirt was open at the throat, and a mass of hair covered the front buttons. There was a red birth mark on his right cheek, and a scar at the edge of his temple. He was immensely broad, and immensely short. The bottom of a trouser leg had been torn off, as if by a dog, and the other one was too long and was rolled several times above his shoe, which was cracked across the top. His hands were brown, and when he closed them, they resembled mallets fastened to hairy arms.

“By Gawd, Dishonour, I don't stand for this,” he said. “This amb'lance chaser's tryin' to make this kid out a saint. The kid's a sissy. He goes to Sunday School ev'ry Sunday.”

The attorney from Ohio answered, “Yer Honour, that's so ontruthful it's disevident to all. The kid's a punk, a Prusshun. Why he's slept in box cars with Frisco Slim. Why he's known as Cincy Red. They ain't no Sunday School boys sleepin' roun' Frisco Slim, is they, Yer Honour?”

“How the hell do I know,” returned “His Honour,” as he started to spit and changed his mind. “Ask me ‘nother question like that an' I'll have you put up for attempt at court. Yere too intimate. I don't sleep with strange hoboes.” The prosecuting attorney scratched himself.

“Hear ye! Hear ye!” roared the judge, “Bailiff, this man's scratchin' hisself afore the court. That's a rank disrespect of my judicial perolatives. I order that the attorney be fined at once.”

“How much is the fine, Your Honour?” asked the bailiff.

“A dime and his pocket comb,” answered the judge.

The bailiff collected the fine and moved toward the judge, who took the dime, saying, “This'll be for the court's expenses. Boil the comb 'n lye an' hang it out in the air six days. Lice won't live on a p'liceman. Give it to the desk sargeant.”

The two lawyers proceeded to argue with much bitterness. When they had finished, the judge called me closer to him and said, “My boy, I don't b'lieve none o' the charges agin yu. Ye look like a blowed-in-the-glass stiff to me. I think ye'd eat tramps' leavin's, I do. Ye look as rough as a jungle buzzard. I want to say to you that ye must keep on the way yere goin'. Git sluffed up all ye kin an' in a couple o' years ye'll be an all aroun' tramp.

“Now don't listen to none o' them guys what tells you dif'rent, 'cause you'll fool aroun' and not amount to nothin'. O' course there's some things you could learn and still be a good hobo an' yegg, but then they's allus the danger yu'll go to ruin. You might be an undertaker in a poor neborhood—you might even speak on the Chautaquay platform, or join the Army, or be a admiral's punk in the Navy, or the Chaplain's, but then, yere in danger, and yere too smart fer that.

“We have decided not to try you on the charge o' breakin' into this jail, 'cause in all inhumanity we don't think that even a sentor or congerssman could be dumb enough to do that, not if they lives in this town long enough to know.

“I feels like it's my bounden duty to tell you these things. Yere young, an' the world is behind you gittin' ready to kick you good. Now the thing to do is sit down all you kin an' harden yourself in weak places so's the kicks won't hurt. That's the way all them business guys do. They gits tired o' furnishin' work for guys to do, so's they calls 'emselves ‘tired business men'.

“I thinks you got a chance to be a good bum, 'cause from your looks it's plain to me that if you had less brains we would sell you to the Zoo in New York. Barnum was right when he said that some o' the people come from apes, Kid. You still got to go through the evolutin' stage before you'll be a ape. Apes is smart, lots smarter'n police or demercats.

“I won't give you a rough sentence, lad. I'll be kind to you. I'll be your Oscar Wilde an' say purty things to you. We'll go out a galavantin' wit' the club girls, but I'll be true to you, an' so,” the judge looked about the room, and resumed, “the sentence o' this court'll be a light one. All you has to do while yure retirin' from the world is to take care o' the judge's chambers, clean out my cell each mornin', and make the bed whereon I slumber.”

Dutch was then brought before the judge.

The bailiff pounded his crutch for order, while the opposing lawyers stood on each side of him. “Yur Honour,” began the lawyer for the defence, “I bring before this bar a noted stool-pigeon—a man who tells lies to the screws (police) upon his fellows in the same line of work.”

“He's not a stool-pigeon,” yelled the prosecutor. “He's an honest hod-carrier. Look at them shoulders, an' look at ‘is head—you cou'd shoot it out of a gun.”

“His Honour” looked in a puzzled manner at the attorney for the defence. “I wish to warn you aginst looseful use o' language in the future. This is not a bar at all, but a court room where we dispense wit' justice, like ev'ry other court in our broad home o' the free and land o' the slave. This place has none o' the appertainments of a bar. If it had, you wouldn't be lawyerin', an' I wouldn't be judgin' people who hain't been as careful as me.”

Dutch stood with folded hands before the judge, and laughed. “His Honour” frowned from his perch against the wall. Importance descended upon him. He looked as dignified as a tailor Shriner in the regalia of his lodge. “What is the charge agin this young man?” he asked.

“Stool-pigeon, Your Honour,” said the bailiff, “an' breakin' in here.”

“I believe it. He's guilty of both charges,” said the judge. “I fine him all he's got, and sentence him to sweep the jail out every mornin'.”

The bailiff searched Dutch. “He hain' got nothin' on him, Your Honour.”

“Where is your stuff?” asked the judge.

“With the desk sargent,” answered Dutch.

“Oh, hell, we'll never git it, then,” said “His Honour.” “You kin sweep the jail out twice a day.”

The bailiff swung sideways with his crutch and disappeared. He returned in a moment and handed Dutch a broom, its straws black from many sweepings. Dutch started sweeping violently where he stood. The dust raised in a cloud under the delicate nostrils of the judge, and he coughed. The prosecuting attorney led Dutch to the far end of the aisle, where he began industriously carrying out his sentence. “His Honour” yelled, “Hey, you, cut that sweepin' till the court takes its mornin' airin'.”

“The court's dismissed, but detained,” shouted the bailiff. The court-room loungers, laughing, formed in disheveled groups in the aisles of the cells, and talked of freights, and crooks, and painted women whom they had known in the days when life was free.