Beggars of Life (13 page)

C
HARGED
with vagrancy, we faced the real judge Monday morning. The man who had arrested us was there to tell the nature of our offense.

It had been prearranged that I was to talk in court if the judge should ask questions.

The judge rubbed his face with his left hand, and then looked about the room with the bored expression judges often have who spend years sitting in judgment on the shoddy, the petty, the cast-offs, and the broken misfits of life.

We were not paid the honour of being tried alone. There were at least three dozen other culprits in the room. They sat huddled together, some defiant, some scared, and others as bored as the judge.

A dope-fiend jerked and squirmed on the bench near me. “They won't send me up,” he said, in a loud whisper. “My dad's Secretary o' War. He'd turn a battleship on this town if they sent me over.” A gavel hit wood—a voice yelled, “Order,” and the dope-fiend became quiet, his mouth puckering, his eyes staring straight ahead, as befitted the son of a politician of dreams. “Gawd,” he groaned under his breath, “I wish dad was here.”

At last our case was called. We walked up near the judge, who gave us no more attention than if we had been ants in the forest. He was not paid to use imagination, and he had no time to think about the environmental forces that had placed us before him. There was one thing to solace me—a pickpocket had said that all the jails in the district were crowded, and that if I put up a good line of talk, “His Nibs” would dismiss our case.

The railroad detective told in detail how he had captured us sound asleep in an empty box car. He stood near me, his eyes like little black beads, crowding near a swollen, hooked nose that spread across his face. He told the judge that many cars had been broken into, and that the railroad wished the cooperation of the district in apprehending the offenders.

When he had finished, at a nod from the judge, I talked in our defence. Baltimore had recently burned, and the disaster gave wings to my imagination. We were on our way there to work as rivet heaters. We had no money. We had been forced to tramp from Chicago. I told of the wild ride across the mountains, and of the clinging to the one train from Cincinnati. The judge listened, slightly less bored, and possibly seeing through the lies. He looked at a small mallet which he held in his hand, then about the court room, and at us again, and said, “I'll give you boys until to-night to leave town. Case dismissed. Next.”

There followed pleasant hours on a slow freight the forty odd miles to Baltimore. We begged a meal from fishermen on Chesapeake Bay.

A detective disputed the right of way with us in Wilmington, and in our haste to leave him in full possession, I fell over a railroad tie and rolled nearly to Philadelphia.

The echo of Dutch's laugh could be heard above the roar of a passenger train. “Laugh, you damn fool,” I said.

“I am laughing,” he replied. “Wouldn't you?”

We reached Philadelphia early in the morning, and walked through the quiet city, mile after weary mile. Whole streets seemed to be built exactly alike, as though the one brain had planned them all. As red-brick flat building merged into the other one, the white front steps, exactly alike on each, glared in the early morning sun. Green shutters were on each building, attached to which, we found out later, were looking-glasses which gave the flat-dweller a view of the street below.

Bottles of milk, newspapers, and sometimes loaves of bread could be seen at the front doors.

The milk was very tempting. Dutch picked up a bottle from one door, and I picked up a bottle from the next one. Dutch then picked up a loaf of bread and a newspaper. We started to walk hastily away, when a voice yelled, “Hey there!” We looked up suddenly and saw a man leaning out of a second-story window. A looking-glass, fastened to a shutter, slanted down toward the front door. We ran swiftly away, and turned the first corner at a terrific pace, without putting on brakes at all.

Two policemen stood near a lamp post, and Dutch bumped into one of them. There was a frightful roar from the guardian of the law. He sprawled on his hands and knees. The milk fell with a crash, and painted the blue trousers and big black shoes of the other policeman with a smear of white. Dutch held to the bread and rolled, while I ran. Suddenly I heard the patter of feet coming closer and closer. Every moment I expected the pursuing policeman to grab me. All of a sudden a form shot by me. “Come on,” Dutch yelled. “Follow me.” Mortified, I ran after the squat, bowlegged Hollander.

The loaf of bread was crunched under his arm. The newspaper was crumpled in his right hand. He was bareheaded, and his yellow hair stood straight up on his cone-shaped head.

The paper top came out of the bottle I carried, and I held my hand over it to save the milk that remained. Dutch turned into an alley, and I followed him. We stopped, breathed loud and long, and then laughed.

“I'll bet that bull thought an elephant hit him,” grinned Dutch.

Having eaten the bread, we hurried to the Pennsylvania Railroad. Before long a freight train came, and we scrambled into an empty coal car. Trenton had the reputation of being a “hostile” town. It was about half way between New York and Philadelphia. We sat in the car as the train bumped along, and worried about a bridge before we had crossed it. Many tales had been told us about the “bad bull” who was in Trenton. He had beaten a hobo unconscious.

The sun blazed into the open car, and, weary with the troubles of the road, we became drowsy and finally slept.

We awoke in the middle of the afternoon, as the train stood still. A young boy walked near the car. Dutch yelled to him, “Say, kid, where are we?”

“Newark,” was the answer.

“Gosh,” said the relieved Dutch, “we pounded our ear right through Trenton.”

We left the train in the yards at Jersey City, and finally reached New York as the sun went down.

New York had been our faint objective, but after reaching there we suddenly decided to tramp to New Haven, Connecticut. Some vagrant had told Dutch that Yale students often gave away fine suits of clothes.

We dreamed of new clothes and the generosity of Yale students. I had the notion then that all college students were the sons of wealthy men.

We begged our supper and the fare to New Rochelle. There, with the gnawing hunger of the day banished, we waited for a freight on the New York, New Haven, and Hartford Railroad.

As we waited, another young tramp joined us. He was bound for a town in Rhode Island where a street fair was in progress.

Instead of waiting for the freight, we walked to the depot with the new-found rover, and boarded a mail train bound for Boston.

We reached Kingston, R. I., in the early morning, and had breakfast at our fellow traveller's expense in a dingy all-night railroad restaurant.

Before the natives started to flock to the fair booths, we had secured a position. A young man from New York who had the concession to run an “if-you-win-you-lose game,” engaged us as “come-on guys.”

The contraption was made like a slender suit case. It rested upon a tripod in the manner of a camera. Little marbles ran through a forest of steel pegs, and the natives would bet that the marbles would light on certain colored spots. The young man controlled a lever. Strangely, the marbles never lit on the spots which the natives picked.

Each of the “come-on guys” was given five dollars with which to gamble. The citizens, seeing them win money, would try and try again and again. When the money was won, an accomplice would walk through the crowd and collect it.

A young farmer lost twenty-seven dollars. With more courage than prudence, he hit the young man from New York in the jaw.

That gentleman stepped from behind the contraption, as debonair as a clerk who wished to show a ribbon. His hands moved forward quickly, and the young farmer sank, a crumpled heap, on the ground.

A commotion started. A confederate closed the contraption and walked away with it. I became excited, but Dutch had more caution.

“This ain't our fight,” said he. “Let's breeze on out.”

I had three dollars which I had not gambled, and Dutch had four. In our haste to leave, we completely forgot to return the money to the young man who had handled his fists so gracefully.

That evening we were bound in the direction of New Haven.

The rover of the night before had cautioned us against New Haven. “There's a big bull there, and he has a big St. Bernard dog. They meets all the fast trains early in the evenin'. You git off on one side, the dog gits you. On the other side, the bull nabs you.” We had climbed upon the roof the night before, and had stretched cut silently all the time the train was at the station in the college town. Night and the train reached New Haven together. We left the blind baggage hurriedly, and circled about until we reached the other side of the station. We then waited for the train to leave.

As it steamed out, we ran swiftly toward the engine. A rough voice yelled, “Halt!”

I squatted low, and kept on going. A dog barked viciously as it bounded over the tracks. It looked as big as a cow. A hand grasped the tail of my coat. I jerked it off quickly, but held to the iron ladder. A man rolled backward from the train with my coat in his hands. The dog barked loudly. The engine shrieked, and slowed down. For a heart-sickening moment, I thought the train would stop. Things happened quickly. I looked back and saw Dutch jump over a switch light, the dog after him. A man grabbed Dutch.

I muscled my body to the top of the mail car, and went on my hands and knees the full length of the train as it left the yards.

From the rear car I could see two men, a dog, and Dutch. The train, which moved slowly to give the detectives a chance to “frisk” it, now speeded up.

Months later I met Dutch. He had stayed ninety days in New Haven, as a guest of the city. During that time, he wore a suit, not given him by a Yale student. He worked on a rock pile for three months.

I journeyed on alone, my thoughts keeping pace with the rapid clicking of the wheels upon the rails. High above, the stars swung. A battalion of white clouds formed in the south and marched steadily up the sky. They turned darker and disappeared, rumbling all the while. I held to the small pipe that ran along the roof, as the cars swayed under the smoke from the engine that trailed over the train. A blinding flash of lightning streaked through the clouds that now hid the swinging stars. A roar followed as of trains crashing together.

Forgetful of all but the weird, wild beauty of the scene, I lay, a young Irish rover, and gazed steadily upward. The rain suddenly spattered on the roof like broken pearls. A wind whirled over the train that now lurched through the wet, dark night like a huge dragon mad with fear. The lightning flared again and made the car-roof glisten green. I started to crawl from under the wind-swept rain. I slipped and grabbed at the pipe as the train swerved. I lay still. For some moments longer, there was no let up to the fury of the breeze and the rain. I envied the railroad bull my coat as the wind lashed through my shirt with the sting of a rawhide whip, while I lay face downward and held to the small pipe with aching hands.

The rain stopped. The clouds separated a moment, and the stars peeked through them. Turning white, they travelled swiftly over the sky like great billows across a blue and star-specked ocean. They merged together again, and turned steel grey, then black. The sky was completely hidden.

Choosing rather to be lashed by the rain than to crawl across the wet and speeding train, I made no move.

The train dashed through a small town as the rain fell upon it. The engine screeched for a crossing and in a moment we were in the open country again.

The cold air numbed my muscles until a stupor fought to gain control of my brain. Silently I fought with a primitive lust for life. I pounded the roof of the car to revive the ebbing circulation of my blood. I slapped my forehead with a free hand. I shook my head violently, as a pugilist does to drive the effect of a grueling smash from his brain. I longed for the train to stop. I thought of a lad who had been riding the “top” when the train speeded under a low bridge. It threw him far from the train, with a crushed skull, into the last oblivion that comes to tramp and king.

Distorted fancies crowded into my head, but still the rain beat down. The water soaked through my cap and plastered it to my hair like a wet rag.

On and on the train rolled, the whistle of the engine being barely heard above the roar of the cars, the shrieking of the wind, and the mad patter of the rain.

At last it came to the lighted edge of a town. The speed of the train slackened. It stopped at a depot, near which steel rails glistened white in the rainy night.

I climbed down the rear end of the last car with aching hands and body.

Walking slowly away from the depot, I came to an abandoned shed in which many old newspapers were scattered. Removing my clothes, I rubbed my body vigorously, and then wrapped the newspapers around me.

I slept on the bare floor in this fashion.

When morning came, my clothing was nearly dry.

I begged a coat several sizes too large for me, and went into New York with what remained of the young gambler's money.

F
OR
two weeks, I stayed in New York, living as a bird lives, though not as carefree. At times, I cursed the wanderlust that held me in its grip. While cursing, I loved it. For it gave me freedom undreamed of in factories, where I would have been forced to labor.

I then went through a long siege as a hobo in the Central States.

Snow fell at a water tank in Cairo, a tri-state town at the edges of Missouri, Kentucky, and Illinois. Nearly thirty tramps were there, the dishevelled of the earth. Some carved their monikers on the red-painted pine boards. Others talked of the road—always the road. Some read yellow magazines and old newspapers. For current things have no especial value in tramp life. The days of the week or month have no importance for tramps either.

I was travelling alone, and waited for a mail train to stop at the tank. Experience of the road told me that so many would be unable to ride the one train south. So I sauntered a train length away from the water tank. By avoiding the flagman at the rear I might be able to “top” the train to Memphis.

The light from the engine flared down the track, as the train passed me and stopped for water. When the flagman had walked a hundred yards to the rear, I clambered on top of the train.

The roofs of mail and passenger cars are slanting, and it requires steady nerves and acquired experience to walk upon them as they rush over the ground. A small ship in a storm is a smooth board walk in comparison.

The train pulled slowly out amid many shouts. The crew was at war with the tramps. When the rear car passed the tank, I saw them in disappointed numbers looking at the disappearing train. Hoping that I would encounter no tunnels or low bridges along the road, I crawled slowly the length of the train until I came to the first blind. I then jumped from the first car to the coal tender and watched the changing scenery from a seat on an empty tool box.

Fulton was reached with no trouble. As the train left Fulton, I saw from my hiding-place behind a post, two men board the first blind. I had a hunch, from their self-confident manner, that they were railroad detectives. The snow fell slowly in tiny flakes. Neither wishing to crawl over the train again, nor to lie shivering and dejected on top of it, I watched it fade toward the Tennessee city.

Within an hour, as is often the case, a merchandise train followed the limited out of Fulton. Could the two “bulls” be riding down the line in order to wait for the merchandise freight? I wondered. As there are twenty chances of beating a freight to one on a mail train, I decided to try.

I succeeded in eluding the watchful eyes of the train crew, and boarded the manifest train. It was too cold for the crew to stay outside, so, while the train kept running, I had it to myself. After a short time on the bumpers, I climbed on top and tried the different hatchways in the tops of the cars. At last I came to one that was not sealed.

This I opened, and found empty. Below the hatchway was an air-tight, zinc-enclosed box. I crawled inside and burned newspapers to raise the temperature.

With uneasy mind, I pictured my fate should a brakesman seal the door. With such pleasant thoughts, I fell into a troubled sleep.

When I awoke and raised the door above me, broad day streaked in, and my heart pounded light. I crawled outside and stood on the bumpers of the running train. In this manner I reached Memphis.

The snow had vanished, and in its place, cinders from the engine rained upon the roofs of the cars.

It was a muggy day and the southern wind gnawed to the bone. Coffee was the uppermost thing in my mind, and I entered a Greek restaurant, with an old trick in view. Greeks were not considered kindly disposed toward beggars, but I would try and make one of the diners hear my request for food.

The Greek owner turned my request down flat, but loud. A blear-eyed individual sat at the horseshoe counter and smeared his chin with the yellow of an egg. He looked my way. Now every “road-kid” knows that forty-nine out of every fifty drunkards will feed him. If it were a drunken world, the beggars would own it.

I walked over to the drunkard, who seemed slow in comprehending. He listened a moment, and said, “What's you want?” A Greek flunky came near. “Ham an' eggs,” I said.

The drunkard talked, while I listened attentively, as became a beggar of food. I agreed with him thoroughly, and marveled at his wisdom. Running in the back of my head were not the things he was saying. I was wondering if he would give me some money. After I listened to his maudlin talk for an hour, the inebriated scoundrel only gave me twenty-five cents.

I bade the ungrateful man goodbye, and hurried from the place to the Arkansas side of the river, near Bridge Junction. The freight trains did hot stop there, unless by an unforeseen chance. Glowing pleasantly with food and drink, my courage ran high. I spied a man sitting alone in the tower, and walked up the steps to him.

Hoboes in railroad towers are as rare as preachers in Heaven. But I thought not of that. With a quickness born of the road, I allowed the man to talk of that which pleased him.

He had a mania for showing his brothers the light. And I was a young sinner far from home. While listening to his exhortations, I watched the levers that controlled the interlocking system, and noticed that the switch near the main track was a “hand switch,” and was not controlled by the levers in the tower.

Night came suddenly without twilight.

The headlight of an engine could be seen at least a mile away. The switch light below gave it a clear track. It drew rapidly nearer, and, knowing it would be impossible to catch the train at the terrific rate of speed it was travelling, I bade the man good-night as coolly as possible and hurried down the steps. I hid in the dark for a few brief seconds, and then rushed toward the switch.

Many forms came out of the darkness. The tower guardian rushed down the steps into the arms of danger. As I touched the switch, a heavy hand pushed me backward. The tower-man hurried forward. A fist rapped him on the jaw. He fell quickly and lay still.