Beggars of Life (6 page)

W
E
reached Omaha in the early morning. The one-armed man went on to San Francisco, bound for the Philippine Islands where his dream woman lived. We stayed with him until he boarded a Union Pacific freight for the west.

As tramps' minds veer quickly, we suddenly decided to go to St. Louis. A drifter in Omaha had told us that wages were high in the harvest fields near there. We wanted the wages of course, but we did not care much about the work.

A swift ride on a mail train found us on the levee front of a small town near St. Louis by the afternoon of the next day, which was Sunday.

A throng of negroes chanted hymns in a half circle near the river. A negro preacher with a heavy paunch, a lame leg, and a bullet head, stood on the bank of the Mississippi, which they faced. He kept time with a song book, which was held in both hands. As his hands made the downward motion they struck a heavy watch chain from which dangled two large charms attached to the ends of a brass horse shoe.

As we approached the gathering in the company of a derelict we had met, the words of the song became more distinct:

and then in voices of thunder accompanied by wild movements,

This was followed by shouting and the clapping of hands, and verses of another song——

At the ending of the song, two ropes were fastened to posts in the bank. A negro then waded out into the yellow river about twenty feet and fastened the other ends of the ropes to two poles which projected out of the water. When he had finished, the ropes were stretched a couple of feet above the water.

The preacher then laid his vest on the bank and grasping the ropes with heavy dark hands, he waded into the river. His feet slipped in the soil beneath, and the ropes swayed and bent as the water rolled over his head. He struggled upward while his congregation sang loudly:

By this time the minister had gained his footing, and was waving his right hand for one of the faithful to follow him. At last the preacher reached the end of the ropes and stood with his back to the river, facing the crowd. One by one the members of the congregation walked out and were held under the water while the crowd on the shore shouted and sang.

In the crowd, was an unbeliever, who made fun of the members of his race. One old lady struggled back to the shore after her immersion and shouted. “I'se washt in de blood o' the Lamb. I'se pure.”

“You may be puah, sistah,” said the unbeliever, “but you ain't sanitary.”

But unmindful of the taunt, the old lady shouted,

“Come on sinnehs. Come on sinnehs. De Lawd am you' tabenackle,” she shouted.

“Some o' dese sinnehs heah bettah git the walls o' dere tabenackle washed down, 'cause they's awful dihty,” laughed the unbeliever.

She started singing, and as the preacher caught up the words, all joined in,

“It 'ud take a devil of a lot of washin' to make them whiter'n snow,” laughed Bill.

The more they sang, the more hysterical they became. Some of them attempted to fly from the ground, like immense black crows with wings. They fell and rolled on the earth. An old black woman with yellow teeth refused to go in the water, as she said it was too cold.

“The Lawd knows neitheh cold noh hot,” shouted the preacher.

“I does though, an' ah don't wanta ketch my deat' o' cold,” she answered. “I ain't ready to meet 'im yet.”

The sun had slanted far westward long before the black children had all been immersed in the yellow water. The preacher, perspiring from the effort of holding the hysterical religionists in the river, surveyed with tired eyes those who remained. There were seven others yet to partake of the holy sacrament. Two more waded out to the minister, while the members on the shore sang fervently as ever.

The preacher's vest lay huddled up near the bank, completely unnoticed by all but Bill and myself.

“I'm goin' to cop the vest,” said Bill. “There's a turnip in it, and chain.”

The congregation sang lustily as the last three waded to the tired baptizer of the flock. Bill picked up the vest, saying, “I'll meet you guys at the edge of the yards an hour from now.”

“All right,” we returned.

As Bill disappeared, the derelict with me said, “That guy'll git by all right. Now who'd a thought about gittin' that vest?”

When the last sinner was dipped into the water, a happy shout went up from the dark assemblage. Even the cynical unbeliever was touched. His smile of ridicule was gone, and he was quite humble. “Brethren,” he said to those around him, “I wish to join in this happy 'casion. I feels de workin's ob de Lawd wit'in me.” He shouted lustily as he clambered out to the weary preacher who leaned on a post at the end of the rope.

The unbeliever was duly immersed amid the laughter, shouting, and tears of the dripping-wet negroes on the shore.

The heavy minister, his clothes clinging tightly to his body, then made for the shore, while the audience sang,

By this time the minister had reached the shore. His mind at once turned to earthly things, and a startled look came into his eyes as he glanced at the spot where his vest had once been.

“Any de brudders an' sistehs see mah vest?” he shouted.

“Yes—we did. It was right theah.” All looked incredulously at the bare ground.

“The Lawd won't forgive sich a action as that,” said the minister with little faith in his flock. “He who steals de clothin' of the workeh in the vineyahd shall be damned to everlastin' fi-ah,” he shouted. “De watch de congragation gimme an' some money de crowd gives me was in theah too, an' fohteen dollahs o' my own. Look about you brudders. Look about you sistehs. Maybe it am mislaid.”

“It's mislaid all right,” said my derelict companion.

The minister and his flock looked about as though not believing their own eyes. The heavy shepherd of dark sheep walked back again and again to the spot where the vest had once been. “It ain't theah,” he murmured. “It suah ain't theah.” Then turning to me, he asked, “You no see a vest did you, boy?”

“I did,”. I truthfully answered, “But I don't now.”

“No, I don't nuther,” replied the minister.

The members looked at one another with questioning eyes. “Suahly no one would take de clothin' of the Lawd's sheph'd. Suahly not,” moaned the minister.

“Maybe a dog carried it off,” suggested a dripping woman.

“Yes, I saw a big dog here a half hour ago. It had a rag, or somethin' in its mouth. I remember now,” lied the vagrant with me.

“Which way did it go?” asked several members at once.

“Down that way,” he answered, indicating a direction the other way from which Bill had gone.

The weary members of the baptismal party left at once in the direction the imaginary dog had gone.

They merged into the darkness, talking excitedly, while we hurried to find Bill.

That rover was stretched out in some grass at the edge of the railroad yards.

“Let's beat it to East St. Louis,” he said. “We kin get a drink over there. It's open on Sunday.”

The three of us hurried to a street car, and were soon in a saloon with drinks in front of us.

“What did you do with the vest?” I asked.

“I threw it in the river. It needed baptizin',” answered Bill, as he looked at a heavy gold watch. “I got thirty-eight bucks altogether,” he went on. “I'll give you five,” and he handed a bill to the derelict,” and we'll go fifty-fifty on the rest, Red.”

The drinks flowed fast, and the derelict became loquacious. He showed us a letter from a jailor in Georgia. The letter stated that the bearer had served eleven months and twenty-nine days with credit, and that, though the bearer had been sentenced for vagrancy, he had proven an admirable worker at all tasks. The derelict was as proud of it as more fortunate men are of degrees which amount to no more.

Within a few days, we were broke again. The rover from the prison in Georgia had left us quite suddenly on the first night. Bill had sent him to a pawnbroker with the hope that he would bring back money for the watch. Bill had a motive.

“A fellow always takes a chance to get nabbed soakin' some other guy's watch,” said Bill, as the derelict departed with the time-piece.

“You're takin' just as big a chance sendin' that guy with it,” I returned. He was.

The rover never came back.

W
E
drifted, penniless, about the country for some time, and finally went to work for a farmer called Mabee. We each drove an aged team hitched to a decrepit wagon, which creaked noisily down the road. The harness on our teams was held together by wire and ropes.

We had a bed in the hay-loft above the horses. Rats could be heard scampering about during the still hours of the night, and now and then a bat would fly into the large open space in the loft, and circle swiftly about, squeaking like a rat on wings.

We heard that if a bat once fastened itself on the human body, it could not be removed without the help of a razor, and the loss of the flesh upon which it had alighted, so we would cover ourselves with the blankets until the bat had found the open space again.

Mosquitoes would leave their headquarters near a stagnant pond in search of blood. Their melancholy buzz could be heard throughout the night. They seemed to drill through the blankets, for all parts of our bodies would be swollen from their bites each morning.

Now and then numbers of lightning bugs would fly into the loft and circle about. Sometimes, when their lights would flare simultaneously, the place would be lit up enough to enable us to distinguish objects within.

Mr. Mabee was the father of a daughter whom we never succeeded in meeting face to face. She was always in retreat when we drew near. It became a joke between us—and we used to say each morning, “Well, maybe you'll see Miss Mabee today, and maybe you won't.” The nearest we ever came to seeing her was one morning when she had been late setting the breakfast table. We suddenly came into the room in time to see her form going out of the door into the kitchen.

Mrs. Mabee would wait upon the table. She had either been born tired, or became tired soon after birth. No woman could have become so tired without years of experience.

Her face was sallow; her cheeks hollow. It seemed a mighty effort of feeble will for her to keep her eyes open. She would stand near us with a green bush in her hand and move it slowly across the table with the possible intention of keeping the flies away. She failed. The flies would merely light upon the bush and rest their wings until they came nearer to the butter. They would then leave the bush and drop into it.

Mr. Mabee seldom, if ever, talked. He was as tired as his wife.

When Mr. Mabee's harvesting was done, he helped other farmers for miles around. Or, to put it more precisely, we did.

When the work was done, we would sit on the rickety wagons and hold the lines while the tired horses stumbled tiredly home. We became attached to our teams and were as kind to them as possible. Mr. Mabee would always have the hay and grain ready for them, but after he had gone into the house, we would give them a more generous supply. We could hear the horses munching late into the night, and, somehow, we always enjoyed listening to the noise they made.

There was no social life for us in the country. The snobbery which permeates the American Republic was always in evidence. There was a girl our own age at one farm, who became almost friendly with us. But her horrified mother soon put a stop to her natural impulse of kindness. “Come away from them hoboes,” she commanded. Her daughter obeyed.

We soon left our employer, and were given twenty-four dollars each for our labor. The farmer did not even grunt us a farewell, and neither did the tired woman appear in the doorway as we walked down the road toward the railroad track.

Being always too sentimental for a hobo or a business man, I petted the two decrepit horses before I left. Bill followed my example with his team. The poor horses, galled from the rubbing of the wretched, sweat-stained harness, were possibly losing the best friends they ever had. The human animal must bestow its affection on something, and we had whiled away hours with them.

There followed several days of riotous living in St. Louis. The money for which we had laboured two weeks was soon all gone but a few dollars before we decided to take to the road again. This we did with no remorse.

We left the railroad yards at St. Louis on a freight train with two other men who had never beaten their way before.

All four of us were half drunk. The two men had no money, but they did have two quarts of liquor between them, which their last cent had bought.

We were in an empty coal car. Papers were strewn on the floor of the gondola, across which a heavy wire was stretched in the form of a hammock.

Becoming maudlin with drink, we sat on the wire and sang all the songs we could remember. A brakeman came across the train and stopped in the car with us. He proved to be, in the parlance of the road, a “boomer,” a sort of hobo, or migratory railroad worker. He joined us in a drink, and went on his way across the train. But the gondola had an attraction for him, and he returned quite often.

As the train neared B——, a railroad division, the brakeman warned us that the town was “hostile.”

“This whole country's hostile now since they found them two guys beat up an' handcuffed to trees over in C——. Better not ride into the yards, but git off outside and walk on through. The dick don't come on till 'bout eight o'clock, an' you kin beat it through and have a feed an' be at the other end o' the yards before that.”

We left the train as the engine whistled for the yards. It was still travelling rapidly, and Bill and I jumped first, and ran with the train, thus keeping upright without falling.

The two other rovers left the car suddenly and rolled down the steep embankment. We helped them brush the dirt out of their clothing and hair.

We walked to a railroad restaurant where a boomer waiter took our order.

“She's a hostile burg,” said the waiter. “This dick here ‘ud pinch his mother if she walked on railroad property. He's a Mick, an' he talks with a brogue as thick as butter. But he don't come around this early, hardly ever. You got time to scoff and beat it down the track ‘afore he does.”

The meal took all but a few cents of our money. The four of us walked down the tracks directly through the yards.

We had not gone many rods, when a man stepped out from between two cars. The moon was just rising above the horizon. Its light was still weak, and the earth was shrouded in almost complete darkness. Some red and green signal lights burned in the yards and made the tops of the steel rails shine a grayish white.

“Where ye goin?” asked the man as he flashed a light in our faces.

“I'm going to Chicago, Mister, to my father,” I lied quickly. “He's sick in a hospital there, and I've been workin' in the harvest fields up the line to send him money.”

The man searched me, a blackjack hanging from his wrist as he did so. Bill stepped up next and told his story. He had been working with me, and he was helping me get home. “Uh huh,” grunted the man.

Then turning to the other two, “Where ye from?” The men answered him haltingly. They were more honest than we, but still, the detective did not believe their stories as readily.

“Well, come on,” said he. “Ye kin tell your tales to the judge in the mornin'.”

He placed two of us on each side of him, and we walked down the tracks.

There was no chance to talk, but Bill and I did some rapid thinking. We each decided that the detective had neither handcuffs nor revolver, as he would certainly have used them if he did. In an effort to be friendly, and with a double motive, Bill said, “You're on duty early, ain't you, Mister?”

“It's none o' your business. I'm on early enough to ketch you birds.”

Bill walked two feet from the detective, while I was about four feet from him.

“If he has got a gun,” I thought, “he's liable to plug me if I run, and that would be worse than a term in jail.”

The moon rose higher, and the rails shone brighter. A “wildcat” engine came screeching down the yards. It was followed by another engine and flat cars with ropes and other wrecking paraphernalia.

“Been a wreck somewhere?” said Bill.

“Shut your mouth, ye damn parrot. Talk to yare ayquals.”

“Ain't you my equal?” blurted out Bill. It was an unfortunate rejoinder. The man did not answer, but gave him a back-handed slap with the blackjack.

Bill started forward but restrained himself. I was glad of his decision, for we were not over sixty miles from the scene of the fight with the other detectives. If we were caught, it meant a term in jail, or the Pontiac Reform School. Bill must have felt the same way about it. It may be that the detective was more fortunate than he knew, as “road-kids” are relentless and vicious in a fight. They have more initiative and energy than older tramps, and they will fight harder for freedom.

We walked along with the detective, whose thoughts kept rambling on an unpleasant subject. “You kids'll git Pontiac. That bunk about sick people don't go wit' the judge. He'll soak ye all. If he don't, I'll quit. Ye guys are the ruin of the country, a bummin' honest people, an' a stealin' money, an' a breakin' into cars, an' a burnin' barns.” The detective talked on and on.

A yellow road crossed the tracks. The corn rustled in the fields as the wind blew over it.

“I wonder where the dickens he's takin' us?” I thought. And then, “I might as well take a chance.” Suddenly there was a wild yell, “Run, guys—run!!!” thundered Bill. He turned swiftly, and gave my arm a quick jerk, and the two of us were suddenly tearing down the road for dear life.

The man stood in the middle of the tracks, and wailed like a man whose professional pride had been hurt.

“Come here, ye little hobo devils,” he yelled.

We ran about a hundred yards when Bill said, “Duck over'n the cornfield, Red.”

We walked daringly back through the corn toward the tracks at the crossing. No one was there. “The other two guys must of run the other way, and the dick figured he could get them easier,” I whispered.

“Them two'll knock hell outta him now, if he tries to catch 'em. They're wise enough to know he ain't got a gun by this time.”

“I wonder if he thought we'd walk along to jail with him like little lambs,” I laughed.

“He got left if he did. But what was you thinkin' about while you walked along with the dick?” asked Bill.

“Same thing you were, Bill, I guess. I was prayin' for a clear track for a getaway.”

“I had a notion to bust him when he hit me with the jack, but I thought I'd better not. I don't wanta make Pontiac again,” declared Bill.

“I'd have slammed him before we went to jail. Wouldn't you?” I muttered.

“I'll say I would, and slammed him hard,” whispered Bill.

The quick footsteps of a man were heard. Then several dogs barked loud and long. “I wish to thunder they'd stop,” sighed Bill.

A man walked from the other direction and stood upon the tracks. He looked about him. We watched him. The dogs stopped barking, and the wind stopped rustling the corn. It became very quiet.

“It's the dick,” I whispered.

“Sh-shh-shhh,” was Bill's answer between his teeth.

The man stood awhile, then murmured aloud, “Damn their souls,” and walked slowly back toward the town.