My Life

rks or tramps as at present, and the terms described distinct territories and boundaries. Now, the hang-outs are overcrowded with wandering "stake men," and the real

of the Road which the "blowed-in-the-glass-stiffs" were supposed to wander over-the highways and byways where the men who would not work and lived by begging alone were found. Gay-Cat Country, as undefined in the geographical sense as was Hoboland, for it stretched all over the United States, was the home and refuge of those tramps who would work on occasions-when winter came on, for instance, and box-cars grew too cold and cheerless. In spring, like the modern "stake" men, they gave up their jobs, and went merrily on their way again, the Road having become hospitable once more. Both Hoboland and Gay-Cat Country dovetailed into each other after a fashion-one "hang out," for example, often had to serve both sets of vagabonds-but the intersecting was almost entirely physical. The same railroads and highways were as open to the Gay-Cats, provided they were strong enough to assert their rights, as to the hoboes-the "hang-outs" also at times; but her

e old cap had given way to a better one, and the ragged coat had been patched. In this fashion I climbed to the top of the ovens and said "Hello!" to some men who were cooking their coffee in a tomato-can over one of the oven openings.

s one of the earliest typical hobo traits I remarked. What it meant to me at the moment is not clear any longer; I probably simply made a note of it, and resolved to know more about it later on. Thinking it over, it seems to me that it epitomized in a glance all the secret clannishness and "ear-wigging" tendencies which the travelers of the Roa

ailway sand-house in Ohio. The sand was just comfortably hot when I lay down to sleep, but I forgot that the fire might brighten up during the night, and I lay close to the stove. What was my dismay in th

y route, or his, was discarded in a moment. Thus it ever was during the eight months; one day Chicago might be my objective, and I fancied that I knew exactly what was necessary to be done there. In a hundred miles, as likely as not, something far more important, as I thought, required my attention in New Orleans. Die Ferne has seldom had her wild calls more carefully

at with the nervousness, incident to the escape, and the following severe travels, I had become pretty thin and worn-out, and the country district in the hills took hold of my fancy. There is nothing of particular interest about the locality or my stay there to call for especial comment here, except th

h left to tell on these lines except of a pretty personal nature and as it affects the general progress of this autobiography. I shall therefore have to skip hurriedly from

ere undesirable then. I always laugh when a tramp tells me that he is happier in a box-car than in a bed. He merely fancies that he is, and I certainly should not like to risk offering him my bed in exchange for his box-car. Yet at the time in question I was able to sleep uncommonly well in box-car or hay-stack, and except when traveling at night, eight hours' good rest constituted my regular portion. In general, I kept track of the names of the different States

ears-the notion that to amount to anything I must go secretly to some place, work my way into a profession, and then on u

opping wood, a task that I was careful to perform behind the house so that my companions, real hoboes, every one of them, should not see me breaking one of their cardinal rules. The work over, I was invited into the dining room for my meal, during which the good hostess asked me rather minutely about my life

to tempt me out of the box-car rolling through the locality. Nothing else in particular had come to take its place, that I recall. But certain it is that the box-car, on a bright, sunny day, rolling along, clinkety-clink, chunkety-chunk, possessed temporary attractions which dreamy self-madeness could not offer. This particular time in my wanderings probably saw the height of the railroad fever in me. It burned and sizzled it almost seemed on occasions, and the distant whistle of a "freight" going my way, or any way, for that matter, became as sweet a sound as was ever the dinner call or the recess bell. To-day I can laugh at all this, but it was a very serious matter in th

the night in the hopes of reaching Erie before daylight. The "freight," however, had met with a number of delays, and dawn found us still twelve miles out of Erie. We were riding "outside," on the bumpers, and on the tops of the cars. When the train stopped to take water we cautiously hid in the long grass near the track, so that the trainmen would not discover us. Pretty soon the whistle blew and the train moved on again. "Slim," my companion, was the first to climb up the ladder, and I soon followed him. By this time the car we were on had reached the watering-plug, where the fireman had carelessly left the swing arm pointing toward the train. There was plenty of room for

o uncertain tones of disgust. "Couldn't ev

whole business. What was the use o' gettin' off when I saw 't yo

been crushed under the wheels, it is doubtful whether "Slim" would have gotten off the train. Erie once reached, and a good breakfast added to his assets, he would doubtless have

ace and weather. Five of us were very anxious to "make" Chicago ("Chi") by early morning of the next day. Ordinarily, we had plenty of time, but we failed to consider the railroad we were on-the C. B. and Q., or the "Q," as it is more familiarly known. Some years previo

catching the train in Iowa, but whether the "Song of the Bullet" was sung there or on the Illinois side of the Mississippi, I am at a l

ty tramps," the c

he ran into the caboose, shouting back, "I'll soon see who is running this train." We knew only too well what his actions meant, and dropped off. In a minute he appeared on the back platform with a revolver and opened up on us. Fortunately, his train was moving ahead at a fair pace and he was a poor shot. As I recall the incident none of us was particularly frightened, and there was no such "Pingh-h" in the "Song of the Bullet" as I have so often heard described. The "Pingh-h" indeed I have never heard anywhere.

in collection of rovers, nick-named "The Kickers." These Kickers, it appears, had been in the habit of running all available tramp "stops" (sleeping places) to suit their own nonsense, and if their so-called "spots" at any "stop" were found appropriated by others on their arrival, no matter how late, they pr

, an' give yer betters their rights." The rasping voice and the striking of matches wakened me also. Somehow, it may have been tramp instinct,

ck. The Kickers had coupling pins, and looked formidable. I was in a shadow. They consolidated their forces against "Scotchy." His bucket, however, stretched one Kicker flat before he had time to defend himself. Total darkness and silence followed. Then a Kicker ventured another match. This was my chance. The long poker shot out, and the point must have hit

ters traversing the gangs' districts. The only thing to do is to fight shy of them when alone, and if in force, to fight them

nd byways with very few scratches to my credit or discredit. A small scar or two and some tattoo figures constitute all the bodily marks of the experience that I carry

rought before him at one and the same time-drunks, thieves, runaway boys, train-jumpers, bona fide hoboes and Gay-Cats. The court-room was a dingy little place with benches for the prisoners and officers, and a raised platform with a desk for the judge. I shall never forget how the latter looked-"spick and span" to the last degree in outward appearance, but there was an overnight look in his face that boded us ill, I feared. "Just ez if he'd come out of a Turkish bath," whispered an unfortunate who had been found asleep in the streets. The judge certainly paid little enough at

Willard. Josia

natural roving time, his box-car vacation; in winter, jail, even the workhouse is often more of a boon than otherwise. The Rome jail consequently harbored very unwilling guests in the persons of the few tramps lodged there. However, even thirty summer days, precious as they are on the "outside," pass away sooner than one at first expects them to, and then

I could make myself quite as much at home at a "hang-out" of the Gay-Cats as among the hoboes. Begging for money was something that I indulged in as little as possible; at the start, it was impossible for me to ask for "coin." My meals,

rtaking. But stealing in Hoboland is not a favorite business or pastime. Hoboland is the home of the discouraged criminal who has no other refuge. His criminal wit, if he had any, has not panned

not worth while?" It depends both on the boy and the treatment he gives to and gets from his pals. In general, the Road is not to be recommended-not for morals, comfort, cleanliness, or "respectability." It is a backwater section of our civilization; it is full of malaria and other swampy things. Yet, w

oriums to make it necessary to-day for any one to have to resort to Hoboland to be put right again. Yet the Road will probably be with us, for better or for worse, after the soothing farms and disciplinary sanatoriums have dwindled aw

t Egyptian hobo, for instance, if he could come to life and would be natural, pretty much the same kind of roadster that we know in our present American type. Lazi

, in company of an aged Irishman, I drifted down the river to the great city on a canal boat. The Irishman got separated from me in the crowded thoroughfares in New York, and I drifted alone over to Hob