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Title: Tramping with Tramps
Studies and Sketches of Vagabond Life
Author: Josiah Flynt
Release Date: June 18, 2012 [EBook #40036]
Language: English
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[Illustration: Book Cover]
Tramping
With Tramps
[Illustration]
Tramping
With Tramps
STUDIES AND SKETCHES
OF VAGABOND LIFE
By
Josiah Flynt
With Prefatory Note by
Hon. Andrew D. White
[Illustration]
New York
The Century Co.
1907
Copyright, 1893, 1894, 1895, 1899,
by THE CENTURY CO.
* * * * *
Copyright, 1894, 1895, by Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
Copyright, 1897, by the Forum Publishing Co.
Copyright, 1895, 1896, 1897, by Harper & Brothers.
TO
MY MOTHER
EMBASSY OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA,
BERLIN, April 19, 1899.
DEAR MR. FLYNT:
Your letter of March 27 and accompanying articles have greatly
interested me.
As you know, I consider the problems furnished by crime in the
United States as of the most pressing importance. We are allowing
a great and powerful criminal class to be developed, and while
crime is held carefully in check in most European countries, and
in them is steadily decreasing, with us it is more and more
flourishing, increases from year to year, and in various ways
asserts its power in society.
So well is this coming to be known by the criminal classes of
Europe that it is perfectly well understood here that they look
upon the United States as a "happy hunting-ground," and more and
more seek it, to the detriment of our country and of all that we
hold most dear in it.
It seems to me that the publication of these articles in book form
will be of great value, as well as of fascinating interest to very
many people.
Yours faithfully,
ANDREW D. WHITE.
MR. JOSIAH FLYNT.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
During my university studies in Berlin I saw my fellow-students working
in scientific laboratories to discover the minutest parasitic forms of
life, and later publishing their discoveries in book form as valuable
contributions to knowledge. In writing on what I have learned concerning
human parasites by an experience that may be called scientific in so far
as it deals with the subject on its own ground and in its peculiar
conditions and environment, I seem to myself to be doing similar work
with a like purpose. This is my apology, if apology be necessary, for a
book which attempts to give a picture of the tramp world, with
incidental reference to causes and occasional suggestion of remedies.
A majority of the papers in this volume have appeared in the "Century
Magazine." Thanks are due to Houghton, Mifflin & Co. for permission to
reprint "The Children of the Road" and "Old Boston Mary," published in
the "Atlantic Monthly"; to Harper & Brothers for similar permission in
regard to the papers entitled "Jamie the Kid" and "Club Life among
Outcasts," published in "Harper's Monthly Magazine," and "What the Tramp
Eats and Wears" and "One Night on the 'Q'," which appeared in "Harper's
Weekly." To the Forum Publishing Company I am indebted for permission to
reprint from the "Forum" the paper called "The Criminal in the Open."
JOSIAH FLYNT.
CONTENTS
PART I--STUDIES
PAGE
I. THE CRIMINAL IN THE OPEN 1
II. THE CHILDREN OF THE ROAD 28
III. CLUB LIFE AMONG OUTCASTS 67
IV. THE AMERICAN TRAMP CONSIDERED GEOGRAPHICALLY 91
V. THE CITY TRAMP 113
VI. WHAT THE TRAMP EATS AND WEARS 137
PART II--TRAVELS
I. LIFE AMONG GERMAN TRAMPS 169
II. WITH THE RUSSIAN GORIOUNS 200
III. TWO TRAMPS IN ENGLAND 229
IV. THE TRAMP AT HOME 267
V. THE TRAMP AND THE RAILROADS 291
PART III--SKETCHES
I. OLD BOSTON MARY 317
II. JAMIE THE KID 336
III. ONE NIGHT ON THE "Q" 355
IV. A PULQUE DREAM 366
V. A HOBO PRECEDENT 372
PART IV--THE TRAMP'S JARGON
THE TRAMP'S JARGON 381
GLOSSARY 392
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
JOSIAH FLYNT, ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA, AUGUST 8, 1897 _Frontispiece_
DISCOURAGED CRIMINALS 15
THE MODE OF TRAVEL THAT ATTRACTS BOYS 35
YOUTHFUL TRESPASSERS 51
TELLING "GHOST-STORIES" 59
A GATHERING OF "OLD BUCKS" 73
MIDNIGHT 87
A "TIMBER LESSON" 101
TOMATO-CAN TRAMPS 115
A CITY TRAMP AT WORK 125
A WESTERN ROADSTER 149
AN AUCTION 157
THE FOURTH-CLASS CAR 173
HUNTING FOR HIS PASS 179
ON THE ROAD 187
DANCING AROUND A BONFIRE 193
SLEEPING IN A BARN 209
A LODGING-HOUSE 223
AN ENGLISH TYPE 235
A MOOCHER 245
A REST BY THE WAYSIDE 257
A DIVISION 275
ASLEEP IN A FREIGHT-CAR 283
RIDING ON THE BUMPERS 295
A BRAKEMAN OF A FREIGHT-TRAIN COLLECTING FARES 305
A TRAMPS' DEPOT 311
OLD BOSTON MARY'S SHANTY 327
OLD BOSTON MARY 335
BEATING A PASSENGER-TRAIN 343
A RIDE ON A TRUCK 357
PART I
STUDIES
PART I
STUDIES
PAGE
I. THE CRIMINAL IN THE OPEN 1
II. THE CHILDREN OF THE ROAD 28
III. CLUB LIFE AMONG OUTCASTS 67
IV. THE AMERICAN TRAMP CONSIDERED GEOGRAPHICALLY 91
V. THE CITY TRAMP 113
VI. WHAT THE TRAMP EATS AND WEARS 137
I
THE CRIMINAL IN THE OPEN
Up to the present time the criminal has been studied exclusively behind
prison-bars, after he has been caught, tried, and convicted. Out of
durance he is his own master, and is naturally averse to being measured
and experimented upon by scientists; hence the criminologist has been
forced to await the almost certain vicissitudes which bring him once
more inside a prison-cell. Here he has been subjected to the most minute
examinations; and there exists a bulky literature on the results which
these examinations have brought to light. We have volumes, for instance,
about the criminal's body, skull, and face, his whimsical and obscene
writings on prison-walls, the effect of various kinds of diet on his
deportment, the workings of delicate instruments, placed on his wrists,
to test the beat of his pulse under various conditions, the stories he
has been persuaded to tell about his life, his maunderings when under
the influence of hypnotism, and numerous things, anthropological and
psychological, which have been noted down, compared, and classified.
Out of this mass of information, gathered in great part by prison
doctors and other prison officials, the conclusion has been drawn that
the criminal is a more or less degenerate human being. There are
differences of opinion in regard to the degree of his degeneracy; but
all investigators agree upon the main fact, while some go so far as to
claim that he is abnormally deficient in mental and moral aptitudes,
and, in a large number of instances, should be in an insane asylum
rather than in a penitentiary. Human justice recoils from a severe
treatment of the man who, though an outbreaking sinner, bears evidence
of being sinned against as well as sinning; and yet, before we can
safely fall in with this view, we must carefully consider the theory on
which it is based, and its claims to a scientific foundation.
The first question with which to begin a scientific investigation of
this sort is, it seems to me, this: "Where may we hope to find the
criminal in his most natural state of body and mind--in confinement, a
balked and disappointed man, or in the open, faring forth on his
plundering errands, seeking whom and what he may devour?" That he should
be studied when undergoing punishment goes without saying; but I claim
that imprisonment should be considered rather as an incident in his
existence than its normal sphere, and that, because it has not been so
regarded, we have to-day a distorted view of the criminal and an
illogical tendency in penology.
It is now more than a decade since I became acquainted with tramps. My
purpose in seeking them out was to learn about their life; and I soon
saw that, to know it well, I must become joined to it and be part and
parcel of its various manifestations. At different times during this
period,--some of them lengthening out into months,--I have lived
intimately with the vagabonds of both England and the United States. In
the tramp class, or so near it that the separation is almost
imperceptible, are to be found any number of criminals associating
freely, either for purposes of business or sociability, with their less
ambitious brethren. In nearly every large city of the two countries
mentioned I know something about them, and in not a few instances I have
succeeded in becoming well acquainted with notorious members of their
class. My desire is to tell of the impression they make on one who
studies them in their own habitat, that I may be able to show how
different is the outdoor criminal from his convicted brother shut in
behind prison-bars.
I
I must first note the species of criminal that I have met in the open.
Lombroso and other investigators classify the cases they have studied as
political, instinctive, occasional, habitual, and professional; but, so
far as my finding is concerned, only one class is of any great
importance--the professional. That there are also instinctive criminals,
as well as occasional, I am well aware; but they form a very small part
of that outcast world that I know best, and cannot be taken as
definitely representative of it. It is the man who wilfully and
knowingly makes a business of crime or is experimenting with it from
commercial motives that I have found in largest numbers "on the road";
and it is he, I believe, who appears oftenest in our criminal courts.
To be sure, he tries to make out that he is not a wilful offender, and
often succeeds in convincing a jury that he is not; but this is due to
his cleverness and trained abilities.
Contrary to a more or less popular opinion, I must also say that the
criminals I am acquainted with are not such because they are unable to
keep body and soul together in any other way. The people who go into
crime for this reason are far less numerous than is generally supposed.
It is true that they come, as a rule, from the poverty-stricken
districts of our large cities, and that the standard of life in these
districts, particularly for families, is pitifully low; but a single
person can live in them far more easily than the philanthropists think.
The necessaries of life, for instance, can be had by simply begging; and
this is the way they are found by the majority of people who are not
willing to work for them. The criminal, however, wants the luxuries of
life as well; he seeks gold and the most expensive pleasures that gold
can buy; and to get them he preys upon those who have it. He thinks that
if all goes well he may become an aristocrat; and having so little to
lose and so much to gain, he deliberately takes his chances.
I most say furthermore that those criminals who are known to me are not,
as is also popularly supposed, the scum of their environment. On the
contrary, they are above their environment, and are often gifted with
talents which would enable them to do well in any class, could they only
be brought to realize its responsibilities and to take advantage of its
opportunities. The notion that the criminal is the lowest type of his
class in society arises from a false conception of that class and of the
people who compose it. According to my experience, they are mainly
paupers; and they have been such so long, and are so obtuse and
unaccustomed to anything better, even in the United States, that they
seldom make any serious effort to get out of their low condition.
Indeed, I think it can be said that the majority of them are practically
as happy and contented in their squalor and poverty as is the aristocrat
in his palace. In Whitechapel as well as in the worst parts of New York,
for example, I have met entire families who could not be persuaded to
exchange places with the rich, provided the exchange carried with it the
duties and manners which wealth presupposes; they even pity the rich,
and express wonder at their contentment "in such a strait-jacket life."
In this same class, however, there are some who are born with ambitions,
and who have energy enough to try to fulfil them. These break away from
class conditions; but, unfortunately, the ladder of respectable business
has no foothold in their environment. No one of their acquaintance has
gone springing up its rounds in tempting promotions; and although the
city missionary tells them that there are those who thus succeed, they
will not believe him--or, rather, they prefer to believe the, to them,
far more probable stories of success which they read in the "Police
Gazette" and the "Criminal Calendar." Most of them know perfectly well
that the success thus portrayed is the result of law-breaking, and that
they will be punished if caught trying to achieve it; but it is a choice
between the miserable slum, which they hate, and possible wealth, which
they covet, and they determine to run the risk.
Not all of these ambitious ones are endowed with an equal amount of
energy. Some are capable only of tramp life, which, despite its many
trials and vicissitudes, is more attractive than the life they seek to
escape. Those with greater energy go into crime proper; and they may be
called, mentally as well as physically, the aristocracy of their class.
This is my analysis of the majority of the criminal men and women I have
encountered in the open, and I believe it will hold good throughout
their entire class.
Concerning their nationalities, I must say that most of them are
indigenous to the countries in which they live. In this country it is
often said that foreigners are the main offenders, and a great deal has
been written about the dumping of European criminals on American shores;
but the main offenders, in the open at least, are natives, and are
generally of Irish-American parentage. In England, unmixed blood is a
little more noticeable. Ireland is said to be the least criminal land in
all Europe, and this may be the case so far as local crime is concerned;
but more criminals trace their ancestry back to that country than to any
other where English is spoken. Indeed, in America it is considered
something quite out of the ordinary if the criminal cannot attach
himself somehow or other to the "Emerald Isle"; and nothing has hindered
me more in my intercourse with him than the fact that my own connection
with it is very slight.
In regard to the ages of the criminals I have met, it is difficult to
write definitely; but the average, I think, is between twenty-five and
thirty years. The sex is predominantly masculine. For every female
criminal I have found twenty males; and the proportion in the United
States is even higher. It cannot, however, be inferred that the women of
the same original environment are less ambitious than the men; but they
take to the street, instead of to crime, to satisfy their love of high
living, and they hope to find there the same prizes that their brothers
are seeking by plunder. It is a mistake to say that all these women are
driven to the street by the pangs of hunger. A great many are no doubt
thus impelled; but I believe there are multitudes who are there merely
to satisfy their ambitious and luxurious tastes.
As the degeneration of the criminal is said by the criminologists to be
physical, mental, and moral, I shall take up the subject, as it pertains
to the criminals I have studied, from these different points of view.
II
It has of course been impossible for me, a fellow-traveler with tramps
and but a casual observer of criminals, to conduct my investigations as
scientific observers of prison specimens have done. I have not been
permitted, for instance, to measure their skulls; neither have I been
able to weigh them, to inspect their teeth and palates, nor even to test
their pulse under excitement. It has been possible for me, however, to
study their countenances, to get acquainted with their type, as it is
called, and to compare it, as I have seen it in the open day, with its
pictorial representation in books and pamphlets. As a rule, these
pictures are very different from the type that I know. Only in a few
cases have they ever approximated to the truth; and why artists have
given us such as their models is more than I can understand. In New York
I once showed a criminal one of these caricatures and asked what he
thought of it. He replied, "Why, I wouldn't be found dead lookin' like
that!"--a sentiment which I consider both justified and representative.
The trouble is that writers about crime have usually picked out as
illustrations for their books the very worst specimens possible; and the
public has been led to consider these as true representatives of the
entire class. A retreating forehead, for example, and the most depraved
expressions of the eyes and mouth are to-day considered typical stigmata
of the criminal's face. The majority of those that I am acquainted with,
particularly those under thirty years of age, if well dressed, could
pass muster in almost any class of society; and I doubt very much
whether an uninitiated observer would be able to pick them out for what
they are. After thirty years of age, and sometimes even younger, they do
acquire a peculiar look; but, instead of calling it a criminal look, in
the sense that the instinctive offender is criminal, I should describe
it as that of a long resident in a penitentiary. Prison life, if taken
in large doses and often enough, will give the most moral men in the
world prison features; and it is no wonder that men who make a business
of crime and are so much in prison possess them. Even men who are busied
in the detection of crime have more or less similar facial
characteristics. I have never met a detective who had been long in the
service that did not have some features or habits common to the
criminals he was engaged in hunting down; and I know several detectives
who have been taken for criminals by criminals, simply because of their
looks.
In regard to other abnormalities, such as absence of hair on the face,
remarkable eyesight, length of certain fingers, insensibility to pain,
unusual development of the lower jaw, high cheek-bones, fixed eyes,
projecting ears, and stooping shoulders, which are said to differentiate
the criminal from the ordinary human being, I can only report that I
have not found them to be any more noticeable in the criminal class than
among normal people. In the majority of cases the criminal can grow a
beard, and is glad that he can do so. Without this ability to change his
looks he would be greatly handicapped in his business; and, as I know
him, he usually has a beard once in two years. It has been said that his
habit of tattooing is evidence of his obtuseness to pain; but it is not
easy to see why. At the worst, it is not a trying ordeal; and the little
suffering that it does occasion is as much felt by the criminal as by
any one else. Moreover, those that I know are not so prone to be
tattooed as is reported. Indeed, it is considered a mistake to have
marks on the body, for they naturally aid detection.
On all these questions of the senses, criminologists have relied
altogether on what the criminal himself has told them. They give him
something to taste or smell, or prick him with a needle, and his reply
is noted down as scientific evidence. How do they know that he has not
some object in view in telling them what he does? He may want to appear
degenerated or queer, or is perhaps simply mischievous and says the
first thing that comes into his head. Until instruments have been
invented which can discover the truth quite independently of the
criminal's personal testimony, nothing really positive can be known
concerning whatever freaks of the senses may have been wrought in the
criminal's organization.
The general health of the criminal is good. Up to twenty-five years of
age he is as hardy and vigorous as the average person. Although he comes
from the slums, he gets somehow a very fair constitution; and if he
would only take care of it, he might live to a good old age. When he
nears his thirtieth year, however, his strength and vigor begin to fail
him. By that time he has served a number of terms in prison, and it is
this existence that drags him down. In the open he seems able to endure
a great deal and still keep his health; but behind the bars, care for
him as the penologists will, he weakens and withers away. This side of
his life has scarcely received the attention it deserves from
investigators who find the criminal diseased. That he becomes diseased
must be readily admitted; but, as a rule, it is only after society has
shut him up in its penal institutions. Stand, for instance, at the doors
of one of these institutions when a ten-year convict is released, and
see how he looks. I once did this; and a worse wreck of a formerly
strong man I have never encountered--a being ruined in both body and
mind, a victim of passions which in the open he would have abhorred.
There is no better proof that it is the prison, and not his life and
business, that makes the criminal diseased than that furnished by
tramps. These men live almost entirely in the open, and, as a general
rule, have a harder life than a criminal; yet they are about the
healthiest people in the world. In the United States it is one of their
superstitions that they simply cannot die, like other men, of disease,
but have to be killed. This is what happens to a great many of them.
They fall from freight-trains at night, or are found starved to death,
locked fast in a box-car on some distant side-track.
III
Finding the criminal diseased and abnormal physically, it is only
natural that investigators should have found him equally abnormal in
mind; but this, too, I have not discovered.
Lack of will-power, for example, is one of the first delinquencies noted
in criminology; and yet out of prison and in the open, the will is one
of the criminal's strongest points. Most of them have enough of it, at
least while they are young, to satisfy any one; and could they but be
brought to use it in honest industry, they might become the most
successful people in the world. The trouble is that they will do the
things which society considers and punishes as crime. They think that
they can "get on" faster in their profession than in any other; and they
bend every energy to achieve their ambition. Because this ambition is so
flatly contradictory to what is upright and honest, it is common, not
only among criminologists, but with the general public as well, to
speak of the criminal as one weak of will. I think this is one of the
greatest mistakes in psychology. Napoleon I, for instance, was
instrumental, directly or indirectly, in the deaths of nearly two
million people, and was one of the most unscrupulously ambitious human
beings that have ever lived; yet his passes for one of the strongest
wills the world has known. The unimperial criminal, on the other hand,
if he be unsuccessful, is catalogued by prison psychologists as a
pathological specimen simply because he wills to do wrong.
This strange classification is doubtless to be accounted for on the
ground that the criminal in prison has been taken to be the natural
criminal. Behind the bars he does indeed become somewhat volatile, and
finds it hard to concentrate his mind; but this is due to imprisonment
and its harassing trials rather than to innate deficiency. The strongest
of wills would deteriorate under such conditions, and perhaps even more
rapidly than that of the criminal who, from the very nature of his
trade, expects and plans for a certain amount of exile.
The charge of impatience, which is so often brought against him, may be
explained in the same way; and the tramps are again good illustrations.
As a class they are the most patient people imaginable, and are able to
endure pleasantly any amount of ruffling circumstances. Where, for
example, is there a calmer and more stoical human being than the
American "hobo," waiting through rain or shine at the railway
watering-tank for the freight-train that shall carry him farther on the
road? He will stay there for days, if necessary, rather than pay the
regular fare on the passenger-trains; and nothing arouses his scorn more
than the dilettante, or "gay-cat," as he calls him, who gives up waiting
and buys a regulation ticket. The criminal, after a certain age, often
lacks this ability to hang on; but his nerves and general equipoise have
been disturbed by imprisonment. Even the tramp is a less patient person
in county jails than he is in the open; but his stay there is so short,
and the confinement, compared with that in convict prisons, is so much
easier to bear, that he soon recuperates. I can write from personal
experience on this point; for, as an American tramp, I have had to take
my share of jail life, and I have never been so nervous and impatient as
when undergoing it. In the open, on the other hand, I have never been so
healthy and under control. If a few days' confinement can have such an
effect upon an absolutely voluntary prisoner, what must be the effect of
years of this sort of life upon the man who hates prison as he does
poison, and is not sure that when he is released an officer may not be
waiting to read him a warrant for another arrest? Criminologists who
believe in the innate nervous weakness of the criminal would do well to
test their own nerves during even voluntary residence in prison-cells in
order to estimate their power to disturb a natural equilibrium.
It is also said that the criminal is more or less an epileptic. Lombroso
makes a great deal of this supposition; and there are other students of
the subject who go quite as far as he does. I have never met a pure
epileptic criminal on the road, and I cannot recall having heard the
subject discussed by tramps or criminals in any way that would lead me
to believe the disorder at all common among them. Among tramps a
favorite trick is to feign epilepsy; and I have seen it done with a
fidelity to the "real thing" that was remarkable. Whether or not
criminals also feign in prison, I am not prepared to say; but if they
are as clever as tramps at it, I can well believe that they might
deceive even the very elect among specialists.
I have also failed to find insanity common among criminals. Among those
under twenty-five years of age, I have never known one clear case; and
the few cases that I have known after that period have been men who have
had long sentences in prison, and whose confinement, I have no doubt,
has had much to do with their mental derangement.
[Illustration: DISCOURAGED CRIMINALS.]
There is no better evidence of the criminal's ability to reason than the
fact that, the minute he is convinced that crime does not pay, he gives
it up. Even at the start he is not sure that it will pay; but, as I have
said, having so little to lose and so much to gain, he takes his
chances. After a time, long or short according to his success, he
generally comes to the conclusion that it does not pay, or at least that
he lacks the wit to make it successful; and he drops it, becoming what I
call a discouraged criminal. There is a difference of opinion among
criminals as to how much imprisonment is necessary to convince a man
that he is not getting his fair share of the prizes of his profession;
but, so far as I have been able to make inquiries, I should say that
between ten and fifteen years are enough to frighten the average man
out of the business. Some stick to it with even twenty years spent
behind the bars; but they are generally those who have been uncommonly
successful in making large catches, and have risked "just one more job"
in order to win the "great stake" that is to make them rich.
The main reason why the criminal is afraid to go beyond the fifteen-year
limit is that, after that time, unless he be an uncommonly clever man,
he is likely to get what is called "the shivers"--one of the weirdest
disorders to which the human body ever yields. Men describe it
differently; but, by all accounts, the victim is possessed by such a
terror of capture that each member of his body is in a constant tremor.
Instances have been known where, owing to a sudden attack of this
shivering palsy, he has had to quit a "job" that was almost finished. If
these fits once become customary the man is unqualified for any kind of
work ever after, and usually ends his life in the lowest class of the
outcasts' world--the "tomato-can tramp class."
It is interesting to note where criminals draw the dividing-line between
success and failure. Generally speaking, they consider a man fairly
successful if between imprisonments he gets a "vacation," as they call
it, of eight or ten months, and is lucky enough during this period to
make sufficient "hauls" to compensate him for the almost inevitable
punishment that follows. The understanding, of course, in all this is
that he gets the benefit, either in carousals or more practical
investments, of the money he has been lucky enough to win. As a rule,
however, the plunder usually goes in debauches, and very quickly, too;
but the criminal always hopes to recoup himself by a great stake which
is to be put away in safety. If he be a man of average criminal wit and
experience, particularly the latter, he can frequently secure the
vacation of eight months for a number of years. But the more confinement
he suffers the more reckless he becomes, and the less able to think
carefully; and there are a great many men who soon find that even six
months is the most that they can count on. This time, however, is not
enough, as a rule, for the hauls necessary to offset the expected term
in prison; and the criminal is usually clever enough to get out of the
business. He then bids good-by to his more tenacious brethren and joins
the tramp class, where he is made welcome by others who have joined it
before him. He becomes a tramp because it is the career that comes
nearest to the one he hoped to do well in. Besides affording
considerable amusement, it also permits the discouraged man to keep
track of the comrades whom he used to know in the higher walks of
outlawry; and this is an attraction not to be overlooked.
It is usual to classify the criminal according to the crimes he commits.
One classification, for example, makes murderers the least intelligent;
vagabonds, sexual offenders, and highwaymen a little more so; while the
fraudulent class, pickpockets and burglars, are accounted the most
gifted of all. I think this a fair division and one that will generally
hold good; but I have found that criminals who commit crimes against
property, or the fraudulent class, are far and away in the majority.
Their native intelligence will compare favorably with that of the
average run of people; and I have been unable to discover any mental
defects until they have been a long time in prison. Nearly all of them
can read and write very well indeed; and there are many who have read
far more than the ordinary business man. I have met men, very low-born
men too, who, while in prison, have read through more volumes of
philosophy and history than even the usual college student can boast in
his reading; and they have been able to converse very wisely on these
subjects. These same men have acquired the rudiments of their studies in
reformatory and industrial institutions, and have succeeded in
continuing them in the libraries of penitentiaries. I know one criminal
who in his prison-cell informed himself about a branch of chemistry
simply for purposes of business: he was thought at the time to be more
or less crazy.
Prison officials are often deceived by criminals in regard to their
acquirements in learning. In many prisons, diligence and progress in
study earn as much promotion as general good conduct does; and as the
average prisoner has every reason to desire the benefits which
promotions bring with them, he tries after a fashion to progress. But
what is this fashion? Very frequently this: On his arrival at the
prison, instead of telling the truth to the officials who quiz him about
his abilities, he says that he does not even know the alphabet, and is
consequently given very light mental work. He is thus able to advance
rapidly, and his teachers pride themselves on his quickness to learn and
their ability to teach. Ere long he gets into a better class, and so on
until he has enjoyed all the benefits which precocity can earn. There
are other men who profess ignorance in order to appear simple and
unknowing, and thus create the impression that they are not so guilty as
they are taken to be. Many times and in many cases the criminal is a
little cleverer than the people who are examining him; and one cannot
set a high value on statistics concerning his intelligence. If the
student of criminology could and would eavesdrop for a while at some
"hang-out" in the open, and hear the criminal's own account of the way
he is investigated, he might learn "foxier" methods of dealing with his
subject.
One other fact belongs properly to this division: The professional
criminal is not, in his own class, the revolutionary creature that he
seems when preying upon the classes above him. His attitude toward
society in general is without doubt disrespectful and anarchistic, and
it is usually immaterial to him what happens to society as such, so long
as he can make a "stake"; but in his own environment he is one of the
most conservative of human beings. There is no class, for instance,
where old age and mature opinion receive more respect and carry more
weight; and, as a general thing, the young men in it--the radical
element--are expected to take a back seat. At a hang-out gathering they
must always show deference to the older men, and nothing is so severely
judged as "freshness" on their part.
I think this is a characteristic of the criminal that might be turned to
good account if he should ever be won over to respectable living: in
affairs of the State, provided he had a fair share of this world's
goods, he would be found invariably on the conservative rather than on
the radical side.
IV
I come now to the question of the criminal's moral responsibility. Can
he be held definitely answerable for his evil-doing, or is he morally
insane and unable to distinguish between right and wrong? The
instinctive criminal must be irresponsible, and his treatment should be
such as we give to insane people. As I know him, he cannot help his
criminal actions; it is in him to do them; and the only merciful thing
is to put him where he at least cannot continue his depredations on
society, and where, if cure be possible, he may be in the hands of
specialists best fitted to help him. But, as I said at the outset, he is
not the sort of criminal that I have found in largest numbers in the
open. It is the commercial criminal that predominates there; and, as a
rule, he can be held responsible for his evil-doing.
It is often said that his lack of remorse for his crimes proves him to
be morally incompetent; but this opinion is founded on insufficient
knowledge of his life. He has two systems of morality: one for his
business, and the other for the hang-out. The first is this: "Society
admits that the quarrel with me is over after I have served out my
sentence; and I, naturally enough, take the same view of the matter. It
is simply one of take and pay. I take something from society and give in
exchange so many years of my life. If I come out ahead, so much the
better for me; if society comes out ahead, so much the worse for me, and
there is no use in whimpering over the transaction." So long as he
remains in the business he thinks it only fair to "stick up for it"; and
he dislikes and will not associate with men who denounce it in public.
This is his attitude toward the world at large. He puts on a bold front,
and, as he himself says, "nerves" the thing through. In the bosom of his
hang-out, however,--and this is where we ought to study his ethics,--he
is a very different man. His code of morals there will compare favorably
with that of any class of society; and there is no class in which fair
dealing is more seriously preached, and unfair dealing more severely
condemned. The average criminal will stand by a fellow-craftsman through
thick and thin; and the only human being he will not tolerate is the one
who turns traitor. The remorse of this traitor when brought to bay by
his former brethren I have never seen exceeded anywhere. It was my fate
some years ago, while living with tramps, to be lodged in a jail where
one of the prisoners was a "State's evidence" witness. He had been
released from prison by promising to tell tales on an old man,--who was
supposed to be the main culprit in the crime in question,--and was
lodging in the jail until the trial was over. Unfortunately for him,
some of the prisoners had known him prior to this episode in his career;
and they sent him to Coventry so completely that his life in the jail
became unbearable, and he almost died ere he could give his testimony.
At night we could hear him groaning in his sleep as if he were
undergoing the most fearful torture, and in the daytime he slunk around
the corridors like a whipped dog. He lived to give his evidence in the
trial, and was released from durance; but a few days later he was found
dead by his own hand. When the inmates of the jail heard of his fate
they relented a little in their hatred of him; but the final opinion was
that suicide was the best solution of the problem.
It is thought by criminologists that the good fellowship of the criminal
is due to self-preservation and the fear that each man will hang
separately if all do not hang together. They maintain that his good
feeling is not genuine and spontaneous emotion, and that it is
immaterial what happens to a "pal" so long as he himself succeeds. This
is not my experience in his company. He has never had the slightest
intimation that I would return favors that he did me; and in the
majority of instances he has had every reason to know that it was not in
my power to show him the friendliness he wanted. Yet he has treated me
with an altruism that even a Tolstoi might admire. At the hang-out I
have been hospitably entertained on all occasions; and I have never met
a criminal there who would not have given me money or seen me through a
squabble, had I needed his assistance and he was able to give it. This
same comradeship is noticeable in all his relations with men who are in
the least connected with his life and business; and it is a notorious
fact that he will "divvy" his last meal with a pal. To have to refuse
the request of one of his fellows, or to do him an unkindness, is as
much regretted by the criminal as by any one else; and I have never
known him to tell me a lie or to cheat me or to make fun of me behind
my back.
There are also some things in his relations with the outside world
which, in his heart of hearts, he regrets and repents of as much as he
does the misdeeds in his own world. He always feels bad, for instance,
when he takes money from the poor. It sometimes happens in his raids
that he makes mistakes and gets into the wrong house, or has been
deceived about the wealth of his victims; and if he discovers that he
has robbed a poor man, or one who cannot conveniently bear the loss, he
is ashamed and never enjoys the plunder thus won. He is too near the
poor, in both birth and sentiment, not to feel remorse for such an
action; and I have known him to send back money after he has discovered
that the person from whom he took it needed it more than he.
The taking of life is another deed that he regrets far more than he has
been given credit for. One thinks of the criminal as the man who has no
respect for life, as one who takes it without any twitchings of
conscience; but this is not the general rule. The business criminal
never takes a life, if he can help it; and when he does, he expects, in
court, to receive the death-penalty. Indeed, he believes, as a rule,
that murder deserves capital punishment; and I have often heard him
express wonder at the lightness of the penalties which murderers
receive.
At the hang-out a favorite topic of discussion is, which penalty is
preferable--life-imprisonment or death. The consensus of opinion has
generally run in favor of life-imprisonment, even with no hope of
pardon; but I have never heard a whimper against the justice of the
death-sentence.
It is also true that the majority of criminals regret finding a man in
their class who has once belonged to a better one. They are invariably
sorry that he has lost caste, no matter what the circumstances have been
that have brought him low, and are more likely to help him back to
decent society, providing he shows repentance and willingness to do
better, than they are to help themselves.
Philanthropists might learn a great deal of charity from the criminal.
His idea is that it is better to keep a member of a respectable class of
society from falling than it is to raise some one in a lower class to a
higher one--a philosophy which I think very sound.
One more regret which nearly all criminals of the class I am considering
have experienced at one time or another in their lives, is that
circumstances have led them into a criminal career. Their remorse may be
only for a moment, and an exaggerated indifference often follows it; but
while it lasts it is genuine and sincere. I have never known a criminal
well who has not confessed to me something of this sort; and he has
often capped it with a further confidence--his sorrow that it was now
too late to try anything else.
V
Such, in hurried and transitory outline, is the impression the criminal
has made upon me in the open day. The mistakes which criminologists
have made in regard to his case seem to me to be these: They have failed
to take note of the fearful effects of confinement upon his health; they
have allowed themselves to be deceived by him in regard to his
intelligence; and they have judged of his moral status simply from his
"faked" attitude toward the world at large, failing to take into account
his ethics among his fellows. I believe, too, that they are on the wrong
track in their studies of the criminal's skull. They have examined it in
all manner of ways with an ever-varying result; for each investigator
comes to a different conclusion. Far better for criminology to study the
criminal's _milieu_; and until this is done thoroughly and
conscientiously, he cannot be reasonably apprehended and scientifically
treated.
So far as our present knowledge of his case can help us, he himself
teaches what ought to be done with him. I have written of the
discouraged criminal--the man who has given up crime because he has
discovered that it was not worth the pains it cost him. Punishment, or
expiatory discipline, if you please, has brought him to this conclusion.
Here is good penology for us. If a man does wrong, wilfully and
knowingly, he must be disciplined till he learns that society will not
tolerate such conduct. The discouraged criminal is one who has been thus
instructed. Now that he is a tramp, the same principle must be applied
to him again: make him a discouraged vagabond. Such is the treatment
which society must bring to bear on the deliberate law-breaker.
If I have studied the criminal to any purpose, it is with the resulting
conviction that he is physically, mentally, and morally responsible; and
that, though unhappy in his birth and environment, the very energy which
has enabled him to get away from his poverty is the "promise and
potency" of a better life. And human hope looks forward to a day when,
in the regeneration of his class, he shall be born into better things
than crime.
II
THE CHILDREN OF THE ROAD
I
The real "road" is variously named and variously described. By the
"ambulanter" it is called Gipsyland, by the tramp Hoboland; the fallen
woman thinks it is the street, the thief, that it means stealing and the
penitentiary; even the little boy who reads dime novels and fights
hitching-posts for desperados believes momentarily that he too is on the
real road. All these are indeed branches of the main line. The road
proper, or "the turf," as the people who toil along its stretches
sometimes prefer to call it, is low life in general. It winds its way
through dark alleys and courts to dives and slums, and wherever
criminals, hoboes, outcast women, stray and truant children congregate;
but it never leads to the smiling windows and doorways of a happy home,
except for plunder and crime. There is not a town in the land that it
does not touch, and there are but few hamlets that have not sent out at
least one adventurer to explore its twists and turnings.
The travelers, as I have said, are of all kinds, conditions, and ages:
some old and crippled, some still in their prime, and others just
beginning life. To watch in thought the long and motley procession
marching along is to see a panorama of all the sins, sorrows, and
accidents known to human experience. Year after year they trudge on and
on, and always on, seeking a goal which they never seem to find.
Occasionally they halt for a while at some half-way house, where they
have heard that there is a resting-place of their desire; but it
invariably proves disappointing, and the tramp, tramp, tramp begins
afresh. Young and old, man and woman, boy and girl, all go on together;
and as one dies or wearies of the march, another steps into his
heel-tracks, and the ranks close up as solidly as ever.
The children of the road have always been to me its most pitiful
investiture, and I have more than once had dreams and plans that looked
to the rescue of these prematurely outcast beings. It needs skilled
philanthropists and penologists, however, for such a work, and I must
content myself with contributing experiences and facts which may perhaps
aid in the formation of theory, and thus throw light upon the practical
social tasks that are before us.
There are four distinct ways by which boys and girls get upon the road:
some are born there, some are driven there, others are enticed there,
and still others go there voluntarily.
Of those who are born on the road, perhaps the least known are the
children of the ambulanters. The name is a tramp invention, and not
popular among the ambulanters themselves. They prefer to be called
gipsies, and try at times, especially when compelled by law to give some
account of themselves, to trace their origin to Egypt; but the most of
them, I fear, are degenerated Americans. How they have become so is a
question which permits of much conjecture, and in giving my own
explanation I do not want it to be taken as applicable to the entire
class. I know only about fifty families, and not more than half of these
at all familiarly; but those whom I do know seem to me to be the victims
of a pure and simple laziness handed down from generation to generation
until it has become a chronic family disease. From what they have told
me confidentially about their natural history, I picture their
forefathers as harmless village "do-nothings," who lounged in corner
groceries, hung about taverns, and followed the fire-engine and the
circus. The second generation was probably too numerous for the home
parish, and, inheriting the talent for loafing, started out to find
roomier lounges. It must have wandered far and long, for upon the third
generation, the one that I know, the love of roaming descended to such a
degree that all North America is none too large for it. Go where one
will, in the most dismal woods, the darkest lanes, or on the widest
prairies, there the ambulanter may be found tenting with his large and
unkempt family. He comes and goes as his restless spirit dictates, and
the horse and wagon carry him from State to State.
It is in Illinois that I know his family best. Cavalier John, as he
proudly called himself, I remember particularly. He gave me shelter one
night in his wagon, as I was toiling along the highway south of Ottawa,
and we became such good friends that I traveled with his caravan for
three days. And what a caravan it was! A negro wife, five little
mulattoes, a deformed white girl, three starved dogs, a sore-eyed cat, a
blasphemous parrot, a squeaking squirrel, a bony horse, and a
canvas-topped wagon, and all were headed "Texas way." John came from
Maine originally, but he had picked up his wife in the West, and it was
through their united efforts in trickery and clever trading that they
had acquired their outfit. So far as I could learn, neither of them had
ever done an honest stroke of business. The children ranged from three
years to fourteen, and the deformed girl was nearly twenty. John found
her among some other ambulanters in Ohio, and, thinking that he might
make money out of her physical monstrosities as "side-shows," cruelly
traded off an old fox for her. She ought to have been in an insane
asylum, and I hope John has put her there long ago. The other "kidlets,"
as they were nicknamed, were as deformed morally as was the adopted girl
physically. They had to beg in every town and village they came to, and
at night their father took the two oldest with him in his raids on the
hen-roosts. It was at town and county fairs, however, that they were the
most profitable. Three knew how to pick pockets, and the two youngest
gave acrobatic exhibitions. None of them had ever been in school, none
could read or write, and the only language they spoke was the one of
their class. I have never been able to learn it well, but it is a
mixture of Rom and tramp dialects with a dash of English slang.
On the journey we met another caravan, bound West by way of Chicago.
There were two families, and the children numbered sixteen; the oldest
ranging from fifteen to twenty, and the youngest had just appeared. We
camped together in a wood for a night and a day, and seldom have I
sojourned in such company. John had given me a place with him in the
wagon, but now the woman with the babe was given the wagon, and John and
I slept, or tried to, "in the open." In the other wagon, both sexes,
young and old, were crowded into a space not much larger than the
ordinary omnibus, and the vermin would have made sleep impossible to any
other order of beings. The next day, being Sunday, was given over to
play and revel, and the poor horses had a respite from their sorrows.
The children invented a queer sort of game, something like "shinny," and
used a dried-up cat's head as block. They kicked, pounded, scratched,
and cursed one another; but when the play was over all was well again,
and the block was tucked away in the wagon for further use. Late at
night the journeys were taken up once more, one caravan moving on toward
Dakota, and the other toward the Gulf.
"Salawakkee!"[1] cried John, as he drove away; and the strangers cried
back, "Chalamu!"[2]
I wonder what has become of that little baby for whom I sat the night
out? It is over ten years ago now, and he has probably long since been
compelled to play his part in crime, and scratch and fight as his older
brothers and sisters did on that autumn Sunday morning. Certainly there
is nowhere in the world a more ferocious set of children than these of
the ambulanters. From morning till night it is one continual snap and
bite, and the depraved fathers and mothers look on and grin. They have
not the faintest ideal of home, and their only outlook in life is some
day to have a "rig" of their own and prowl throughout the land, seeking
whom they may devour. To tame them is a task requiring almost divine
patience. I should not know how to get at them. They laugh at
tenderness, never say "Thank you," and obey their parents only when
driven with boot and whip. I wish that I could suggest some gentle
method by which they could be rescued from the road and made good men
and women. It always seems harsh to apply strict law to delinquents so
young and practically innocent, but it is the only remedy I can offer.
They must be put under stiff rule and order, and trained strictly and
long. Although lacking gipsy blood, they have acquired gipsy character,
and it will take generations to get it out of them. Just how many
children are born on the road is a question which even the ambulanter
would find difficult to answer. They are scattered so widely and in such
out-of-the-way places that a census is almost impossible. In the
families that I have met there have never been less than four children.
Gipsy Sam once told me that he believed there were at least two hundred
ambulanter families in the United States, but this will strike every one
as a low estimate; however, if this is true, and each family has as many
boys and girls as those that I have met, then there must be at least a
thousand of their kind.
Another kind of ragamuffin, also born on the road, and in many ways akin
to the ambulanter, although wanting such classification, is the one
found so often in those families which every community supports, but
relegates to its uttermost boundary-lines. They are known as "the
McCarthys," "the Night-Hawks," or "the Holy Frights," as the case may
be. I have found no town in the United States of twenty thousand
inhabitants without some such little Whitechapel in its vicinity, and,
like the famous original, it is often considered dangerous to enter
unarmed. Speaking generally, there is a great deal of fiction afloat
concerning these tabooed families, a number of them being simply poor or
lazy people whom the boys of the vicinity have exaggerated into gangs of
desperados. There are, however, some that are really very bad, and I
have found them even in new little villages. They are not exactly
out-and-out criminals whom the police can get hold of, but moral lepers
who by public consent have been sentenced to live without the pale of
civilization.
Some years ago I had occasion to visit one of these miniature
Whitechapels. It was situated in a piece of woods not far from St. Paul,
Minnesota, and belonged by right of appropriation to three families who
were called "the Stansons." A tramp friend of mine had been taken sick
in their camp, and I was in duty bound to go out to see him. I managed
to find the settlement all right, but was stopped about a hundred yards
from the log shanties by a bushy-bearded man, barefooted and clad only
in trousers, who asked my errand. My story evidently satisfied him, for
he led the way to the largest of the shanties, where I found my friend.
He was lying in the middle of the floor on some straw, the only
furniture in the room being a shaky table and a three-legged chair. All
about him, some even lying in the straw beside him, were half-clothed
children of both sexes, playing "craps" and eating hunks of bread well
daubed with molasses. I counted nine in that shanty alone, and about as
many again in the other two. They belonged severally to six women who
were apportioned after Mormon custom to three men. The tramp told me in
his dialect that they really were Mormons and came from Utah. He was
passing by their "hang-out," as he called it, when taken ill, and they
hospitably lodged him. He said they had not been there long, having come
up the river from Des Moines, Iowa, where they had also had a camp; but
long enough, I discovered on my return to St. Paul, to acquire a
reputation among the city lads for all kinds of "toughness." I suppose
they were "tough" when considered from certain viewpoints, but, as the
tramp said, it was the silliest kind he had known. They were not
thieves, and only luke-warm beggars, but they did seem to love their
outlandish existence. The children interested me especially, for they
all spoke a queer jargon which they themselves had invented. It was
something like the well-known "pig Latin" that all sorts of children
like to play with, but much more complicated and difficult to
understand. And, except the very youngest, who naturally cried a little,
they were the jolliest children I have ever seen in such terrible
circumstances. The mothers were the main breadwinners, and while I was
there one of them started off to town on a begging trip, with a batch of
children as "guy." The men sat around, smoked, and talked about the
woods. The tramp told me later, however, that they occasionally raided a
hen-roost. Since my visit to the Stansons I have seen three of the
children in different places: one, a cripple, was begging at the World's
Fair; another was knocking about the Bowery; and the third, a girl, was
traveling with an ambulanter in the Mohawk valley.
Not all of these families are like the Stansons. A number are simply
rough-and-tumble people who haunt the outskirts of provincial towns, and
live partly by pilfering and partly from the municipal fund for the
poor. Somehow or other the children always dodge the school
commissioners, and grow up, I am sorry to say, very much like their
usually unmarried parents. On the other hand, there are several
well-known organized bands, and they thrive mainly, I think, in the
South and West. Near New Orleans there used to be, and for aught I know
they are still there, "the Jim Jams" and "the Rincheros"; near Cairo,
Illinois, "the River Rats"; near Chicago, "the Dippers"; and not far
from New York, in the Ramapo Mountains, I knew of "the Sliders," but
they have since moved on to new fields. Each of these families, or
collection of families, had its full quota of children. Very often the
public becomes so enraged at their petty thefts that an investigation is
ordered, and then there is a sudden packing of traps and quick departure
to a different neighborhood, where a new name is invented. But the
family itself never dies out entirely.
There are a few children who are born in Hoboland. Now and then, as one
travels along the railway lines, he will come to a hastily improvised
camp, where a pale, haggard woman is lying, and beside her a puny
infant, scarcely clothed, blinking with eyes of wonder upon the new
world about him. I know of no sadder sight than this in all trampdom.
Not even the accident of motherhood can make the woman anything but
unhuman, and the child, if he lives, grows up in a world which I believe
is unequaled for certain forms of wickedness. Fortunately, his little
body usually tires of the life ere he comes to realize what it is, and
his soul wanders back to regions of innocence, unsoiled and unscarred.
I wonder whether there are still men in Hoboland who remember that
interesting little fellow called "the Cheyenne Baby"? Surely there are
some who have not forgotten his grotesque vocabulary, and his utterly
overpowering way of using it. There are different stories concerning his
origin, and they vary in truthfulness, I have heard, as one travels
southward from the Northern Pacific to Santa Fé. I give the one told in
Colorado. It may be only a "ghost-story," and it may be true; all that I
know is that it is not impossible. According to its teaching, his mother
was once respectable and belonged to the politest society in the Indian
Territory. When quite a young girl she carelessly fell in love with a
handsome Indian chief, and, much to the disgust of her friends, married
him and went away into his camp. It must have been a wild life that she
led there, for within a year she was separated from him and living with
another Indian. It is the same pitiful story for the next five years;
she was knocked about from tent to tent and camp to camp. Her enemies
say that she liked that kind of life, but her friends know better, and
claim that she was ashamed to go home. However it was, she went over to
the cow-boys after a while, and it was then that the baby was born, and
she met the man, whoever he was, that introduced her into Hoboland. She
appeared one night at a hang-out near Denver, and there was something so
peculiarly forlorn about her that the men took pity on her and pressed
her to stay. This she did, and for some time traveled with the hoboes
throughout the districts lying between Cheyenne and Santa Fé. The boy
became a sort of "mascot," and was probably the only child in Hoboland
who was ever taught to be really good. The mother had stipulated with
the men that they should never teach him anything bad, and the idea
struck them as so comical that they fell in with it. Though they swore
continually in his presence, they invariably gave him some respectable
version of the conversation; and while about the only words he knew were
curses, he was made to believe they signified the nicest things in the
world. He died just as unknowing as he had lived, but it was a cruel
death. He and his mother, together with some companions, were caught one
night in a wreck on the Union Pacific, and all that the survivors could
find of him to bury was his right arm. But that was bravely honored,
and, unless the coyotes have torn down the wooden slab, the grave can
still be found on the prairies.
I cannot leave this division of my theme without saying something about
that large army of unfathered children who, to my mind, are just as much
born on the road as the less known types. True, many of them are handed
over at birth to some family to support, but the great majority of these
families are not one whit better than the ambulanters. They train the
orphans put into their care, in sin and crime, quite as carefully as the
hobo does his beggar boy. These are the children who make up the main
body of the class I have been considering, and it seems to me that they
increase from year to year. At present the only legitimate career for
them is that of the outcast, and into it they go. Few, indeed, succeed
in gaining a foothold in polite society. Their little lives form the
border-land of my second class, the children driven to the road.
II
Concerning the children who are forced upon the road there is a great
deal to be said, but much of this talk should be directed against the
popular belief that their number is legion. Socialists particularly
think that hundreds upon hundreds of boys and girls are compelled by
hunger to beg and steal for a living. In England I once heard a labor
agitator declare that there are a million of these juvenile "victims of
capital" in the United States alone. I do not know where the man got his
information, but if my finding counts for anything it is deplorably
unsound. I cannot claim to have studied the subject as carefully as is
necessary to know it absolutely, but in most of our large cities I have
given it close attention, and never have I found anything like the state
of affairs which even the general public believes to exist. For every
child forced by starvation to resort to the road I have met ten who were
born there, and nearly the same number who were enticed there. In saying
this, however, I do not want to draw emphasis or sympathy away from that
certainly existing class of children who really have been driven into
outlawry. But it is an injustice to our sober poor to say that they
exist in those large numbers that are so often quoted. Not long ago I
made it my special business for a while to look into the condition of
some of these compulsory little vagabonds in New York city. I picked out
those children whom one sees so often pilfering slyly from the
groceryman's sidewalk display. It is an old, old trick. The youngsters
divide themselves into "watchers" and "snatchers"; the former keeping an
eye on the police as well as the owners of the things coveted, and the
latter grabbing when the wink is given. The crime itself is not a heavy
one according to the calendar, but it is only a step from this to
picking pockets, and only a half-step farther to highway robbery. I
chose this particular class because I had often noticed the members of
it in my walks through the city, and it had seemed to me the least
necessary of all. Then, too, there was something in the pinched faces
that made me anxious to know the children personally on grounds of
charity. The great majority of youthful travelers on the road are
comparatively well fed, to say the least, and, much as one pities their
fate, he will seldom have cause to weep over their starved condition.
But here was something different, and I fancied that I was to get a
glimpse into the life of those people to whom the socialist points when
asked for living examples of human woe caused by inhuman capitalists.
It was not hard to "get in" with the children. Finding that I was
willing to play with them at their games in the alleys and on top of
their rickety tenement-houses, they edged up to me rather cordially, and
we were soon "pals." There was nothing very new in their life, but I was
struck with the great interest they took in their petty thefts. In the
midst of the most boisterous play they would gladly stop if some one
suggested a clever plan by which even a can of preserves could be
"swiped," as they called it, and the next instant they were trying to
carry it to a finish. They were not what I could call instinctive
criminals--far from it; but a long intimacy with the practices of
outlawry, though small in their way, had so deadened their moral sense
that sneak-thieving came to them almost as naturally as it does to the
kleptomaniac. Even in their games they cheated whenever it was possible,
and it seemed to me that the main fun was seeing how cleverly and yet
boldly they could do so without being detected. I recall distinctly one
afternoon when we were playing "Hi spy." A little fellow called Jamie
took me aside, and in the most friendly way advised me not to be so
"goody-goody." I had been very unlucky in getting caught, and he said
that it was because I gave in too quickly.
"When ye hear yer name," he continued, "jus' lie low, 'cause like as not
the catcher ain't seen ye, 'n' if he has he can't prove it; so ye 'r'
all right anyhow. Ye'll always be 'It' if ye don't do something like
that; 'n' there ain't no fun in that, is there?" he added, winking his
left eye in a truly professional manner.
So much for their native endowment. Their accomplishment in thieving, I
have no doubt, kept them often from going hungry, notwithstanding the
fact that there was honest industry at home, generally that of the
mother, while the father's earnings went almost bodily into the
publican's till.
I found it much more difficult to make friends with the parents, but
succeeded in several cases--that is, with the mother; the father I
usually found drunk at the saloon. I shall not try to give an account of
the squalor and sorrow that I encountered; this has been done in other
places by far more able pens than mine; but I cannot forbear making a
note of one little woman whom I saw sewing her very life away, and
thinking all the while that she was really supporting her hungry
children. I shall never forget the picture she made as she sat there by
the alley window, driving the needle with lightning-like rapidity
through the cloth--a veritable Madonna of the Needle. Her good cheer was
something stupendous. Not once did she murmur, and when her brute of a
husband returned, insanely intoxicated, she took care of him as if he
were the best man in the world. I was careful that she did not hear from
me about the tricks of her wayward children. Some day, however, I fear
that one of them will be missing, and when she goes to the police
station to make inquiries I should rather not confront her. The main
reason why hungry boys and girls are found upon the road is drunken
fathers.
There are also children who, instead of being forced to steal, are sent
out into the streets by their parents to beg. From morning till night
they trudge along the busy thoroughfares, dodging with cat-like agility
the lumbering wagons that bear down upon them, and accosting every
person whom their trained eyes find at all likely to listen to their
appeals. Late at night, if perchance they have had the necessary luck
during the day, they crawl back to their hovels and hand over the
winnings to their heavy-eyed fathers. Or, as often happens, if the day
has been unsuccessful and the pennies are not numerous enough to
satisfy their cruel masters, they take refuge in some box or barrel, and
pray to the beggar's Providence that the next day will go better.
They come, as a rule, from our foreign population. I have never found
one with American-born parents, and in many instances the children
themselves have emigrated from Europe, usually from Italy. There is no
doubt that they have to beg to live; but when one looks a little further
into their cases, a lazy or dissipated parent is usually the one to
blame. Then, too, mendicancy is not considered disgraceful among many of
our immigrants, and they send their children into the streets of our
cities quite as freely as they do at home. They also are mainly at fault
for that awful institution which some of our large towns support, where
babies are rented to grown-up beggars to excite the sympathy of the
passers-by. I looked into one of these places in San Francisco, while
traveling with the hoboes, and it was the very counterpart of an African
slave-market. A French-Canadian woman, old enough to be the
great-grandmother of all her wares, kept it. She rented the babies from
poverty-stricken mothers, and re-rented them at a profit to the begging
women of the town. There were two customers in the place when I entered,
and the old wretch was trying in true peddler style to bring out the
good points of four little bits of humanity cuddled together on a plank
bed.
"Oh, he's just the kind you want," she said to one of the women; "never
cries, and"--leaning over, she whispered in a Shylock voice--"he don't
eat hardly anything; _half a bottle o' milk does him the whole day_."
The woman was satisfied, and, paying her deposit of two dollars, took
the sickly thing in her arms and went out into the town. The other could
find nothing that suited her, but promised to return the next day, when
a "new batch" was expected.
Such are the main avenues by which boys and girls are driven to the road
in the United States. Hunger, I candidly admit, is the whip in many
instances, but the wielder of it is more often than not the drunken
father or mother. It is the hunger that comes of selfish indulgence, and
not of ill adjusted labor conditions.
III
[Illustration: THE MODE OF TRAVEL THAT ATTRACTS BOYS.]
Of my third class, those who are enticed to the road,--and their number
is legion,--I have been able to discover three different types. The old
roadster knows them all. Wherever he goes they cross his path, and beg
him to stop awhile and tell them of his travels. They seem to realize
that they have been swindled--that the road is, after all, only a
tantalizing delusion; but they cannot understand why it appeals to so
many of their elders, and it is in the hope that these will in the end
put them on the right track for the fun they are seeking that they hail
them, and cry, "What cheer?" It is a pitiful call, this, and even the
"old stager" winces at times on hearing it; but he cannot bring himself
to go back on "the profession," and quickly conquering his emotion, he
gives the tiny traveler fresh directions. The boy starts out anew,
hoping against experience that he is at last on the right route, and
plods on eagerly until stopped again at some troublesome cross-road
where he does not know which turn to take. Once more he asks for
directions, once more receives them, and so the ceaseless trudge goes
on. It is mainly at the cross-roads that I have learned to know these
children. Notwithstanding my alien position, they have hailed me too,
and inquired for sign-posts. I have seldom been able to help them, even
in the way that I most desired, but surely there are others who can.
The children of this third class that one meets oftenest are what the
older travelers call "worshipers of the tough." They have somehow got
the idea that cow-boy swagger and the criminal's lingo are the main
features of a manly man, and having an abnormal desire to realize their
ideal as quickly as possible, they go forth to acquire them. The hunt
soon lures them to the road, and up and down its length they scamper,
with faces so eager and intent that one is seldom at a loss to know what
they are seeking. There are different explanations of the charm that
this wild life has for them. A great many people believe that it is
purely and simply the work of the devil on their evil-bent natures;
others, that it is the result of bad training; and still others, that it
is one form of the mimicry with which every child is endowed in larger
or smaller degree. I favor the last opinion. In the bottom of their
hearts they are no worse than the average boy and girl, but they have
been unfortunate enough to see a picture or hear a story of some famous
rascal, and it has lodged in their brains, until the temptation to "go
and do likewise" has come upon them with such overwhelming force that
they simply cannot resist. Each one has some particular pattern
continually before his eyes, and only as he approaches it does he feel
that he is becoming tough. Now it is "Blinkey Morgan" that fascinates
him, and, despite his terrible end, he strives to be like him; then it
is "Wild Bill," whoever he may be; and not unfrequently it is a
character that has existed only in dime novels, or not even so
substantially as that.
I remember well a little fellow, about thirteen years old, who appeared
in Indian-scout attire one night at a hang-out near McCook, Nebraska. He
dropped in while the tramps were cooking their coffee, and seldom has
there been such a laugh on the "Q" railroad as they gave on seeing him.
It was impolite, and they begged his pardon later, but even his guardian
angel would have smiled. He was dressed from head to foot in leather
clothes each piece made by himself, he said, and at his belt hung an
enormous revolver, which some one had been careful enough to make
useless by taking out an important screw. It was in the hope of finding
one at the camp that he visited it, but the men made so much of him that
he remained until his story was told. It was not remarkably new, for all
that he wanted was a chance to shoot Indians, but his hero was a little
unusual,--Kalamazoo Chickamauga, he called him. When asked who he was
and where he had lived, all that the youngster could say was that he had
dreamed about him! I saw him again a week or so later, not far from
Denver, tramping along over the railroad-ties with long strides far
beyond his measure, and he hoped to be at "Deadtown," as he miscalled
Deadwood, in a few days. He had not yet found a screw for his "gun,"
but he was sure that "Buffalo Charley" would give him one.
Of course this is a unique case, in a way, for one does not meet many
lads in such an outfit, but there are scores of others just as sincere
and fully as innocent. If one could only get hold of them ere they reach
the road, nearly all could be brought to reason. They are the most
impressionable children in the world, and there must be a way by which
this very quality may be turned to their advantage. What this way shall
be can be determined only by those who know well the needs of each
child, but there is one suggestion I cannot forbear making. Let
everything possible be done to keep these sensitive boys and girls, but
particularly the former, from familiarity with crime. Do not thrust
desperadoism upon them from the shop-windows through the picture-covered
dime novels and the flaring faces of the "Police Gazette." It is just
such teaching by suggestion that starts many an honest but romantic boy
off to the road, when a little cautious legislation might save him years
of foolish wandering, and the State the expense of housing him in its
reformatories later on. I write with feeling at this point, for I know
from personal experience what tantalizing thoughts a dime novel will
awaken in such a boy's mind. One of these thoughts will play more havoc
with his youth than can be made good in his manhood, and lucky is he
whom it does not lure on and on until the return path is forever lost.
[Illustration: YOUTHFUL TRESPASSERS.]
Something like these children in temperament, but totally different in
most other respects, are those lads that one meets so often on our
railroads, drifting about for a month or so from town to town, seldom
stopping in any of them over a day, and then suddenly disappearing, no
one knows where, to appear again, later, on another railroad, frequently
enough a thousand miles distant. Occasionally they are missed from the
road for over a year, and there is absolutely no news of their
whereabouts; but just as they are almost forgotten they come forward
once more, make a few journeys on the freight-trains, and vanish again.
There are cases on record where they have kept this up for years, some
of them coming and going with such regularity that their appearances may
be calculated exactly. Out West, not very long ago, there was a little
chap who "showed up" in this way, to use the expression that the
brakemen applied to him, every six weeks for three years, but this was
all that was known concerning him. When asked who he was and where he
belonged, he gave such evasive answers that it was impossible to come to
any trustworthy conclusion about him. He would have nothing to do with
the people he met, and I have heard that he always rode alone in the
box-cars. In this last respect he was a notable exception, for, as a
rule, these little nomads take great pleasure in talking with strangers,
but they are careful not to say too much about themselves. They ask
questions principally, and skip from one subject to another with a
butterfly rapidity, but manage to pick up a great deal of knowledge of
the road.
The tramps' theory of them is that they are possessed of the
"railroad fever" and I am inclined to agree with them, but I accept the
expression in its broader sense of _Wanderlust_. They want to get out
into the world, and at stated periods the desire is so strong and the
road so handy that they simply cannot resist the temptation to explore
it. A few weeks usually suffice to cool their ardor, and then they run
home quite as summarily as they left, but they stay only until the next
runaway mood seizes them. I have been successful in getting really well
acquainted with several of these interesting wanderers, and in each case
this has been the situation. They do not want to be tough, and many of
them could not be if they tried; but they have a passion for seeing
things on their own hook, and if the mood for a "trip" comes, it seems
to them the most natural thing in the world to indulge it. If they had
the means they would ride on Pullman cars and imagine themselves
princes, but lacking the wherewithal, they take to the road.
I knew in New York State a boy of this sort who had as comfortable a
home as a child could wish, but he was cursed with this strange
_Wanderlust_, and throughout his boyhood there was hardly a month that
he did not run away. The queerest things enticed him to go. Sometimes
the whistle of a railway-engine was enough to make him wild with unrest,
and again the sight of the tame but to him fascinating village street
was sufficient to set him planning his route of travel. In every
escapade it was his imagination that stampeded him. Many a time, when he
was in the most docile of moods, some fanciful thought of the world at
large, and what it held in waiting for him, would dance across his
brain, and before he could analyze it, or detect the swindle, he was
scampering off for the railroad station. Now it was a wish to go West
and play trapper and scout, and then it was the dream of American
boyhood,--a life cramped but struggling, and emerging in glorious
success as candidate for the Presidency. Garfield's biography, I
remember, once started him on such a journey, and it took years to get
the notion out of his head that simply living and striving as Garfield
did was sure to bring the same results. Frequently his wanderings ended
several hundred miles from home, but much oftener in some distracting
vagabond's hang-out in a neighboring city. Fortunately the fever burned
itself out ere he had learned to like the road for its own sake, and he
lived to wonder how he had harbored or indulged such insane impulses. A
large number of these truants, however, have no good homes and indulgent
parents to return to, and after a while the repeated punishment seems to
them so unjust and cruel that there comes a trip which never ends. The
_Wanderlust_ becomes chronic, and mainly because it was not treated
properly in its intermittent stage. There is no use in whipping these
children; they are not to blame; all that one can do is to busy their
imaginations in wholesome ways, watch them carefully, and, if they must
wander, direct their wanderings. In many cases this is possible, for the
fever breaks out among children of the best birth as well as among those
of the lowest; and in these instances, at least, the parents have much
to answer for if the children reach the road. I look upon this fever as
quite as much of a disease as the craze to steal which is found now and
then in some child's character, and it deserves the same careful
treatment. Punishment only aggravates it, and develops in the boy a
feeling of hatred for all about him. I firmly believe that some day this
trouble in so many boys' lives will be pathologically treated by medical
men, and the sooner that day comes the better will it be for many
unfortunate children.
It is a different story that I have to tell of the children decoyed into
Hoboland. True, they also are, in a measure, seized with this same
_Wanderlust_, and without this it would be impossible for the tramp to
influence them as he does; but, on the other hand, without him to excite
and direct this passion, very few of them would ever reach trampdom. He
happens along at their very weakest moments, and, perceiving his
advantage, cruelly fires their imagination with tales of adventure and
travel, and before they discover their danger he has them in his
clutches. It is really one of the wonders of the world, the power that
this ugly, dissipated, tattered man has over the children he meets. In
no other country that I have visited is there anything like it. He stops
at a town for a few hours, collects the likely boys about him at his
hang-out, picks out the one that he thinks will serve him best, and then
begins systematically to fascinate him. If he understands the art well
(and it is a carefully studied art), he can almost always get the one he
wants. Often enough his choice is some well-bred child, unaccustomed,
outside his dreams, to any such life, but the man knows so perfectly how
to piece out those dreams and make them seducingly real that in a
moment of enthusiasm the youngster gives himself up to the bewitching
influence and allows the wretch to lead him away. As a rule, however,
his victims are the children of the poor, for they are the easiest to
approach. A few hours of careful tactics, provided they are in the mood,
and he has one of them riding away with him, not merely in the box-car
of a freight-train, but on the through train to Hoboland.
[Illustration: TELLING "GHOST STORIES."]
Watch him at his preliminary work. He is seated on the top of an
ash-barrel in a filthy back alley. A crowd of gamins gaze up at him with
admiring eyes. When he tells his ghost-stories, each one thinks that he
is being talked to just as much as the rest, and yet somehow, little by
little, there is a favorite who is getting more and more than his share
of the winks and smiles; soon the most exciting parts of the stories are
gradually devoted to him alone, but in such an artful way that he
himself fails to notice it at first. It is not long, however, before he
feels his importance. He begins to wink, too, but just as slyly as his
charmer, and his little mouth curls into a return smile when the others
are not looking. "I'm his favorite, I am," he thinks. "He'll take me
with him, he will, and show me things."
He is what the hobo calls "peetrified," which means, as much as anything
else, hypnotized. The stories that he has heard amount to very little in
themselves, but the way they are told, the happy-go-lucky manner, the
subtle partiality, the winning voice, and the sensitiveness of the boy's
nature to things of wonder, all combine to turn his head. Then his own
parents cannot control him as can this slouching wizard.
In Hoboland the boy's life may be likened to that of a voluntary slave.
He is forced to do exactly what his "jocker" commands, and disobedience,
wilful or innocent, brings down upon him a most cruel wrath. Besides
being kicked, slapped, and generally maltreated, he is also loaned,
traded, and even sold, if his master sees money in the bargain. There
are, of course, exceptions, for I have myself known some jockers to be
almost as kind as fathers to their boys, but they are such rarities that
one can never count upon them. When a lad enters trampdom he must be
prepared for all kinds of brutal treatment, and the sooner he forgets
home gentleness the better will it be for him. In payment for all this
suffering and rough handling, he is told throughout his apprenticeship
that some day he too will be able to "snare" a boy, and make him beg and
slave for him as he has slaved for others. This is the one reward that
tramps hold out to their "prushuns," and the little fellows cherish it
so long that, when their emancipation finally comes, nearly all start
off to do the very same thing that was done to them when they were
children.
West of the Mississippi River there is a regular gang of these
"ex-kids," as they are termed in the vernacular, and all are supposed to
be looking for revenge. Until they get it there is still something of
the prushun about them which makes them unwelcome in the old stager
class. So they prowl about the community from place to place, looking
eagerly for some weak lad whom they can decoy and show to the
fraternity as evidence of their full membership. They never seem to
realize what an awful thing they are doing. If you remonstrate with
them, they reply: "W'y, you don't think we've been slavin' all this
while fer nothing do you? It's our turn to play jocker now," and, with a
fiendish look in their eyes, they turn and stalk away. Ten years and
more of tramp life have killed their better natures, and all that they
can think of is vengeance, unscrupulous and sure. In this way the number
of boys in Hoboland is always kept up to a certain standard. Every year
a number are graduated from the prushun class, and go out into the world
immediately to find younger children to take the places they have left.
In time these do the same thing, and so on, until to-day there is no
line of outlawry so sure of recruits as vagabondage. Each beggar is a
propagandist, and his brethren expect of him at least one convert.
IV
There is not much that I can say of the children who go to the road
voluntarily. I am sure that there are such, for I have traveled with
them, but it has been impossible for me to get into their life
intimately enough to speak of it intelligently. Even the men constantly
in their company can say but little about them. When asked for an
explanation, they shake their heads and call them "little devils"; but
why they are so, what it is that they are seeking, and where they come
from, are questions to which they are unable to give any satisfactory
replies. I know about twenty, all told, and, as far as I have been
successful in observing them, they seem to me to belong to that class
of children which the criminologist Lombroso finds morally delinquent at
birth. Certainly it would be hard to account for their abnormal criminal
sense on any other ground. They take to the road as to their normal
element, and are on it but a short time ere they know almost as much as
the oldest travelers. Their minds seem bent toward crime and
vagabondage, and their intuitive powers almost uncanny. To hear them
talk makes one think, if he shuts his eyes, that he is in the presence
of trained criminal artists, and I have sometimes imagined that they
were not children, but dwarfed men born out of due time. They undertake
successfully some of the most dangerous robberies in the world, and come
off scot-free, so that old and experienced thieves simply stare and
wonder. The temptation is to think that they are accidents, but they
recur so frequently as to demand a theory of origin and existence. They
are, I do not doubt, the product of criminal breeding, and are just as
much admired in the criminal world as are the feats of some
_Wunderkind_, for instance, among musicians. Watch the scene in an
outcasts' den when one of these queer little creatures comes in, and you
may see the very same thing that goes on in the "artist's box" at some
concert where a prodigy is performing. The people swarm around him, pet
him, make him laugh and talk, till the proprietor finds him a valuable
drawing card for the establishment. The child himself seldom realizes
his importance, and, when off duty, plays at games in keeping with his
age. The instant business is suggested, however, his countenance assumes
a most serious air, and it is then that one wonders whether he is not,
after all, some skilful old soul traveling back through life in a fresh
young body. Indeed, there is so much in his case that appeals to my
sense of wonder that I simply cannot study him for what he is; but there
are those who can do this, and I promise them a most interesting field
of observation. I know enough about it to believe that if it can be
thoroughly explored there will be a great change in the punishment of
criminals. These boys have in them in largest measure what the entire
body of moral delinquents possesses in some degree; and when these
baffling characteristics have been definitely analyzed and placed,
penology will start on a fresh course.
It may be worth while to say what I can about their physical appearance.
The most of them have seemed to me to have fairly well-formed bodies,
but something out of the ordinary in their eyes, and in a few cases in
the entire face. Sometimes the left eye has drooped very noticeably, and
one boy that I recall had something akin to a description I once heard
of the "evil eye." It was a gipsy who explained it to me; and if he was
right, that a "little curtain," capable of falling over the eyeball at
will, is the main curiosity, then this boy had the evil eye. He could
throw a film over his eye in the most distressing fashion, and delighted
in the power to do so; indeed, it was his main way of teasing people. He
knew that it was not a pleasant sight, and if he had a petty grudge to
gratify, he chose this very effective torment. Concerning the faces, it
is difficult to explain just what was the matter. They were not exactly
deformed, but there was a peculiar depravity about them that one could
but notice instantly. At times I fancied that it was in the arrangement
of features rather than acquired expression of the life; but there were
cases where the effects of evil environment and cruel abuse were plain
to see. I have sometimes taken the pains to look up the parents of a
child who thus interested me, but I could not discover any similar
depravity in their countenances. There was depravity there, to be sure,
but of a different kind. I believe that the parents of these children,
and especially the mothers, could tell a great deal concerning them, and
the theorists in criminology will never be thoroughly equipped for their
work till all this evidence has been heard.
* * * * *
The foregoing is but a partial summary of several years' experience with
the children of the road. It is far from being what I should like to
write about them, but perhaps enough has been said to forestate the
problem as it appears to one who has traveled with these children and
learned to know them "in the open." Surely there is kindness and
ingenuity enough in the world to devise a plan or a system by which they
may be snatched from the road and restored to their better selves.
Surely, too, these little epitomes of _Wanderlust_, and even of crime,
are not to baffle philanthropy and science forever. I feel sure that,
whatever may be the answer to the thousand questions which center in
this problem, one thing can be done, and done at once. Wherever law is
able to deal with these children, let it be done on the basis of an
intelligent classification. In punishing them for their misdemeanors and
crimes, let them not be tumbled indiscriminately into massive reform
institutions, officered by political appointment and managed with an eye
to the immediate interests of the taxpayer instead of the welfare of the
inmates. The one practical resource that lies nearest to our hand as
philanthropic sociologists is the reform of the reformatories. We may
not hope to reach in many generations the last sources of juvenile
crime, but we are deserving of a far worse punishment than these moral
delinquents if, being well born and well bred, we do not set ourselves
resolutely to the bettering of penal conditions once imposed.
First of all, we must have a humane and scientific separation of the
inmates in all these reformatories. Sex, age, height, and weight are not
the only things to be taken into consideration when dealing with erring
children. Birth, temperament, habits, education, and experience are
questions of far more vital importance, and it is no unreasonable demand
upon the State that careful attention to each of these points be
required in the scheme of such institutions. Put an ambulanter's child
with a simple runaway boy, and there will be two ambulanters; associate
a youngster with the passion to be tough with a companion innately
criminal, and the latter will be the leader. The law of the survival of
the fittest is just as operative in low life as in any other. In such
spheres the worst natures are the fittest, and the partially good must
yield to them unless zealously defended by outside help. It is suicidal
to put them together, and wherever this is done, especially among
children, there need be no surprise if criminals, and not citizens, are
developed.
Second, the management of reformatories should be in scientific hands;
and just here I am constrained to plead for the training of young men
and women for the rare usefulness that awaits them in such institutions.
It is to these places that the children I have been describing will have
to go, and, with all respect to the officials now in charge, I believe
that there are apt and gifted young men and women in this country who
could bring to them invaluable assistance, if they could only be
persuaded to train for it and to offer it. I do not know why it is, but
for some reason these institutions do not yet appeal to any large number
of students who intend taking service in the ranks of reform. The
university settlement attracts many, and this is one of the finest
manifestations of the universal brotherhood which is to be. Meanwhile,
there is a moral hospital service to be carried on in penal and
reformatory houses. Shall it be done by raw, untrained hands, by selfish
quacks, or by careful, scientific students! Must the moral nurse and
physician be chosen for his ability to control votes, or to treat his
patients with skilled attention and consideration? If the treatment of
physical disease offers attractions that call thousands upon thousands
of young men and women into the nursing and medical professions, here is
a field even more fascinating to the student, and so full of opportunity
and interesting employment that it will be a matter of wonder if the
supply does not speedily exceed the demand.
There is one thing more. Reformatories, planned, officered, and
conducted according to the principles of scientific philanthropy, should
be stationed, not at the end of the road, but at the junction of all
by-paths that leads into it.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] So long.
[2] Live well.
III
CLUB LIFE AMONG OUTCASTS
I
One of the first noticeable features of low life is its gregariousness.
To be alone, except in a few cases where a certain morbidity and
peculiar fondness for isolation prevail, is almost the worst punishment
that can befall the outcast. There is a variety of causes for this, but
I think the main one is the desire to feel that although he is forbidden
the privileges and rights of a polite society, he can nevertheless
identify himself with just as definite and exclusive a community as the
one he has been turned out of.
His specialty in crime and rowdyism determines the particular form and
direction of his social life. If he is a tramp he wants to know his
partners, and the same instinct prevails in all other fields of
outlawry. In time, and as he comes to see that his world is a large
one,--so large, in fact, that he can never understand it all,--he
chooses as he can those particular "pals" with whom he can get on the
easiest. Out of this choice there develops what I call the outcast's
club. He himself calls it a gang, and his club-house a "hang-out." It is
of such clubs that I want to write in this chapter. I do not pretend to
know all of them. Far from it! And some of those that I know are too
vile for description; but the various kinds that I can describe, I have
chosen those which are the most representative.
II
Low life as I know it in America is composed of three distinct classes,
and they are called, in outcasts' slang, the "Kids," the "Natives," and
the "Old Bucks." The Kids, as their name suggests, are boys and girls,
the Natives are the middle-aged outcasts, and the Old Bucks are the
superannuated. Each of these classes has clubs corresponding in
character and purpose to the age of the members.
The clubs of the Kids are composed mainly of mischievous children and
instinctively criminal children. As a rule, they are organized by boys
alone, but I have known girls also to take part in their proceedings.
The lads are usually between ten and fifteen years old. Sometimes they
live at home with their parents, if they have any, and sometimes in
lodging-houses. They get their living, such as it is, by rag-picking,
selling newspapers, blacking boots, and doing odd errands fitted to
their strength. None of them, not even the criminally inclined, are able
to steal enough to support themselves.
To illustrate, I shall take two clubs which I knew, one in Chicago, and
one in Cincinnati. The Chicago club belonged exclusively to a set of
lads on the North Side who called themselves the "Wildcats." The most of
them were homeless little fellows who lived in that district as newsboys
and boot-blacks. They numbered about twenty, and although they had no
officially elected leader, a little fellow called Fraxy was nevertheless
a recognized "president," and was supposed to know more about the city
and certain tricks than the rest, and I think it was he who started the
club. He was an attractive lad, capable of exercising considerable
influence over his companions, and I can easily understand how he
persuaded them to form the club. For personality counts for as much in
low life as it does in "high life," and little Fraxy had a remarkably
magnetic one. He drew boys to him wherever he went, and before going to
Chicago had organized a similar club in Toledo, Ohio.
The club-house of the Wildcats was a little cave which they had dug in a
cabbage-field on the outskirts of the city. Here they gathered nearly
every night in the week to smoke cigarettes, read dime novels or hear
them read, tell tales, crack jokes, and plan their mischievous raids on
the neighboring districts. The cave contained a brickwork stove, some
benches, some old pots and cans, one or two obscene pictures, and an old
shoe-box, in which were stored from time to time various things to eat.
The youngest boy was ten and the oldest fourteen, and as I remember them
they were not especially bad boys. I have often sat with them and
listened to their stories and jokes, and although they could swear, and
a few could drink like drunkards, the most of them had hearts still
kind. But they were intensely mischievous. The more nuisances they could
commit the happier they were; and the odd part of it all was that their
misdemeanors never brought them the slightest profit, and were
remarkable for nothing but their wantonness. I remember particularly one
night when they stoned an old church simply because Fraxy had suggested
it as sport. They left their cave about nine o'clock and went to a
stone-pile near at hand, where they filled their pockets full of rocks.
Then they started off pell-mell for the church, the windows of which
they "peppered 'n' salted" till they looked like "'skeeter-nettin's," as
Fraxy said. The moment they had finished they scampered into town and
brought up at various lodging-houses.
They never thieved or begged while I knew them, and not one of them had
what could be called a criminal habit. They were simply full of
boyishness, and having no homes, no parents, no friends, no refined
instincts, it is no wonder that they worked off their animal spirits in
pranks of this sort. Sometimes they used to take their girl friends out
to the cave, too, and enlist them for a while in the same mischievous
work that I have described; but they always treated them kindly, and
spoke of them as their "dear little kidsy-widsies." The girls helped to
make the cave more homelike, and the lads appreciated every decoration
and knickknack given them.
Every city has clubs like this. They are a natural consequence of slum
life, and to better them it is first necessary to better the slums
themselves. Sunday-school lessons will not accomplish this;
reading-rooms will not accomplish it; gymnasiums will not accomplish it;
and nothing that I know of will accomplish it except personal contact
with some man or boy who is willing to live among them and show them, as
he alone can, a better life. There are many young men in the world who
have remarkable ability, I believe, for just such work, if they would
only go into it. By this I do not necessarily mean joining some
organization or "settlement"; I mean that the would-be helper shall live
his own individual life among these people, learn to understand their
whims and passions, and try to be of use to them as a personal friend.
If he is especially adapted to dealing with boys, he has only to take up
his residence in any slum in any city, and he will find plenty to do.
But whatever he does, he must not let them think that he is among them
as a reformer.
III
The club in Cincinnati was of a different kind. It is true that it
consisted of young boys, and that some of them were boot-blacks and
newsboys, but in other respects they were different. Their club name was
the "Sneakers," and their hang-out was an old deserted house-boat, which
lay stranded on the river-bank about a mile or so out of town. Some of
them had homes, but the majority lived in lodging-houses or on the boat.
When I first knew them they had been organized about three months, and a
few of them had already been caught and sent to the reform school. Their
business was stealing, pure and simple. Old metals were the things they
looked for chiefly, because they were the handiest to get at. They had
had no training in picking pockets or "sly work" of any particular sort,
but they did know some untenanted houses, and these they entered and cut
away the lead pipes to sell to dealers in such wares. Sometimes they
also broke into engine-houses, and, if possible, unscrewed the
brass-work on the engines, and I have even known them to take the wheels
off wagons to get the tires. Their boat was their storehouse until the
excitement over the theft had subsided, and then they persuaded some
tramp or town "tough" to dispose of their goods. They never made very
much profit, but enough to keep up interest in further crimes.
I became acquainted with them through an old vagabond in Cincinnati who
helped them now and then. He took me out to see them one night, and I
had a good opportunity to learn what their club was made of. Most of the
lads were over fourteen years of age, and two had already been twice in
reform schools in different States. These two were the leaders, and
mainly, I think, on account of certain tough airs which they "put on."
They talked criminal slang, and had an all-wise tone that was greatly
liked by the other boys. They were all saturated with criminal ideas,
and their faces gave evidence of crooked characteristics. How they came
to club together is probably best explained by the older vagabond. I
asked him how he accounted for such an organization, and he replied:
"Got it in 'em, I guess. It's the only reason I know. Some kids always
is that way. The divil's born in 'em."
I think that is true, and I still consider it the best explanation of
the Sneakers. They were criminals by instinct, and such boys, just as
mischievous boys, drift together and combine plots and schemes. I know
of other boys of the same type who, instead of stealing, burn barns and
outhouses. Young as they are, their moral obliquity is so definitely
developed that they do such things passionately. They like to see the
blaze, and yet when asked wherein the fun lies, they cannot tell.
How to reform such boys is a question which, I think, has never been
settled satisfactorily. For one, I do not believe that they can ever be
helped by any clubs organized for their improvement. They have no
interest in such things, and none can be awakened strong enough to kill
their interest in criminal practices. They are mentally maimed, and
practically belong in an insane asylum. In saying this I do not wish to
be understood as paying tribute to the "fad" of some philanthropic
circles, which regard the criminal as either diseased or delinquent--as
born lacking in mental and moral aptitudes, or perverted through no
fault of his own. Without any attempt to tone down the reproach of
criminality, or to account for the facts by heredity or environment, it
still remains true that in thousands of cases there is as direct
evidence of insanity in a boy's crimes and misdemeanors as in a man's,
and I firmly believe that a more scientific century will institute
medical treatment of juvenile crime, and found reform schools where the
cure of insanity will be as much an object as moral instruction and
character-building.
IV
Club life among the Natives,--the older outcasts,--although in many
respects quite different from that of the Kids, is in some ways
strikingly similar. There are, for instance, young rowdies and roughs
whose main pleasures are mischief and petty misdemeanors, just as among
the young boys in Chicago. But in place of breaking church windows and
turning over horse-blocks, they join what are called "scrappin' gangs,"
and spend most of their time in fighting hostile clubs of the same
order. They are not clever enough as yet to become successful criminals;
they are too brutal and impolite to do profitable begging, and as
rowdyism is about the only thing they can take part in, their
associations become pugilistic clubs.
How these originated is an open question even among the rowdies
themselves. My own explanation of their origin is this: Every community,
if it is at all complex and varied, has different sets of outcasts and
ne'er-do-wells, just as it has varieties of respectable people. In time
these different sets appropriate, often quite accidentally, territories
of their own. One set, for example, will live mainly on the east side of
a city, and another set on the west side. After some residence in their
distinct quarters, local prejudices and habits are formed, and, what is
more to the point, a local patriotism grows. The east-sider thinks his
hang-outs and dives are the best, and the west-sider thinks the same of
his. Out of this conceit there comes invariably a class hatred, which
grows, and finally develops into the "scrappin' gangs," the purpose of
which is to defend the pride of each separate district. In New York I
know of over half a dozen of these pugnacious organizations, and they
fight for as many different territories. I have seen in one club young
and old of both sexes joined together to defend their "kentry," as they
called the street or series of streets in which they lived. The majority
of the real fighters, however, are powerful fellows between the ages of
eighteen and twenty-two. Sometimes they live at home, and a few pretend
to do some work, but most of them are loafers, who spend their time in
drinking, gambling, and petty thieving. They usually sleep in old
tenements and cheap lodging-houses, and in the daytime they are either
in the streets or at some dive supported mainly by their patronage.
I knew such a place in the city of New York, on the East Side, and not
far from the Brooklyn Bridge. It was kept by an Irishman, and he had no
customers other than those belonging to a "scrappin' gang" called the
"Rappers." There were two rooms--one fronting on the street, and used as
a bar-room; the other, in the rear, was the gambling-and
"practisin'"-room. Here they came every night, played cards, drank stale
beer, and exercised themselves in fisticuffing and "scrappin'." I
visited them one night, and saw some of their movements, as they called
the various triangles and circles which they formed as strategic guards
when attacking the hostile gangs of the West Side. One of them they
nicknamed the "V gag," and prided themselves on its efficiency. It was
simply a triangle which they formed to charge the better into the ranks
of their enemies, and it reminded me strongly of football tactics.
That same night they were to scuffle with a West-Side gang called the
"Ducks," as one of their members had been insulted by one of the Duck
gang. Battle was to be joined in a certain alley not far from Eighth
Avenue, and they started out, their pockets full of stones, in companies
of two and three, to meet later in the alley. I accompanied the leader,
a fellow called the "slugger," and reached the alley about eleven
o'clock. He wanted me to give my assistance, but I told him that I could
play war correspondent much better, and so was excused from action. And
it was action indeed. They had hardly reached the battle-ground before
the Ducks were upon them, and rocks flew and fists punched in a most
terrific manner. Noses bled, coats were torn, hats were lost, and black
eyes became the fashion. This went on for about fifteen minutes, and
the battle was over. The Rappers were defeated fairly and squarely,
but, as the slugger said, when we were all at the hang-out again, "we
mought 'a' licked 'em ef we'd 'a' had 'em over here."
Such is the "scrappin' gang." Every large city supports one or two, and
London has a score of them. They make some of its districts
uninhabitable for respectable persons, and woe to the man who tries to
interfere with them. As their members die or grow old, younger fellows
come forward, often enough out of the very boys' clubs I have described,
and take the place of the departed heroes. This is what rowdies call
life.
Like the famous _Studenten-Corps_ in Germany, they need some sort of
rough excitement, and the bloodier it is the happier they are. They have
so much heart in them that no ordinary exercise relieves it, and they
institute these foolish fighting clubs. It is possible that some
sweet-natured philanthropist might go among them and accomplish wonders.
In London the Salvation Army has done some splendid work with these same
rowdies, and I know personally several who are to-day respectable
working-men. But as for organizing polite clubs among them on any large
scale, I think it impossible.
V
Among the other Natives, club life, as a rule, centers around the
saloon, where they gather to exchange news bulletins and meet their
cronies. There are varieties of these saloons, corresponding to the
varieties of outcasts, and in Chicago there are over twenty, each one of
which is supported by a different clique and species; but these are not
exactly clubs. The saloons are meeting-places more than anything else,
or a sort of post-office. In the main they are very much like any other
saloon, except that their _clientèle_ comes principally from the
outcasts' world; and about all the life they afford is a boisterous
joviality, which seldom takes definite shape. It is proper to say right
here that criminal outcasts, as a rule, never form clubs so marked in
individuality as the "scrappin' gang." The thief, the burglar, the
pickpocket, and other "professionals," although gregarious and friendly
enough, do not organize simply for the sake of sociability. When they
combine it is more for the sake of business than anything else, and
whatever social life they seem to need is furnished them at the saloon
or some private hang-out. This is also true to a great extent of all the
Natives who have passed their thirtieth year. At that age they are
usually so sobered, and have seen so much of the world, that they cannot
get much pleasure out of the clubs that the younger men enjoy. The
"scrappin' gang" no more appeals to them as a pastime or a source of
happiness than it does to an old rounder. They feel happier in simply
sitting on a bench in a saloon and talking over old times or planning
new adventures. Whatever excitement remains for them in life is found
mainly in carousals. Of these I have seen a goodly number, but I must
confess that after all they are only too similar to carousals in high
life, the only noticeable difference being their greater frequency.
They occur just about four times as often as anywhere else, because the
outcast, and especially the criminal, is intensely emotional; he can
never live very long without some kind of excitement, and the older he
grows the more alluring become his drinking-bouts. When his
opportunities in this direction are shut off by jail-walls, he
improvises something else, which often takes organized form; but it must
be remembered that such organizations are purely makeshifts, and that
the members would rather sit in some low concert-hall or saloon and have
an old-time drinking-bout, if circumstances were only favorable.
VI
The most interesting of these impromptu clubs is the one called in the
vernacular the "Kangaroo Court." It is found almost entirely in county
jails, in which petty offenders and persons awaiting trial are confined.
During the day the prisoners are allowed the freedom of a large hall,
and at night they lodge in cells, the locks of which are sometimes
fastened and sometimes not. The hall contains tables, benches, daily
papers, and, in some instances, stoves and kitchen utensils. The
prisoners walk about, jump, and play various games. After a while these
games become tiresome, and the "Kangaroo Court" is formed. It consists
of all the prisoners, and the officers are elected by them. The
positions they fill are the "judgeship," the "searchership," the
"spankership," and general "juryship." To illustrate the duties of these
various officials, I shall give a personal experience in a county jail
in New York State. It was my first encounter with the "Kangaroo Court."
I had been arrested for sleeping in an empty box-car. The watchman found
me and lodged me in the station-house, where I spent a most gloomy night
wondering what my punishment would be. Early in the morning I was
brought before the "squire." He asked me what my name might be, and I
replied that "it might be Billy Rice."
"What are you doing around here, Billy?" he queried further.
"Looking for work, your Honor."
"Thirty days," he thundered at me, and I was led away to the jail
proper.
I had three companions at the time, and after we had passed the sheriff
and his clerk, who had noted down all the facts, imaginary and
otherwise, that we had cared to give him about our family histories, we
were ushered pell-mell into the large hall. Surrounded in a twinkling by
the other prisoners, we were asked to explain our general principles and
misdemeanors. This over, and a few salutations exchanged, a tall and
lanky rogue cried out in a loud voice:
"The Kangru will now k'lect."
There were about twenty present, and they soon planted themselves about
us in a most solemn manner. Some rested on their haunches, others
lounged against the walls, and still others sat quietly on the
flagstones. As soon as entire quiet had been reached, the tall fellow,
who, by the way, was the judge, instructed a half-grown companion, whom
he nicknamed the "searcher," to bring his charges against the newcomers.
He approached us solemnly and in a most conventional manner, and said:
"Priz'ners, you is charged with havin' boodle in yer pockets. Wha' does
you plead--guilty or not guilty?"
I was the first in line, and pleaded not guilty.
"Are you willin' to be searched?" asked the judge.
"I am, your Honor," I replied.
Then the searcher inspected all my pockets, the lining of my coat, the
leather band inside my hat, my shoes and socks, and finding nothing in
the shape of money, declared that I was guiltless.
"You are discharged," said the judge, and the jury-men ratified the
decision with a grunt.
A young fellow, a vagrant by profession, was the next case. He pleaded
not guilty, and allowed himself to be searched. But unfortunately he had
forgotten a solitary cent which was in his vest pocket. It was quickly
confiscated, and he was remanded for trial on the charge of contempt of
the "Kangru." The next victim pleaded guilty to the possession of
thirty-six cents, and was relieved of half. The last man, the guiltiest
of all, although he pleaded innocence, was found out, and his three
dollars were taken away from him instanter; he, too, was charged with
contempt of court. His case came up soon after the preliminaries were
over, and he was sentenced by the judge to walk the length of the
corridor one hundred and three times each day of his confinement,
besides washing all the dishes used at dinner for a week.
After all the trials were over, the confiscated money was handed to the
genuine turnkey, with instructions that it be invested in tobacco. Later
in the day the tobacco was brought into the jail and equally divided
among all the prisoners.
The next day I, with the other late arrivals, was initiated as a member
of the "Kangaroo Court." It was a very simple proceeding. I had to
promise that I would always do my share of the necessary cleaning and
washing, and also be honest and fair in judging the cases which might
come up for trial.
Since then I have had opportunities of studying other "Kangaroo Courts,"
which have all been very much like the one I have described. They are
both socialistic and autocratic, and at times they are very funny. But
wherever they are they command the respect of jail-birds, and if a
prisoner insults the court he is punished very severely. Moreover, it
avails him nothing to complain to the authorities. He has too many
against him, and the best thing he can do is to become one of them as
soon as possible.
Other clubs of this same impromptu character are simple makeshifts,
which last sometimes a week, and sometimes but a day, if a more
substantial amusement can be found to take their place. One, of which I
was a member, existed for six hours only. It was organized to pass the
time until a train came along to carry the men into a neighboring city.
They selected a king and some princes, and called the club the "Royal
Plush." Every half-hour a new king was chosen, in order to give as many
members as possible the privileges which these offices carried with
them. They were not especially valuable, but nevertheless novel enough
to be entertaining. The king, for instance, had the right to order any
one to fill his pipe or bring him a drink of water, while the princes
were permitted to call the commoners all sorts of names as long as their
official dignity lasted. So far as I know, they have never met since
that afternoon camp on the prairies of Nebraska; and if they are
comfortably seated in some favorite saloon, I can safely say that not
one of them would care to exchange places with any half-hour king.
A little experience I had some time ago in New York will show how well
posted the Natives are regarding these favorite saloons. I was calling
on an old friend at a saloon in Third Avenue at the time. After I had
told him of my plan to visit certain Western cities, and had mentioned
some of them, he said:
"Well, you wan' ter drop in at the Half in State Street when you strike
Chi [Chicago]; 'n' doan' forget Red's place in Denver, 'n' Dutch Mary's
in Omaha. They'll treat you square. Jes left Mary's place 'bout a week
ago, 'n' never had a better time. Happy all the while, 'n' one day
nearly tasted meself, felt so good. There's nothin' like knowin' such
places, you know. 'F you get into a strange town, takes you a ter'ble
while to find yer fun 'less yer posted. But you'll be all right at Red's
'n' Mary's, dead sure."
So the stranger is helped along in low life, and the Natives take just
as much pride in passing him on to other friends and other clubs as does
the high-life club-man. It gives them a feeling of importance, which is
one of their main gratifications.
VII
[Illustration: A GATHERING OF "OLD BUCKS."]
Of the Old Bucks,--the superannuated outcasts,--and their club life,
there is very little to say. Walk into any low dive in any city where
they congregate, and you can see the whole affair. They sit there on the
benches in tattered clothes, and rest their chins on crooked sticks or
in their hands, and glare at one another with bloodshot eyes. Between
drinks they discuss old times, old pals, old winnings, and then wonder
what the new times amount to. And now and then, when in the mood, they
throw a little crude thought on politics into the air. I have heard them
discuss home rule, free trade, the Eastern question, and at the same
time crack a joke on a hungry mosquito. A bit of wit, nasty or
otherwise, will double them up in an instant, and then they cough and
scramble to get their equilibrium again.
[Illustration: MIDNIGHT.]
Late at night, when they can sit no longer on the whittled benches, and
the bartender orders them home, they crawl away to musty lodging-houses
and lie down in miserable bunks. The next morning they are on hand again
at the same saloon, with the same old jokes and the same old laughs.
They keep track of their younger pals if they can, and do their best to
hold together their close relationships, and as one of their number
tumbles down and dies, they remember his good points, and call for
another beer. The Natives help them along now and then, and even the
boys give them a dime on special occasions. But as they never need very
much, and as low life is often the only one they know, they find it not
very difficult to pick their way on to the end. If you pity them they
are likely to laugh at you, and I have even known them to ask a city
missionary if he would not take a drink with them.
To think of enticing such men into decent clubs is absurd; the only
respectable place they ever enter is a reading-room--and then not to
read. No, indeed! Watch them in Cooper Union. Half the time their
newspapers are upside down and they are dozing. One eye is always on the
alert, and the minute they think you are watching they grip the
newspaper afresh, fairly pawing the print with their greasy fingers in
their eagerness to carry out the rôle they have assumed. One day, in
such a place, I scraped acquaintance with one of them, and, as if to
show that it was the literary attraction which brought him there, he
suddenly asked me in a most confidential tone what I thought of
Tennyson. Of course I thought a good deal of him, and said so, but I had
hardly finished before the old fellow querulously remarked:
"Don' cher think the best thing he ever did was that air 'Charge of the
Seventeen Hundred'?"
VIII
I have already said that, so far as the older outcasts are concerned,
there is but little chance of helping them by respectable clubs; they
are too fixed in their ways, and the best method of handling them is to
destroy their own clubs and punish the members. The "scrappin'
gang," for example, should be treated with severe law, whenever and
wherever it shows its bloody hand, and if such a course were adopted and
followed it would accomplish more good than any other conceivable
method. The same treatment must be applied to the associations of other
Natives, for the more widely they are separated and thus prevented from
concourse the better will it be. It is their gregariousness which makes
it so difficult to treat with them successfully, and until they can be
dealt with separately, man for man, and in a prison-cell if necessary,
not much can be accomplished. The evils in low life are contagious, and
to be treated scientifically they must be quarantined and prevented from
spreading. Break up its gangs. Begin at their beginnings. For let two
outcasts have even but a little influence over a weak human being, and
there are three outcasts; give them a few more similar chances, and
there will be a gang.
I would not have any word of mine lessen the growing interest in man's
fellow-man, or discourage by so much as a pen-stroke the brotherly
influences on the "fallen brother" which are embodied in neighborhood
guilds and college settlements of the present, but I am deeply convinced
that there is a work these organizations cannot, must not, do. That work
must be done by law and government. Vice must be punished, and the
vicious sequestrated. Public spirit and citizenship duly appreciated and
exercised must precede philanthropy in the slums. Government, municipal
and State, must be a John the Baptist, preparing the way and making the
paths straight, ere the embodied love of man and love of God can walk
safely and effectively therein.
IV
THE AMERICAN TRAMP CONSIDERED GEOGRAPHICALLY
Some years ago I was sitting, one spring afternoon, on a railroad-tie on
"The Dope"[3] when New York Barcas appeared on the scene. There was
nothing very peculiar about Barcas, except his map of the United
States. Not that he ever set up to be a topographer, or aspired to any
rivalry with Johnston, Kiepert, or Zell; but, like the ancients, Barcas
had his known and his unknown world, and, like them again, he described
the land he knew just as if it was all the world there was. I came to
know Barcas's map in this wise:
We were both talking about certain tramp districts in the community, and
I noticed that his idea of north, south, east, and west was somewhat
different from mine. So, in order that our conversation might not be
troubled with petty arguments on geographical boundaries, I asked him to
map out the country for me according to his "best light"; and this is
how he did it. He took out his pencil and drew a line from the Canadian
frontier through Chicago to St. Louis, and another line from the
Atlantic through Washington to the same point, and called all the
territory north of the last-named boundary the East. He drew still
another line from St Louis to the Pacific coast, and called all the
States north of this and west of Chicago the West. His North comprised
all Canada, but he considered the province of Quebec the most prominent
tramp territory in this district. His South was all that remained below
his equatorial line, but the eastern part of it he nicknamed Niggerland,
while the western part, bordering on the Pacific Ocean, he called the
Coast.
This was the extent of Barcas's geography when I knew him. He seemed to
realize that there are other countries in the world besides this one
which he and his _confrères_ consider laid out for their own particular
benefit; nevertheless, in daily life and conversation the other
divisions of the world are so conscientiously ignored for all practical
purposes that North America may safely be said to comprise the American
tramp's general idea of the earth. He knows well enough that he has
brothers in other lands, but he considers them so unlucky in being left
to ply their trade outside of his own peculiar paradise that he feels it
necessary to ignore them. For in spite of the constitutional Bohemianism
of his nature, he is still far from being a cosmopolitan. If he has
suffering brethren in other communities, his heart does not throb for
their sorrow. No, indeed! He simply says: "Why don't they get out o'
those blasted holes and come over here? This is the only country for the
tramp." There is a great deal of truth in this, and my purpose in this
chapter is to give an account of tramp traits, successes, and failures
in this land of freedom. I shall take up the various districts as Barcas
indicated them, not, however, because his points of the compass are at
all typical or representative. No; Barcas's map is not for general
circulation, and for this very good reason it would probably be
difficult to find ten vagrants whose views would coincide with his or
with those of any other ten idlers. This is a peculiarity of the
vagabond, and it must be excused, for it has its _raison d'être_.
THE NORTH
This district (Canada) hardly belongs to the real American vagabondage.
It is true that the hobo crosses the frontier now and then, and makes a
short journey into Quebec, but it can scarcely be called a trip on
business. It is undertaken more for the sake of travel, and a desire to
see "them fellers up in Canady," and the scenery too, if the traveler is
a lover of nature, as many hoboes are. As a rule, Canada is left pretty
much in the hands of the local vagabonds, who are called "Frenchies." I
have never thoroughly explored their territory, and, unfortunately,
cannot write as definitely and comprehensively about their character as
I would wish to do. However, the following facts are true as far as they
go.
The main clan of Canadian tramps is composed of French-Canadians and
Indians. I have never met a genuine tramp of this class who was born in
France proper, yet I can well believe that there are such. The language
of these beggars is a jargon partly French and partly English, with a
small hobo vocabulary added thereto. Only a very few American tramps can
speak this queer lingo. I have met a gipsy now and then who at least
understood it, and I account for this on the ground that a large number
of the words resemble those in the gipsy dialect. _Pâno_, for instance,
means bread in both languages.
To be a successful beggar in Canada, one must be able to speak French,
for Quebec is one of the main tramp districts, and the local population
uses this language principally. The "Galway" (Catholic priest) is
perhaps the best friend of the Frenchies; at any rate, this has been my
experience. He gives alms ten times where a peasant gives once, and when
a vagabond can find a cloister or a convent, he is almost sure to be
well taken care of. The peasants, it must be remembered, are about all
the Frenchies have after the Galway. To show how wise they are in doling
out their charity, it is only necessary to say that the usual Frenchy is
content when he gets his three meals a day without working. And as for
myself, I can say that I have gone hungry for over thirty hours at a
stretch in Canada, and this, too, although I was careful to visit every
house that I passed. But the Canadian tramp is evidently satisfied with
small rewards, else he could not live long in his chosen district. As I
know him, he is a slow-going fellow, fond of peace and quiet, and seldom
desirous of those wild "slopping-ups" in American trampdom for which so
much money is needed. If he can only have some outcast woman, or
"sister," as he calls her, to accompany him on his travels, and to make
homelike and comfortable the little tent which he often carries; and if
he can have his daily _pâno_ and his usual supply of _dohun_ (tobacco),
he is a comparatively happy fellow. He reminds me more of the European
tramp in general character than any other human parasite I can think of;
and I shall be exceedingly sorry if he ever gets a foothold in the
United States, because he is a vagrant down to the core, and this can
hardly be said as yet of most American tramps. It is almost impossible
to touch his emotions, and he usually looks upon the world as his enemy.
He can hardly be called a victim of liquor, but rather the victim of an
ill-matched parentage. He is often on the mercy of the world before he
knows how he came into it, and it is not wonderful that he should drift
into a class where no questions are asked, and where even the murderer
is received with some distinction. To reform such a man requires that
the social polity itself be permeated by a higher order of ethics than
governs it at present--a truth quite as applicable in certain districts
of the United States as elsewhere.
THE EAST
The tramps of this part of the country represent the main intelligence
as well as "respectability" of the brotherhood. They also comprise the
most successful criminal element. But of course the vocation of the
great majority is simply begging. To tell exactly where they thrive, and
to particularize carefully, would take a book by itself, and the most I
can do is to give a very general idea of the district.
New England, as a whole, is at present poor begging territory for those
vagabonds who are not clever and not able to dress fairly well. Boston
is the beggar's metropolis as well as the New England millionaire's,
and, until a few years ago, Bughouse Mary's Tramp Home was as much a
Boston institution as Tremont Temple or the Common. One could find there
tramps of all grades of intelligence, cleanliness, and manners. And even
in the streets I have often been able to pick out the "begging brothers"
by the score from the general crowd. But it must not be forgotten that
a city offers privileges to beggars which the rural districts deny, and
probably, if the police authorities were more diligent than they are
now, even Boston could be rid of the great majority of its worst
loafers. I must admit, however, that it will be difficult ever to banish
the entire tramp tribe, for some of them are exceedingly clever, and
when decently clad can play the rôle of almost any member of society.
For instance, I tramped through Connecticut and Rhode Island once with a
"fawny man."[4] Both of us were respectably dressed, and, according to
my companion's suggestion, we posed as strolling students, and always
offered to pay for our meals and lodging; but the offer was never
accepted. Why? Because the farmers "considered themselves repaid by the
interesting accounts of our travels, and talks about politics," etc. My
friend was very sharp and keen, and carried on a successful trade in
spurious jewelry with some of the foolish country boys, when he was not
discussing the probabilities of the presidential election. I am sure
that I could travel through New England to-day, if respectably clad, and
be gratuitously entertained wherever I should go; and simply because the
credulity of the charitable is so favorable to "traveling gentlemen."
One of the main reasons why Massachusetts is such poor territory for the
usual class of vagrants is its jail system. In many of these jails the
order and discipline are superb, and work is required of the
prisoners--and work is the last thing a real tramp ever means to
undertake. I cannot help looking forward to very gratifying results to
trampdom from the influence of the present Massachusetts jail system.
For anything which brings the roving beggar into contact with sobriety
and labor is bound to have a beneficial effect. New York, New Jersey,
Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Michigan are all fairly good tramp States, and
all swarm with allowed beggars. The most remarkable feature of vagrancy
in New York State is that wonderful town known among vagrants as the
"City" and also as "York." This is the most notorious tramp-nest in the
United States. I have walked along the Bowery of an afternoon, and
counted scores of men who never soil their hands with labor, and beg on
an average a dollar a day. Even the policemen of this city are often
friends of beggars, and I have seldom met a hobo who was very angry with
a New York "bull." As a rule, the police officer, when finding tramps
drunk on door-steps or begging, says in a coarse and brutal voice, "Get
out!" and possibly gives them a rap with his club, but it is altogether
too seldom that the beggar is arrested. One rather odd phase of tramp
life in New York city is the shifting boundary-line that marks the
charity of the town. Several years ago Eighty-ninth Street was about as
far uptown as one could secure fair rewards for diligent begging. Now
one can see tramps, on a winter night especially, scattered all along
One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street, not because this street is the only
"good one," but because it is so "good" that better profits are realized
than in those farther down. And for clothes, I have always found Harlem
more profitable than other parts of the city. New York city is also one
of the best places in the country for "snaring a kid"--persuading some
youngster to accompany an older beggar on the road. There are so many
ragamuffins lying around loose and unprotected in the more disreputable
quarters of the town that it is only necessary to tell them a few
"ghost-stories" (fancy tales of tramp life) to make them follow the
story-teller as unresistingly as the boys of Hamelin marched after the
Pied Piper. Almost every third boy that one meets in American
vagabondage hails from "York." This accounts for the fact that several
tramps of New York birth have the same name, for even the beggar's
ingenuity is not capable of always hitting upon a unique cognomen. I
have met fully a dozen roadsters having the name of "Yorkey," "New York
Bob," "New York Whitey," "New York Slim," etc., which makes it not only
the fashion but a necessity, when hearing a city tramp's name, to ask
which Whitey, which Yorkey, or which Bob it is, and a personal
description is usually necessary before the fellow can be distinguished.
Over in New Jersey, I think, there are more tramps to the square mile
than in any other State, excepting Pennsylvania. The neighborhood around
Newark is simply infested with beggars, who meet there on their way into
and out of New York city. They often have a hang-out on the outskirts of
the town, where they camp quite unmolested, unless they get drunk and
draw their razors, which is more than common with Eastern tramps. It is
surprising, too, how well they are fed, when one remembers that they
have "battered" in this community for years. It is in Pennsylvania,
however, that the tramp is best fed, while I still maintain that he gets
more money in New York city. I do not know of a town or village in the
Keystone State where a decently clad roadster cannot get all that he
cares to eat without doing a stroke of work in payment. The jails are
also a great boon to the fraternity. In the majority of them there is no
work to do, while some furnish tobacco and the daily papers.
Consequently, in winter, one can see tramps sitting comfortably on
benches drawn close to the fire, and reading their morning paper, and
smoking their after-breakfast pipe, as complacently and calmly as the
merchant in his counting-room. Here they find refuge from the storms of
winter, and make themselves entirely at home.
[Illustration: A "TIMBER LESSON."]
Ohio and Indiana, although fairly friendly to tramps, are noted for
certain "horstile" features. The main one of these is the well-known
"timber-lesson"--clubbing at the hands of the inhabitants of certain
towns. I experienced this muscular instruction at one unfortunate time
in my life, and I must say that it is one of the best remedies for
vagabondage that exist. But it is very crude and often cruel. In company
with two other tramps, I was made to run a gantlet extending from one
end of the town of Oxford, Indiana, to the other. The boys and men who
were "timbering" us threw rocks and clubbed us most diligently. I came
out of the scrape with a rather sore back, and should probably have
suffered more had I not been able to run with rather more than the usual
speed. One of my fellow-sufferers, I heard, was in a hospital for some
time. My other companion had his eye gouged terribly, and I fancy that
he will never visit that town again. Apart from the "timber" custom,
which, I understand, is now practised in other communities also these
two States are good begging districts. There are plenty of tramps within
their boundaries, and when "the eagles are gathered together," the
carcass to be preyed upon is not far away.
The other States of the East have so much in common with those already
described that little need be said of them. Chicago, however, deserves a
paragraph. This city, although troubled with hundreds of tramps, and
noted for its generosity, is nevertheless a terror to evil-doers in
this, that its policemen handle beggars according to law whenever they
can catch them. Instead of the tiresomely reiterated "Get out!" and the
brutal club-swinging in New York, one gets accustomed in Chicago to
"thirty days in the Bridewell." I know this to be true, for I have been
in Chicago as a tramp for days at a time, and have investigated every
phase of tramp life in the city. Of course there are thousands of cases
where the beggar is not caught, but I maintain that when he is found he
is given a lesson almost as valuable as the one over in Indiana. The
cities in the East which the vagabond considers his own are New York
("York"), Philadelphia ("Phillie "), Buffalo, Boston, Baltimore, Chicago
(here he is very often deceived), Detroit (another place where he is
deceived), and Cincinnati.
Just a word about the Eastern tramp himself. His language is a slang as
nearly English as possible. Some words, however, would not be understood
anywhere outside of the clan. His personal traits are great conceit,
cleverness, and a viciousness which, although corresponding in the main
to the same in other parts of the country, is nevertheless a little more
refined, if I may use that word, than elsewhere. The number of his class
it is difficult to determine definitely, but I believe that he and his
companions are many thousands strong. His earnings, so far as my
experience justifies me in judging, range from fifty cents to over two
dollars a day, besides food, provided he begs steadily. I know from
personal observation that an intelligent beggar can average the above
amount in cities, and sometimes in smaller towns.
THE WEST
Vagabondage in this part of the country is composed principally of
"blanket-stiffs," "ex-prushuns," "gay-cats," and a small number of
recognized tramps who, however, belong to none of the foregoing classes,
and are known simply as "Westerners." The blanket-stiffs are men (or
sometimes women) who walk, or "drill," as they say, from Salt Lake City
to San Francisco about twice a year, begging their way from ranch to
ranch, and always carrying their blankets with them. The ex-prushuns are
young fellows who have served their apprenticeship as kids in the East,
and are in the West "looking for revenge," _i. e._, seeking some kid
whom they can press into their service and compel to beg for them. The
gay-cats are men who will work for "very good money," and are usually in
the West in the autumn to take advantage of the high wages offered to
laborers during the harvest season. The Westerners have no unique
position, and resemble the Easterner, except that they as well as the
majority of other Western rovers drink alcohol, diluted in a little
water, in preference to other liquors. On this account, and also because
Western tramps very often look down upon Eastern roadsters as
"tenderfeet," there is not that brotherly feeling between the East and
the West in vagrancy that one might expect. The Easterners think the
Western brethren too rough and wild, while the latter think the former
too tame. However, there is a continual intercourse kept up by the
passing of Westerners to the East, and vice versa, and when neither
party is intoxicated the quarrel seldom assumes very dangerous
proportions.
Of the States in the Western district, I think that Illinois, Iowa,
Wisconsin, Minnesota, Colorado, Washington, and a part of California are
the best for tramps.
Iowa is usually liked very much by roadsters, but its temperance
principles used to be thoroughly hated, as were also those of Kansas. It
is needless to say, however, that in the river towns a tramp could
usually have all the liquor he could stand. I was in Burlington once
when there was a Grand Army celebration, which the tramps were
attending (!) in full force; and the amount of "booze" that flowed was
something astounding for a "dry" State. Nearly every vagrant that I met
had a bottle, and when I asked where it came from, I was directed to an
open saloon! A great fad in Nebraska, Iowa, and Kansas is to beg from
the hotels. I have received hospitality in these places when I could
get absolutely nothing at the private houses. This is especially true
when the cook is a negro. He will almost always give a beggar a
"set-down" (square meal), and sometimes he will include a bundle of food
"for the journey." Still another fad when I knew the country was to call
at the penitentiaries for clothes. I saw a man go into the Fort Madison
"pen" (Iowa) one day with clothes not only tattered and torn, but
infested with vermin. When he returned, I hardly knew him, he was so
well dressed. Stillwater Penitentiary in Minnesota also had a notoriety
for benevolence of this sort, but I cannot affirm this by personal
observation.
Wisconsin, although not exactly unfriendly to tramps, is nevertheless a
"poor" State, because it has no very large city and is peopled largely
by New-Englanders. Milwaukee is perhaps the best place for a beggar. The
Germans will give him all the beer he wants, and feed him well besides,
for they are the most unwisely generous people in this country. Where
they have a settlement, a tramp can thrive almost beyond description.
For instance, in Milwaukee, as in other Wisconsin towns, he can batter
for breakfast successfully from six o'clock until eleven o'clock in the
morning, and is everywhere sure of a cup of coffee. I once attempted in
Milwaukee to see just how many dinners I could get inside the ordinary
dinner-time, and after an hour and a half I returned to the hang-out
with three bundles of food, besides three dinners which had already been
disposed of. I could have continued my dining indefinitely, had my
capacity continued.
San Francisco and Denver are the main dependence of tramps in the West.
If one meets a westward-bound beggar beyond the Mississippi, he may
usually infer that the man is on his way to Denver; and if he is found
on the other side of that city, and still westward bound, his
destination is almost sure to be "'Frisco," or at least Salt Lake City,
which is also a popular hang-out. Denver has a rather difficult task to
perform, for the city is really a junction from which tramps start on
their travels in various directions, and consequently the people have
more than their share of beggars to feed. I have met in the city, at one
time, as many as one hundred and fifty bona-fide tramps, and every one
had been in the town for over a week. The people, however, do not seem
to feel the burden of this riffraff addition to the population; at any
rate, they befriend it most kindly. They seem especially willing to give
money. I once knew a kid who averaged in Denver nearly three dollars a
day for almost a week, by standing in front of shops and "battering" the
ladies as they passed in and out. He was a handsome child, and this, of
course, must be taken into consideration, for his success was
phenomenal.
"'Frisco" is even better than Denver, furnishing districts in which
tramps can thrive and remain for a longer time unmolested. There are
more low lodging-houses, saloons, and dives; and there is also here a
large native class whose character is not much higher than that of the
tramp himself, so that he is lost among them--often to his own
advantage. This difficulty of identification is a help to roadsters, for
there is nothing that pleases and helps them so much as to be
considered "town bums," the latter being allowed privileges which are
denied to strangers.
In the estimation of the tramp the West does not rank with the East. The
railroads are not so "good"; there are fewer cities; even the towns are
too far apart; in some districts the people are too poor; and taking the
country as a whole, the inhabitants are by no means so generous. I doubt
whether the average gains of Western beggars amount to more than
twenty-five cents a day. In "'Frisco" and Denver, as well as in a few
other large towns, begging is of course much more remunerative, but in
the rural parts the average wage of a beggar is even below twenty cents
a day, besides food; at least, this is the result of my observation. In
general the Western tramp is rough, often kind-hearted, wild and
reckless; he always has his razor with him, and will "cut" whenever
there is provocation. The blanket-stiff is perhaps the least violent of
all; his long walking-tours seem to quiet his passion somewhat, and
overcome his naturally wild tendencies. The ex-prushun is exactly the
opposite, and I know of no roadster so cruel and mean to the weak as
this young fellow, who is, after all, only a graduated kid. This is not
so surprising, however, when one recollects that for years he has been
subject to the whims and passions of various "jockers," or protectors,
and naturally enough, when released from his bondage, he is only too
likely to wreak his pent-up feelings on the nearest victim. After a year
or two of Western life he either subsides and returns to the East, or
becomes more intimately connected with the true criminal class, and
attempts to do "crooked work." Several of the most notorious and
successful thieves have been ex-prushuns.
Just how many tramps there are in the West it is even more difficult to
decide than in the East, because they are scattered over such wide
territory. Experience makes me believe, however, that there are fully
half as many voluntary idlers in this part of the country as in the
East. And the great majority of them, I fear, are even more
irreclaimable than their comrades in other communities. They laugh at
law, sneer at morality, and give free rein to appetite. Because of this
many of them never reach middle age.
THE SOUTH
Tramp life here has its own peculiarities. There are white loafers known
as "hoboes," which is the general technical term among white tramps
everywhere, and there are the "shinies," who are negroes. The odd part
of it all is that these two classes hardly know each other; not that
they hate each other or have any color-line, but simply that they
apparently cannot associate together with profit. The hobo seems to do
better when traveling only with hoboes, and the shiny lives much more
comfortably in his own clan. My explanation of this fact is this: both
parties have learned by experience that alms are much more generously
given to a white man when alone than when in company with a negro. This,
of course, does not apply anywhere but in the South, for a colored tramp
is just as well treated in the East and West as a white one.
My knowledge of the shinies is very meager, for I was compelled to
travel as a hobo when studying vagrancy in the South, and I have never
met a member of that class who knew very much about his negro
_confrères_. From all that I can gather, however, I think that they
resemble very closely the gay-cats, for they do work now and then,
although their being on the road is usually quite voluntary, unless
their natural laziness can be considered as a force impelling them into
trampdom. Their dialect is as different from the usual tramp lingo as
black from white, and I have never been able to master its orthography.
As the South in the main is only skimmed over by most white tramps, and
as a few cities represent the true strongholds of vagrancy, it is
unnecessary to give any detailed account of this region. Besides, it is
only in winter that many tramps, excepting, of course, the shinies, are
found here, and consequently there is not very much to describe, for
they go into this part of the country principally to "rest up" and shun
the cold weather prevalent in other districts. The chief destinations of
wandering beggars in the South are New Orleans, St. Augustine,
Jacksonville, Tallahassee, and Atlanta. Several towns in Texas are also
popular "resting-places," but usually the tramps in Texas have begged
their money in other States, and are there principally for "a great
slopping-up," for which dissipation Texas furnishes much more suitable
accommodations than any other State in the Union. The usual time for
Eastern and Western tramps to start South is in October. During this
month large squads of vagabonds will be found traveling toward
"Orleans." I once was on an Illinois Central freight-train when
seventy-three tramps were fellow-passengers, and nearly every one was
bound for either Florida or Louisiana. These two States may almost be
called the South so far as hoboes are concerned. New Orleans is
especially a tramp-nest, and ranks second to New York in hospitality,
according to my experience. In the older part of the town one can find
beggars of almost every nationality, and its low dives are often
supported by the visiting knights of the road. Begging, as they do, very
fair sums of money, and being only too willing to spend it quickly, they
afford these innkeepers of the baser sort very fair rewards for keeping
up their miserable "hotels." A well-trained beggar can very often
average a dollar a day in New Orleans if he begs diligently. But he must
be careful not to be arrested, for the jails in the South are
man-killing holes in many and many an instance. Even in the East and
West several of the county prisons are bad enough, but they cannot
compare in filth to some of the miserable cells of the South.
Jacksonville and St. Augustine are good hang-outs for tramps, and in the
winter such visitors are very numerous. They make a very decent living
off the transient tourists at these winter resorts. But success is so
short and precarious there that many hoboes prefer New Orleans, on
account of its steadier character, and seldom visit the other towns.
Besides, to batter around the hotels in St. Augustine one should be
respectably clad, and polite in manner and bearing, which, in most
cases, involves far too much trouble.
The most generous people in the South are the poor, but not the negro
poor, who, according to my experience, are by no means large-hearted.
Take them in the East or West, and they are friendly enough, but on
their native heath they are, as a rule, stingy. I have received much
more hospitality from the "poor whites" than from any other people. The
negroes, when I asked them for something to eat, would say: "Oh, go and
ask the Missis. I can't give you anything"; and when I would call upon
the "missis," she was not to be seen. But the poor white would invite me
into his shanty, and treat me as well as was in his power. It was not
much, I must admit; but the spirit was willing though the pantry was
nearly empty. In West Virginia, for instance, I have been entertained by
some of the "hill people" in their log cabins in the most hospitable
manner. The obvious reason of this is a scarcity of tramps; when they
are few, generosity is great, and the few get the benefit.
If the students of this particular phase of sociology will only look
minutely and personally into the conditions under which trampdom thrives
and increases in our country, Barcas's map may yet become famous.
Charles Godfrey Leland once wrote an article entitled "Wanted:
Sign-Posts for Ginx's Baby." It would seem that his prayer has been
answered, and that this unwanted, unprovided-for member of society has
found his way through forest and mountains, over rivers and prairies,
till now he knows the country far better than the philanthropist who
would gladly get on his track. If this topographical survey shall serve
to bring him nearer what should be, and what I am convinced aims to be,
a source of betterment for him, Barcas will not have lived in vain.
FOOTNOTES:
[3] The Baltimore and Ohio Railroad--called "The Dope" because it is so
greasy.
[4] A peddler of bogus jewelry.
V
THE CITY TRAMP
Vagabonds specialize nowadays quite as much as other people. The fight
for existence makes them do it. Although a few tramps are such all-round
men that they can succeed almost anywhere, there are a great many others
who find that they must devote their time to one distinct line of
begging in order to succeed. So to-day we have all sorts of hoboes.
There are house-beggars, office-beggars, street-beggars, old-clothes
beggars, and of late years still another specialization has become
popular in vagabondage. It is called "land-squatting," which means that
the beggar in question has chosen a particular district for his
operations. Of course, a large number of tramps still go over all the
country, but it is becoming quite customary for vagabonds to pick out
certain States and counties for their homes. The country, as a whole, is
so large that no beggar can ever really know it on business principles,
and some clever beggars not long ago decided that it is better to know
thoroughly a small district than to have only a general knowledge of the
entire continent. Consequently our large cities have become overrun with
tramps who make them their homes the year round, till America can almost
compete with England in the number of her "city vags." There is no large
town in the United States that does not support its share, and it is
seldom that these tramps are natives of the towns in which they beg. In
New York, for example, there are scores of beggars who were born in
Chicago, and vice versa. They have simply picked out the city which
pleases them most and gone there. In time they become so numerous that
it is found necessary to specialize still further, and even to divide
the town itself into districts, and to assign them to distinct kinds of
begging. It is of these specialists in vagrancy that I intend to write
in this chapter.
[Illustration: TOMATO-CAN TRAMPS.]
The lowest type is what is called in tramp parlance the "tomato-can
vag." In New York city, which has its full quota of these miserable
creatures, they live in boxes, barrels, cellars, and nooks and corners
of all sorts, where they can curl up and have a "doss" (sleep). They get
their food, if it can be called that, by picking over the refuse in the
slop-barrels and tomato-cans of dirty alleys. They beg very little,
asking usually for the stale beer they find now and then in the kegs
near saloons. Money is something that they seldom touch, and yet a good
many of them have been first-class criminals and hoboes in their day.
I used to know a tomato-can tramp who lived for several months in a
hogshead near the East-Side docks of New York. I visited him one night
when on a stroll in that part of the city, and had a talk with him about
his life. After he had reeled off a fine lot of yarns, he said:
"Why, I remember jes lots o' things. I's been a crook, I's been a
moocher, an' now I's shatin' on me uppers [I am broke]. Why, what I's
seen would keep them blokes up there in Cooper Union readin' all winter,
I guess."
This was probably true. He had been everywhere, had seen and done nearly
everything which the usual outcast can see and do, and he wound up his
life simply "shatin' on his uppers." No one will have any dealings with
such a tramp except the men and women in his own class. He is hated by
all the beggars above him, and they "do" him every chance they get.
A fair example of this class hatred came under my notice in London,
England. I was walking along Holborn one evening when I was suddenly
accosted by an old man who wanted me to give him a drink.
"I wouldn't ask ye," he said, "'cept that I'm nearly dyin' o' cold. Can'
cher help a feller out!"
There was something so pitiful about him that I decided to take him into
a public house. I picked out the lowest one in the neighborhood. The
place was filled with beggars and criminals, but they were all of a
higher class than my friend. However, I called for his gin, and told him
to sit down. It was soon evident that the old man was an unwelcome
guest, for even the bartender looked at him crossly. He noticed this,
and began to grumble, and in a few minutes was in a quarrel with some of
the men. The bartender told him to be quiet, but he claimed that he had
as good a right to talk as any one else. He was finally put out,
although I made all the remonstrance I dared. I started to leave too,
but was prevented. This made me angry, and I turned on the men, and
said:
"What right have you fellows to treat me this way? I came in with the
old man respectably enough."
"Oh, come up 'n' 'ave a drink," said one of the men. "Don't get 'uffy.
Come up 'n' 'ave a bitter."
Then another said: "Say, was that old feller any relation o' yourn?
'Cause ef 'e was, we'll fetch 'im back; but ef 'e wa'n't, 'e kin stay
where 'e is. 'E don't belong in 'ere."
"Why is that?" I asked.
"Why, don' cher know that 'e ain't o' our class? 'E's a' ole
can-moocher. 'E ain't got no right 'ere."
"Well, do you mean to say that you own this place, and no one can come
in who is not of your choosing?"
"The case is jes this, 'n' you know it: it's our biz to do anybody out
o' our class."
"Would you 'do' me if you had a chance?"
"Bet cher life!"
I got out safely soon after this, and had gained knowledge for the
future.
But, hated as he is by the more successful vagabonds, the tomato-can
tramp is just as kind-hearted and jovial as any of them. And for fair
treatment I will risk him every time. As a rule, he is an old man,
sometimes over seventy years of age. He dresses most outlandishly,
seldom having any two garments of the same color, and what he has are
tattered and torn. His beard and hair are allowed to grow as long as
they can, and usually give him the appearance of a hermit. Indeed, that
is just what he is. He has exiled himself from all that is good and
refined, and is like a leper even to his brethren. It is just such a
life as his, however, to which all tramps that drink, as most outcasts
do, are tending. It matters not how clever a criminal or beggar a man
may be, if he is a victim of liquor, and lives long enough, he is sure
to end as a tomato-can tramp. There is a suction in low life which draws
men continually lower. It is an inferno of various little worlds, and
each has its own pitch of degradation.
The next higher type of the town tramp is the "two-cent dosser"--the man
who lives in stale-beer shops. In New York he is usually to be found
about Mulberry Bend, the last resort of metropolitan outcasts before
dropping down into the "barrel-and-box gentry." This district supports
the queer kind of lodging-house called by the men who use it the
"two-cent doss." It is really a makeshift for a restaurant, and is
occasionally kept by an Italian. The lodgers come in late in the
evening, pay two cents for some stale beer or coffee, and then scramble
for "spots" on the benches or floor. All nationalities are represented.
I have found in one of these places Chinamen, Frenchmen, Germans,
Italians, Poles, negroes, Irishmen, Englishmen, and "'Mer'cans," and
they were all as happy as could be. They beg just enough to keep them in
"booze," their food being found mainly at "free lunches." Like the
tomato-can tramp, they have little intercourse with beggars above them.
By this I mean, of course, that they know they will not be treated
sociably outside of their class, and decide very wisely to remain where
they belong. They rarely leave a town which they have picked out as a
home; and some of them never even get out of their narrow district.
In Chicago, for instance, there is a "joint" near Madison Street in
which some men simply live day and night, excepting the few hours they
spend in looking for the pennies they need. In the daytime they sit on
the benches and talk shop, and at night they lie on the floor. There is
a watchman who cares for them at night; he sleeps near the door in order
to let in any belated beggar. But he first lights his candle, and
commands the beggar to show how much money he has. If it is five cents,
the price of a mug of beer, he is allowed to enter.
In New Orleans I once saw a place somewhat similar, the only difference
being that at night ropes were stretched across the bar-room for the
men to lean on while sleeping. Some persons fail to note much difference
in the lives of the two-cent dossers and the tomato-can tramps, but the
two-cent dossers make a sharp class distinction out of their greater
privilege. Personally, I should rather live in a barrel or box than in a
joint, if only for the sake of cleanliness. The joint is simply a nest
of vermin, and cannot be kept clean; whereas, if a man is careful and
works hard, he can keep a barrel fairly habitable for himself, and with
no other occupants. Still, I am sorry to say that few men who do live in
barrels achieve or desire this success. The most unique feature of the
two-cent dosser class is its apparent happiness. The men are always
funny, and crack a joke as easily as they tell a lie. I remember most
vividly a night in one of their joints in St. Louis. All night long some
one was laughing and joking, and my questions always met a witty reply.
I noticed, for instance, that several of the men were blind in one eye,
and I asked the meaning of this.
"Ha! ha! Don' cher know! Why, it's 'cause we're lookin' fer work so
hard."
Another man wanted to know whether I could tell him where he could get a
"kid." I asked him what use he had for one.
"Oh, prushuns [kids] is val'able; when you've got 'em, you're treasurer
of a company."
Nevertheless, these men very seldom have boys, because their life is too
unexciting, and the lads will not stay with them. A prushun, as a rule,
wants something livelier than loafing around saloons and corners, and
consequently is rarely found in these two classes.
The other types of city vagabondage can be classified as the
"lodgin'-house-gang," with the exception of the room-beggar. I must
therefore consider them in relation to their different styles of begging
rather than living; for when once a beggar can live in any sort of
lodging-house, he has a right to belong to the general crowd, no matter
what he pays for his bed. The seven-center house, for instance, is
considerably lower than the ten-center, but its being a lodging-house is
sufficient to separate its inmates entirely from the two classes who
live in boxes and beer-shops. And to make the classifying feature more
intelligible, I shall give first a short account of the lodging-house in
all its grades, omitting only those that are carried on by charity.
Beginning with the lowest, there is the seven-center, in which hammocks
of a bad order are used as beds. The covering is very often the lodger's
coat, unless he happens to have a blanket of his own. In winter there is
a large stove in the middle of the sleeping-room, and this keeps things
fairly warm. The usual lodger in this house is the town tramp, although
the wandering hobo goes there too. I have also seen a few genuine
seekers of work there, but never two nights running. One night is
usually enough, and they sleep out in preference to mixing in such a
crowd as the place shelters.
The ten-center is the next grade above, and is probably the most popular
of all in the United States. It is built after various models, the
commonest being the "double-decker," where the bunks are made of
gas-pipe, one right above the other. In this case the bedding is a straw
tick and a blanket; that is all, as a rule. Yet I have known sheets to
be used. Another model is something like the forecastle of a ship.
Around the walls several tiers of bunks are built, sometimes twelve feet
high, and in the middle is the "sitting-room," with stove and chairs.
Occasionally the only bedding is straw, there being no blanket of any
kind. The class of men found in places of this type is hard to describe;
the town tramp is there, and so is almost every other kind of vagabond.
It is a sort of cesspool into which are drained all sorts of outcasts,
and the only way to distinguish them is to know them personally. Young
and old, the intelligent and the ignorant, the criminal and the newsboy,
all are found in the ten-center.
The fifteen-center comes next, and is very much like the ten-center,
except that its customers are a little more orderly, and that it
furnishes lockers into which the lodgers can put their clothes. This
latter point is really the _raison d'être_ of the fifteen-cent
lodging-house, according to my experience. At any rate, I have failed to
see any other good reason for charging five cents more for the beds,
which are usually no better than those in the ten-center.
In the other grades, at twenty and twenty-five cents a night a man can
have a little room to himself; by "room" I mean a sort of cell without a
roof, in which is a cot, a chair (sometimes), and a locker. I slept in
one of these houses in the Bowery one night. The office and sitting-room
were comparatively cozy, and the lodgers were respectable so far as
dress and general manner were concerned. Up-stairs in the
sleeping-apartments things were not so pleasant. There was a bad odor
about everything, and the beds were decidedly unclean, as are most beds
in most lodging-houses. I left word at the office that I wished to be
called at seven o'clock in the morning, and my order was distinctly
obeyed, for about half-past six I was wakened by a man poking me in the
ribs with a long stick leveled at me from over the partition-wall. After
the man had poked me with the stick, he said, "Eh, bloke, time to get
up."
Some tramps consider this style, and it probably is in their cases, for
they are accustomed to all sorts of places, and the twenty-five-center
is their nearest approach to hotel life. Although I have probably
overlooked some exceptional institutions in this general description of
lodging-houses, I have nevertheless given a fair account of the usual
homes of the "lodgin'-house gang." And, as I said before, the town tramp
is mixed up in this gang so promiscuously that to pick him out of the
general crowd necessitates a personal encounter. All that I can do now
is to portray him in his various guises as a beggar. I shall take four
types to do this--the street-beggar, the house-beggar, the
office-beggar, and the old-clothes beggar. These are all well-known
characters in city vagabondage.
[Illustration: A CITY TRAMP AT WORK.]
The street-beggar is, I believe, the cleverest all-round vagabond in the
world. He knows more about human nature than any other tramp of my
acquaintance, and can read its weak points with surprising ease. I used
to know a New York tramp of this kind who begged almost entirely of
women as they walked along the streets, and he claimed that he could
tell, the minute he had seen their eyes, whether it would pay to "tackle
'em." How he did this I do not pretend to know, and he himself could not
tell, but it was true that he seldom judged a woman wrongly. Fifth
Avenue was his beat, and he knew fully fifty women in that district who
were sure to give him something. His main tricks, if I can call them
that, were those of the voice rather than of the hand. He knew when to
whine and when to "talk straight," and, best of all, he knew when to
make people laugh. This is the highest accomplishment of the
street-beggar, for when a person will laugh with him he is pretty sure
to get something; and if he can succeed in picking out a certain number
of "clients," as he calls them, who will laugh with him every week the
year round, his living is assured. This is the business of the clever
street-beggar; he must scrape acquaintance with enough people in his
chosen district to support him. It matters not to him whether he excites
their pity or mirth so long as he gets their nickels and dimes. I knew a
woman beggar of this sort whose main trick, or "capital," as she called
it, was extreme faith in the chivalry of men. She would clutch a man by
the coat-sleeve, and tragically exclaim:
"How dare you cast me off? Don't you know that I am a woman? Have you no
mother or sisters? Would you treat them as you are treating me?"
Some men are so squeamishly and nervously chivalrous that they will be
taken in by such a beggar every time.
Women very often make the keenest street-beggars. They are more original
in posing and dressing, and if with their other talents they can also
use their voices cleverly, they do very well. Speaking of posing reminds
me of a woman who is usually to be found near the Alhambra music-hall in
London. She dresses very quietly and neatly, and her entire manner is
that of a lady. I believe that she really was one in her day, but liquor
has made her a match-vender; and her clever pose and dress are so
attractive that people give her three times the value of the matches
which she sells them. This match-selling is the main trick of the London
street-beggar. It is a trick of defense against the police, and at the
same time a blind to the public. People think that men and women selling
matches are trying to earn an honest living, and this is true sometimes;
but, according to my observation, the majority of match-venders offer
one hand to the public for alms, and carry their "lights" (matches) in
the other.
The business of the house-beggar is obviously to know a certain number
of good houses in his district, just as the street-beggar knows a
certain number of people in his street or streets. And if he is a
mendicant who can deal with women more successfully than with men, he
must know just when to visit houses in order that only the women may be
at home. If he is a beggar of this style, he usually carries a
"jigger"--an artificially made sore, placed usually on an arm or leg. He
calls at the front door and asks for "the lady." When she appears he
"sizes her up" as best he can, and decides whether it will pay to use
his jigger. If it is necessary, he prefaces this disgusting scene by an
account of his hardships, and claims that he has been very badly burned.
Then he shows his miserable sore, and few women are callous enough to
see it without flinching. If they "squeal," as the tramp says, he is
sure to be rewarded.
Another trick is to send around pretty little girls and boys to do the
begging. A child will succeed at house-begging when an able-bodied man
or woman will fail utterly, and the same is true of a very old man--the
more of a centenarian he looks, the better. But better than any of these
tricks is what is called the "faintin' gag." I myself had the benefit of
an undertaking of this character in Indianapolis some years ago, and I
know it works well. I got into the town one night, and was at a loss to
know what to do, until I accidentally met an old hobo who was trying to
make his living there as a city tramp. He had been in the place only a
few days, and had not yet found his particular district. He was simply
browsing about in search of it, and he suggested that we try a certain
quarter of the town that he had not visited at all. We did try it, and,
after visiting twenty houses, got only two pieces of bread and butter.
This, naturally enough, made my partner angry, and he told me to go back
to the hang-out while he went on another beat. I waited for him nearly
an hour, when he returned with a "poke-out" (food given at the door) and
a "sinker" (a dollar). I, of course, was surprised, and asked for
details.
"Oh, I got 'em right 'nough," he said. "You see, after leavin' you, I
was so dead horstile that I was ready for anything 'n' the first house I
struck was a parson's. At first he didn't want to feed me at all, but I
got into his settin'-room 'n' gave 'im a great story. I tole 'im that I
was nearly a-dyin' with hunger, 'n' ef he didn't feed me, the s'ciety
agen' cruelty to animals 'u'd prosecute 'im. Then I begun to reel a bit
'n' look faintin'-like, 'n' purty soon I flops right on the floor as ef
I was dead. Then the racket begun. The parson called 'Wifey!' an' the
both of 'em peppered 'n' salted me for about ten minutes, when I comes
to an' looks better. Then they couldn't feed me fast 'nough. I had pie,
cake, 'n' a lot o' other things 'fore I wuz done, 'n' when I left the
parson give me the sinker, 'n' 'wifey' the poke-out; hope to die ef they
didn't. See? That's the way ye got ter catch them parsons--right in the
eye."
As the old-clothes beggar is only a subspecies of the house-begging
class, he deserves mention under the same head. His business, as his
name implies, lies principally in looking for old wearing-apparel, which
he sells to dealers in such wares. Sometimes he even pays for his food
in order to devote his entire time and talents to his specialty. In
London, for instance, I know a trio of this sort who live in a cellar
where they keep their "goods." I visited their place one afternoon, and
one of the men was kind enough to let himself be interviewed about his
business. My first question was how he begged.
"Well, o' course our first business is to wear bad togs. F'r instance,
ef I's beggin' fer shoes I wants to put on a pair thet's all gone, else
I can't get any more, 'n' the same when I's beggin' fer coats 'n' 'ats.
It's no use tellin' people that you're beggin' fer somebody else. They
won't believe it."
Then I questioned him as to the sort of garments which were most
profitable.
"Breeches. We kin sell 'em every time. 'Ats does pretty well too, 'n' ef
we get good shoes we kin do a rattlin' business. One o' my pals made
seven bob fer a week jes out o' shoes. Wimmenses' togs hain't up ter the
men's; an' yet we does fairly well wid 'em too. In 'ats, f'r instance,
we does fairly good, 'cause the gals knows where we lives, 'n' they
comes right 'ere instid o' goin' ter the dealers. Petticoats is next
best when we gets good ones, but we don't very often, 'cause these
Whitechapel donners [girls] wants picter-like ones, 'n' we don't always
get 'em. I wish we could jes stick ter beggin' fer men's togs, 'cause
they 's the best. Jes gimme 'nough breeches, 'n' I won't complain."
In American cities also, men's clothing is the most profitable for
beggars of this sort; very few tramps ask for "wimmenses' togs." In
Germany, however, all sorts of old clothes are looked for, and the city
tramps are great competitors of the Jews in this business. An old German
Jew once said to me:
"I wish these Kunden [tramps] were all dead. They spoil our business
right along, because they get their stuff for nothing, and then
undersell us. That isn't right, and I know it isn't."
In Frankfort-on-the-Main I once knew a Swiss beggar who collected
eighteen pairs of shoes in one week, not counting other things that he
asked for also. And he claimed that, after trying various kinds of
begging, he had found the most money in the shoe business. Of course,
all this depends on a beggar's ability to make people believe that he
is really deserving, for clothes-beggars, like a number of other
specialists, must have some natural adaptation for their chosen calling.
This is also true of the office-beggar, or "sticker," as he calls
himself. His specialty brings him almost entirely in contact with men,
and he must be exceedingly clever to deal successfully with them. A man
will argue with a beggar, if he has time, just twice as long as a woman
will, and he will also give just twice as much money if he gives
anything. So the office-beggar has good material to work on if he
understands it. One of his theories is that, when begging of men, the
"story" must be "true to nature"; that is, so simple and direct that
there is no possibility of doubling on his track. For instance, he will
visit a lawyer, tell his story, and then simply hang around as long as
he dares. It is this waiting so patiently that gives him his name of
"sticker." There are fully a hundred tramps of this sort in New York
city alone. They have their separate beats, and seldom leave them unless
they are worked out. I know one beggar who never leaves Newspaper Row
and Wall Street except for amusement, and he makes, on an average,
seventy-five cents a day. And I know another tramp whose business keeps
him confined to Broadway between Barclay Street and the Battery, while
his home is in the Bowery near Houston Street. Men of this stamp have
evidently been lucky in the selection of offices where a certain sum of
money will be given every week. Such good fortune is the ambition of
every energetic city tramp. He wants something definite every day, week,
and month, and as he gets it or fails to get it, rates himself
successful or unsuccessful.
The aristocrat of city vagabondage is represented by what I call the
room-beggar. He cannot be classified with the lodging-house men, because
he has little to do with them, except socially, as at the saloon or
music-hall, for instance. His home is entirely separated from theirs, it
being a room, and sometimes even an apartment, which he rents for
himself and family. If he is successful at his trade, and is careful to
dress with some nicety, he can scarcely be distinguished from the usual
citizen, except by the trained observer; the only mark about him being
that peculiar glance of the eye common to all criminals and beggars.
The room-beggar has no unique line of trade that I have been able to
discover; he goes into anything that pays, and the main difference
between him and the majority of the men in the "lodging-house gang" is
his greater ingenuity in making things pay. He is the brainy man of the
city tramps, and the other beggars know it, and all look up to him, with
the exception of the clever street-beggar, who considers himself his
equal, as I think he really is.
No tramp, for instance, is so clever at the begging-letter "racket," and
this means a good deal. To be able to write a letter to a perfect
stranger and make money out of it requires a skilled hand, and a man
educated in many lines. The public has become somewhat used to this
trick, and will not be deceived every time; only men of an original turn
of mind can do much with it. It is this originality that is the main
talent of the room-beggar. He concocts stories which would do credit to
a literary man, and sometimes makes nearly as much money as the daring
thief.
Women are also found in this class, and do very well at times. In the
city of Berlin, Germany, there lived a "lady" of this sort. She had two
homes. One was a cellar in a poor quarter of the town, and the other was
an aristocratic _étage_ in the West End. She sent letters to well-to-do
people of all sorts, in which she claimed to be _eine hochwohlgeborene
Dame_ in distress. She invited likely philanthropists to visit her in
her cellar in order that they might see how unfortunate her position
really was. People went, were shocked, and, as a result, she had her
apartment in the West End. For about ten months this woman and her two
daughters lived in real luxury, and one of the "young ladies" was to
marry in "high society" about the time that the ruse was made public.
This is by no means a new trick, and yet people are being continually
swindled. Why? Simply because the beggars who undertake it are cleverer
than the people fooled by it. That is the only reason. If charitable
people would only commit charity to skilled hands it would be much
easier to handle beggars. The tramp is a specialist; so why not leave
specialists to deal with him? The whole trouble comes of our willingness
to be more unpractical in our philanthropy than in our business.
There is one more city tramp that I must catalogue. It is the "sponger."
His duty in life consists, he thinks, in simply living off the visiting
knights of the road. He is a parasite fed by parasites, and hated by all
self-respecting beggars. He is found wherever the traveling hoboes
congregate, and there is no town in any country that I have visited
where he does not flourish. In the Bowery his name is legion, and a hobo
can scarcely visit a saloon there without meeting him. The wandering
vagabond considers him the "bunco-man" of the beggars' world, and that
is a good name. He will do anything to get money from a hobo, but I
doubt very much whether he ever begs on his own hook. Exactly how he
comes to exist no one knows, but I fancy that he is a discouraged tramp;
he has found that he is not a born beggar, and has concluded that the
next best thing is to live off men who are. If there were no beggars in
the world, he would probably have to work for his living, for he could
not steal successfully.
As for stealing, few town beggars ever go into that as a business. Of
course, they will take things that do not belong to them if they are
sure of not being caught, but this safety is so vain a hope that it is
seldom "banked on." It is strange that the city tramp is not more of a
thief, for probably no one knows more about the town's chances than he.
Criminals are always anxious to have some acquaintance in his ranks,
knowing only too well that the "town vag" can post them as no one else
can.
Another thing rather more unpopular among town tramps than is usually
supposed is joining a clique. In New York city, for example, there are
various gangs of toughs who prowl about the town committing all sorts of
depredations and making themselves generally feared. Even the policemen
are now and then held at bay by them, and woe to the drunken sailor with
his wages in his pockets who falls into their hands. I have seldom
found the city tramp in such company. He knows too well the dangers of
such crowds, prefers what he calls the "cut-throat principle," or each
man for himself. There is too much slavery for him among toughs of the
gang order, and he cannot move around as freely as he likes. Then, too,
gangs are every now and then fighting one another, and that is usually
harder work than the beggar cares for.
* * * * *
One of the most interesting things in the study of tramps is to get at
their own opinions of themselves. To a certain degree they may be called
rational beings. There is opinion and method and reason in trampdom,--no
doubt of it,--and there are shades of opinion that correspond to
varieties of method. The tramp of the prairies, the "fawny man" in New
England, the city tramp in the Bowery, each has his point of view. If
one catechizes or interviews the last named of these, he says:
"I'm a beggar, and I know it. I know, too, that most people look upon me
as a bad sort of fellow. They want to catch and punish me, and I don't
want them to do it. They are warring against me, and I'm warring against
them. They think that I don't know how I should use my life, and I think
that I do. Somebody must be mistaken; I think that they are, and I'm
doing my best to beat them. If they beat me, well and good; and if I
beat them, well and good."
This is the talk of the real artist in low life; he is in the vagabond
world because it pleases him better than any other. A little different
is the point of view of the drunkard beggar:
"I'm a fool, and I know it. No man with any sense and honor would live
as I do. But the worst of it all is, I can't live otherwise. Liquor
won't leave me alone, and as I've got to live somehow, why, I might as
well live where I can take care of myself. If people are fools enough to
let me swindle them, so much the worse for them and so much the better
for me."
To change such opinions as these is a hard task. The first can be
corrected only when the man who owns it is discouraged. When his spirit
is broken he can be helped, but not until then. The second is the result
of long suffering through passion. Until that passion is conquered
nothing can be done.
VI
WHAT THE TRAMP EATS AND WEARS
I
The tramp is the hungriest fellow in the world. No matter who he
is,--_Chausséegrabentapezirer_, moocher, or hobo,--his appetite is
invariably ravenous. How he comes by that quality of his defects is an
open question even in his own mind. Sometimes he accounts for it on the
ground that he is continually changing climate, and then again
attributes it to his incessant loafing. A tramp once said to me:
"Cigarette, it ain't work that makes blokes hungry; it's bummin'!" I
think there is some truth in this, for I know from personal experience
that no work has ever made me so hungry as simple idling; and while on
the road I also had a larger capacity for food than I have usually. Even
riding on a freight-train for a morning used to make me hungry enough to
eat two dinners, and yet there was almost no work about it. And I feel
safe in saying that the tramp can usually eat nearly twice as much as
the laboring-man of ordinary appetite.
Now, what does he find to satisfy this rapacious craving? There are two
famous diets in vagabondage, called the "hot" and the "cold." Each one
has its advocates and propagandists. The hot is befriended mainly by the
persevering and energetic; the cold belongs exclusively to the lazy and
unsuccessful. The first is remarkable for what its champions call
"set-downs," that is to say, good solid meals three times a day--or
oftener. The second consists almost entirely of "hand-outs" or
"poke-outs," which are nothing but bundles of cold food handed out at
the back door.
Every man on the road takes sides, one way or the other, in regard to
these two systems of feeding, and his standing in the brotherhood is
regulated by his choice. If he joins the set-downers he is considered at
least a true hobo, and although he may have enemies, they will not dare
to speak ill of his gift for begging. If, on the other hand, he contents
himself with hand-outs, he not only loses all prestige among the
genuine hoboes, but is continually in danger of tumbling down into the
very lowest grades of tramp life. There is no middle course for him to
follow.
II
Success in vagabondage depends largely on distinct and indispensable
traits of character--diligence, patience, nerve, and politeness. If a
tramp lacks any one of these qualities he is handicapped, and his chosen
life will go hard with him. He needs diligence in order to keep his
winnings up to a certain standard; he needs patience to help him through
districts where charity is below par; he needs nerve to give him
reputation among his cronies, and he needs politeness to win his way
with strangers and to draw their sympathy and help. If he possesses
these characteristics, no matter what his nationality may be, he will
succeed. If not, he would better work than tramp--he will find it much
easier and twice as profitable. The poke-out beggar is deficient in
every one of these qualities, and his winnings demonstrate it.
I made his acquaintance first about ten years ago. I had just begun my
life on the road, and as I knew but very little about tramping and
nothing about begging, it was only natural that I should fall in with
him, for he is the first person one meets in the vagabond world. The
successful beggars do not show themselves immediately, and the newcomer
must first give some valid evidence of his right to live among them
before they take him in--a custom, by the way, which shows that tramping
is much like other professions. But the poke-out tramp is not so
fastidious; he chums with any one he can, successful or not; and as I
had to associate with somebody, I began with him. After a while I was
graduated out of his rank, and received into the set-down class, but
only after a hard and severe training, which I would not go through
again--even for the sake of Sociology.
III
As a rule, the poke-out beggar has but one meal a day, usually
breakfast. This is the main meal with all vagabonds, and even the lazy
tramp makes frantic efforts to find it. Its quantity as well as its
quality depends largely on the kind of house he visits. His usual
breakfast, if he is lucky, consists of coffee, a little meat, some
potatoes, and "punk 'n' plaster" (bread and butter). Coffee, more than
anything else, is what every hobo wants early in the morning. After
sleeping out of doors or in a box-car, especially during the colder
months, a man is stiff and chilled, and coffee is the thing to revive
him when he cannot get whisky, which is by no means the easiest thing to
beg. I have known tramps to drink over six cups of coffee before they
looked for anything solid, and I myself have often needed three before I
could eat at all.
The dinner of the lazy beggar is a very slim affair. It is either a free
lunch in a saloon, or a hand-out. This latter consists mainly of
sandwiches, but now and then a cold potato will be put into the bundle,
and also, occasionally, a piece of pie. After the tramp has had one or
two of these impromptu lunches he persuades himself that he has had
enough, and goes off for a rest. How often--but on account of
bashfulness, rather than anything else--have I done the same thing! And
what poor dinners they were! They no more satisfy a tramp's appetite
than they would a lion's, but the indolent fellow tries to persuade
himself otherwise. I once overheard a typical member of the class
discussing the matter with himself, or rather with his appetite, which,
for the sake of argument and companionship, he looked upon as a
personality quite apart. He had just finished a slim and slender
hand-out, had tossed into the bushes the paper bag that held it
together, and, when I saw him, was looking up into the sky in a most
confidential manner. Soon, and as if sorry he could not be kinder to it,
he cast his eyes pityingly on his paunch, and said in a sad tone:
"Poor devil! I feel fer y'u--bet cher life I do! But yer'll have to
stand it, I guess. It's the only way I know fer y'u to git along." Then
he patted it gently, and repeated again his sympathetic "poor devil."
But not once did he scold himself for his laziness. Not he! He never
does.
His supper is very similar to his dinner, except that he tries now and
then to wash it down with a cup of tea or coffee. Later in the evening
he also indulges in another hand-out, unless he is on a freight-train or
far from the abodes of men.
Such is the diet of the lazy tramp, and, strange to relate, despite its
unwholesomeness and its meagerness, he is a comparatively healthy
fellow, as are almost all tramps. Their endurance, especially that of
the poke-out tramps, is something remarkable. I have known them to live
on "wind-pudding" as they call air, for over forty-eight hours without
becoming exhausted, and there are cases on record where they have gone
for four and five days without anything to eat or drink, and have lived
to tell the tale. A man with whom I once traveled in Pennsylvania did
this very thing. He was locked into a box-car which was shunted off on
an unused side-track a long distance from any house or place where his
cries could be heard. He was in the car for nearly one hundred and
twenty hours, and although almost dead when found, he picked up in a few
days, and before long was on the road again. I saw him at the World's
Fair at Chicago, and he was just as healthy and happy in his own way as
ever.
In some of the sparsely settled districts in Texas tramps have suffered
most appalling deaths by such accidents, but so long as a beggar keeps
his freedom I do not believe that even a lazy one starves to death in
this country. I know very well that people do not realize this, and that
they feed tramps regularly, laboring under the delusion that it is only
humane so to do.
But although the tramp hates honest labor, he hates starvation still
more, and if he finds it impossible to pick up anything to eat, he will
either go to jail or work. He loves this world altogether too much to
voluntarily explore another of which he knows so little.
IV
The clothes of the poke-out beggar are not much, if any, better than his
food. In summer he seldom has more than a shirt, a pair of trousers, a
coat, some old shoes, and a battered hat. Even in winter he wears little
more, especially if he goes South. I have never seen him with
underclothes or socks, and an overcoat is something he almost never gets
hold of, unless he steals one, which is by no means common. While I
lived with him I wore just such "togs." I shall never forget my first
tramp suit of clothes. The coat was patched in a dozen places, and was
nearly three sizes too large for me; the waistcoat was torn in the back,
and had but two buttons; the trousers were out at the knees, and had to
be turned up in London fashion at the bottom to keep me from tripping;
the hat was an old derby with the crown dented in numerous places; and
the only decent thing I had was a flannel shirt. I purchased this rig of
a Jew, and thought it would be just the thing for the road, and so it
was, but only for the poke-out tramp's road. The hoboes laughed at me
and called me "hoodoo," and I never got in with them in any such garb.
Nevertheless, I wore it for nearly two months, and so long as I
associated with lazy beggars only, it was all right. Many of them were
never dressed so well, and not a few envied me my old coat.
It is by no means uncommon to see a poke-out vagabond wearing a garment
which belongs to a woman's wardrobe. He is so indifferent that he will
wear anything that will shield his nakedness, and I have known him to be
so lazy that he did not even do that.
One old fellow I remember particularly. He had lost his shirt somehow,
and for almost a week went about with only a coat between his body and
the world at large. Some of his pals, although they were of his own
class, told him that he ought to find another shirt, and the more he
delayed it the more they labored with him. One night they were all
gathered at a hang-out near Lima, Ohio, and the old fellow was told that
unless he found a shirt that night they would take away his coat also.
He begged and begged, but they were determined, and as he did not show
any intention of doing as he was bidden, they carried out the threat.
And all that night and the following day he was actually so lazy and
stubborn that he would not yield, and would probably be there still, in
some form or other, had his pals not relented and returned him the coat.
As I said, he went for nearly a week without finding a shirt, and not
once did he show the least shame or embarrassment.
Not long after this experience he got into limbo, and had to wear the
famous "zebra"--the penitentiary dress. It is not popular among tramps,
and they seldom wear it, but that old rascal, in spite of the disgrace
and inconvenience that his confinement brought upon him, was probably
pleased that he did not have to find his own clothes.
Such are the poke-out tramps of every country where I have studied them,
and such they will always be. They are constitutionally incapacitated
for any successful career in vagabondage, and the wonder is that they
live at all. Properly speaking, they have no connection with the real
brotherhood, and I should not have referred to them here, except that
the public mistakes them for the genuine hoboes. They are not hoboes,
and nothing angers the latter so much as to be classed with them.
The hobo is exceedingly proud in his way,--a person of
susceptibilities,--and if you want to offend him, call him a "gay-cat"
or a "poke-outer." He will never forgive you.
V
Almost the first advice given me after I had managed to scramble into
the set-down class came from an old vagabond known among his cronies as
"Portland Shorty." He knew that I had been but a short time on the road,
and that in many respects I had not met with the success which was
necessary to entitle me to respect among men of his class, but
nevertheless he was willing to give me a few pointers, which, by the
way, all hoboes are glad to do, if they feel that the recipient will
turn them to profit.
I met Shorty for the first time in Chicago, and while we were lounging
on the grass in the Lake Front Park, the following conversation took
place:
"Cigarette," he began,--for I had already received my tramp name,--"how
long 'v' y'u been on the road?"
I replied: "About two months."
"Wall, how long d' y'u 'spect to stay there?"
"Oh, 's long 's I'm happy."
"Ez long ez yer happy, eh? Wall, then, I'm goin' to chew the rag wid y'u
fer a little while. Now, 'f yer wants to be happy, here's a little
advice fer y'u. In the first place, make up yer mind jes wha' cher goin'
to be. Ef y'u 'spect to work fer yer living why, get off the road.
Moochin' spiles workin' jes ez workin' spiles moochin'. The two don't go
together nohow. So 'f yer goin' to be a bum fer life, never think o'
work. Jes give yerself entirely to yer own speshul calling fer 'f y'u
don't yer'll regret it. 'N the second place, y'u wan' to decide what
kind o' beggar yer goin' to make. Ef yer a thief, 'n' playin' the beggar
jes as a guy, why, then y'u knows yer bizness better 'n I do. But ef y'u
ain't, 'n' are jes browsin' round lookin' fer a berth, then I wants to
tell yer somethin'. There's diffrent kinds o' beggars; some gits there,
'n' some doesn't. Them what gits there I call arteests, 'n' them what
doesn't I call bankrupts. Now, wha' cher goin' to be, arteest or
bankrupt?"
I replied that I was still undecided, since I had not yet learned
whether I could make a success on the road or not, but added that my
inclination would be toward the "arteest" class.
"That's right," he began afresh. "Be an arteest or nothin'. Beggin' 's a
great bizness 'f yer cut out fer it, 'cause y'u've got everythin' to win
'n' nothin' to lose. Not many callin's has them good points--see? Now,
'f yer goin' to be an arteest, y'u wants to make up yer mind to one
thing, 'n' that is--hard work. Some people thinks that moochin' is easy,
but lemme tell yer 't ain't. Batterin', when it's done well, is the
difficultest job under the moon--take my tip fer that. Y'u got to work
hard all yer life to make boodle, 'n' 'f y'u wan' to save it, y'u
mus'n't booze. Drinkin' 's what spiles bums. If they c'u'd leave it
alone they'd be somethin'. Now, Cig, that's good sound talk, 'n' you'd
better hang on to it."
I did, and it helped me as much as anything else in getting in with the
real hoboes. I have known them, now, for ten years, and feel abundantly
qualified to describe their diet and dress.
VI
In the first place, they eat three good warm meals every day--breakfast
from seven to eight o'clock, dinner at twelve, and supper at six. These
are the set-downs[5] in tramp life, and it is the duty of every
professional to find them regularly. The breakfast is very similar to
the poke-out tramp's breakfast, the main additions being oatmeal and
pancakes, if the beggar is willing to look for them. They can be found
with a little perseverance. There are also some hoboes who want pie for
breakfast, and they have it almost constantly. I once traveled with a
Maine tramp who simply would not consider his breakfast complete until
he had had his usual piece of apple-pie. And he actually had the nerve
to go to houses and ask for that alone. During our companionship, which
lasted over a week, he failed but once to get it, and then it was
because he had to make a train.
The dinner is a more elaborate affair, and the tramp must often visit a
number of houses before he finds the various dishes he desires. I
remember well a hunt I had for a dinner in St. Louis. A Western tramp
was my comrade at the time, and we had both decided upon our bill of
fare. He wanted meat and potatoes, "punk 'n' plaster," some kind of
dessert (pudding preferred), and three cups of coffee. I wanted the same
things minus the dessert, and I had to visit fifteen houses before my
appetite was satisfied. But, as my companion said, the point is that I
finally got my dinner. He too was successful, even to the kind of
pudding he wished.
Not all tramps are so particular as my Western pal, but they must have
the "substanshuls" (meat and potatoes and bread and butter) anyhow.
Unless they get them they are angry, and scold everything and everybody.
I once knew a vagabond to call down all sorts of plagues and miseries on
a certain house because he could not get enough potatoes there. He
prayed that it might be cursed with smallpox, all the fevers that he
knew, and every loathsome disease--and he meant it, too.
There are a number of hoboes who occasionally take their dinners in the
form of what they call the "made-to-order scoff." It is something they
have invented themselves, and for many reasons is their happiest meal.
It takes place at the hang-out, and a more appropriate environment could
not be found. When the scoff is on the program, the vagabonds gather
together and decide who shall beg the meat, the potatoes, the onions,
the corn, the bread and butter, the tea and coffee, and the desserts, if
they are procurable. Then each one starts out on his separate errand,
and if all goes well they return before long and hand their winnings
over to the cook. This official, meanwhile, has collected the fire-wood
and the old tin cans for frying and boiling the food. While the meal is
cooking, the tramps sit around the fire on the stolen railroad-ties and
compare jokes and experiences. Pretty soon dinner is announced, and they
begin. They have no forks and often no knives, but that does not matter.
"Fingers were made before forks." Sometimes they sharpen little sticks
and use them, but fingers are more popular. The table manners of the
Eskimos compare favorably with those of these picnicking hoboes, and I
have often seen a tramp eat meat in a way that would bring a dusky blush
to the cheek of the primeval Alaskan. It is remarkable, however, that no
matter how carelessly they eat their food, they seldom have dyspepsia. I
have known only a few cases, and even then the sufferers were easily
cured.
Supper is seldom much of a meal among hoboes, and mainly because it has
to be looked for, during the greater part of the year, just about dark,
the time when the hobo is either preparing his night's hang-out, or
making arrangements for his night's journey, and the hunt for supper
often occasions unpleasant delays. But he nevertheless looks for it if
he can possibly spare the time. He considers it his bounden duty to eat
regularly, and feels ashamed if he neglects to do it. I have heard him
scold himself for an hour just because he failed to get a meal at the
proper time, although he really did not care for it. Bohemian that he
is, he still respects times and seasons, which is the more surprising
since in other matters he is as reckless as a fool. In quarrels, for
example, he regards neither sense nor custom, and has his own private
point of view every time. But at the very moment that he is planning
some senseless and useless fight, he will look for a meal as
conscientiously as the laborer works for one, although he may not need
it.
For supper he usually has about what other people have--potatoes
(usually fried) and beefsteak, tea or coffee, bread and butter, and some
kind of sauce. For three months of my time on the road I had almost
exactly this bill of fare, and became so accustomed to it that I was
considerably surprised if I found anything else. I mention these various
items to show how closely the tramp's "hot diet" resembles that of most
people. A great mistake is made in thinking that these men, as a class,
have to eat things both uncommon and peculiar. Some of them do, but all
of the set-downers eat about the same things that the respectable and
worthy portion of the community eats.
In Pennsylvania, the "fattenin'-up State,"[6] or "P. A.," as the hobo
calls it, apple-butter is his chief delicacy. I have seen him put it on
his bread, meat, and potatoes, and one beggar that I knew wanted it
"raw." I happened to be with this man one afternoon in the town of
Bethlehem, and while we were sitting on a little bridge crossing the
canal on the outskirts of the town, a Pennsylvania Dutchman hove in
sight. My pal, being a beggar who liked to improve every opportunity,
immediately said to me, in a professional sort of voice:
"Keep quiet, Cig, 'n' I'll tackle 'im."
The man soon passed us, and the beggar followed. He caught up with him
in a moment, and as I had also followed, I managed to overhear a part of
the conversation. It was something like this:
"I say, boss, can' cher gimme the price of a meal?"
"Nein; dat kan ich nit."
"Well, can you take me home 'n' feed me?"
"Nein."
"Well, say; can' cher gimme a cigar?"
"Nein"--in anger.
"Well, say,"--and he put his arm affectionately on the Dutchman's
shoulder,--"let's go 'n' have a drink. Eh?"
"Nein."
"Well, you old hoosier, you, can you gimme some apple-butter?"
Even the Dutchman laughed, but he said, "Nein."
Besides the three meals which every hobo has regularly, there are also
two or three lunches a day, which are included in the hot diet, although
they practically belong to the cold one. The first is taken in the
morning about ten o'clock, and is begged at breakfast-time, the second
about three or four o'clock, and the third late in the evening. Not all
hoboes eat these between-meal "snacks," but the majority beg them at any
rate, and if they do not need them they either throw them away or give
them to some deserving person, often enough a seeker of work. For
although the tramp hates labor, he does not hate the true laborer, and
if he can help him along, he does it willingly. He knows only too well
that it is mainly the laboring-man off whom he lives, and that it is
well to do him a good turn whenever it is possible. Then, too, the hobo
is a generous fellow, no matter what else he is, and is always willing
to share his winnings with any one he really likes. With the gay-cat and
the poke-outer he will have nothing to do, but with the criminal, his
own pals, and the working-man he is always on good terms, unless they
repel his overtures.
As a number of tramps spend considerable time in jails, it seems
appropriate to tell what they eat there, also. Their life in limbo is
often voluntary, for although a great many hoboes go South every winter,
there are others who prefer a jail in the North, and so whatever
hardship they encounter is mainly of their own choosing. And since some
of them do choose jail fare, it is evident that those particular beggars
find it less disagreeable than winter life "outside" either North or
South. The usual food in these places is bread, molasses, and coffee in
the morning, some sort of thick soup or meat and potatoes with bread for
dinner, and bread and molasses and tea for supper. There is generally
enough, also, and although I have often heard the tramps grumble, it was
mainly because they had nothing else to do. Confinement in county
prisons, although it has its diversions, tends to make a man captious
and irritable, and the tramp is no exception to this. Occasionally he
gets into a jail where only two meals a day are given, and he must then
exercise his fortitude. He never intends to be in such a place, but
mistakes will happen even in vagabondage, and it is most interesting to
see how the tramp gets out of them or endures them. He usually grits his
teeth and promises "never to do it again"; and, considering his
self-indulgent nature, I think he stands suffering remarkably well.
VII
What the hot-diet tramp wears is another matter, but a not vastly
different one. His ambition, although he does not always achieve it, is
to have new togs quite as regularly as the man who buys them with hard
cash. He also tries to keep up with the fashions and the seasons as
closely as possible.
But all this must naturally be regulated by the charity of the community
in which he happens to be. If he is near a college, and knows how to beg
of the students, he can usually find just what and about all he needs;
but if he is in a country district where clothes are worn down to the
thread, he is in a hard case. As a rule, however, he dresses nearly as
well as the day-laborer, and sometimes far better. There are tramps of
this type in New York and Chicago whose dress is almost identical with
that of the majority of the men one meets in the streets, and to
distinguish them from the crowd requires an eye able to read their faces
rather than their coats. Such men never allow their clothes to wear
beyond a certain point before begging a fresh supply. And if they are
careful, and do not ride in freight-trains often, a suit will last them
several months, for they understand remarkably well how to take care of
it. Every tramp of this order and grade carries a brush inside of his
coat pocket, and uses it on the slightest provocation. On the road I
also acquired this habit of brushing my clothes as often as they showed
the slightest soil. It is a trick of the trade, and saves not only the
clothes, but the self-respect of the brotherhood.
Dark clothes are the most popular, because they keep clean, or at least
appear clean, for a longer time. I once wore a suit of this kind for
nearly three months, and although I used it rather roughly, it was so
good at the end of that time that I traded it to a tramp for a coat and
vest almost new. The way to make sure of having a serviceable suit is to
gather together several coats, vests, and trousers, and pick out a
complement from the best and most suitable of the lot.
[Illustration: A WESTERN ROADSTER.]
I shall not forget an experience of this sort I had in a Western town. I
had worked all day with my companion looking simply for clothes, and at
night we had six coats, eight vests, four pairs of trousers, and two
overcoats. Out of this collection we chose two fairly good suits, but
the rest were so poor that we had to throw them away. One of the coats
was a clergyman's, and when he gave it to me he said: "It may not fit
you very well, but you can use it as an overcoat, perhaps." It was even
then too large for me, and I gave it to the tramp, who wore it for
nearly a month. His pals laughed at him and called him "Parson Jim"; but
he made more money with that coat than he could possibly have made in
any other. He posed as a theological student among the farmers, and was
most royally entertained. But his luck gave out in a short time, for he
went to prison in his clerical habit not long after.
Hoboes take most delight in what is called the sack-coat. "Tailed
jackets" are inconvenient, especially when one is riding on the trucks
of a train; the skirts are liable to catch on something and thus delay
matters. It is the inside of a tramp s coat, however, that is most
interesting. It is usually furnished with numerous pockets, one of them
being called the "poke-out pocket," in which he stows away his lunches.
The others are used for brushes, tattooing-tools, combs, white rags,
string, and other little notions that may "come handy" to a traveler.
But in none of the pockets will there ever be found one bit of paper
which might identify the bearer or implicate him in any suspicious work.
He is too "foxy" to ever allow his real name to crop out in any telltale
evidence on his person, except, perhaps, when he may have been foolish
enough to have it tattooed somewhere on his body.
He is proudest of his hat and shoes, and with reason. The former is
usually a soft black felt, but stiff hats are also _à la mode_, and I
have even seen a "stove-pipe" on the road. It was unique, however, and
the owner did a good business with it; his "clients" used to feed him
simply on account of his oddity. The foot-gear consists generally of
laced shoes, but boots have to be accepted now and then. Socks, although
much in vogue, often yield to white-linen rags wound smoothly around
the feet. This is particularly true among the tramps of Germany. They
take long walks, and contend that socks chafe the feet too much. There
is truth in this, and while I lived with them I followed their custom to
the extent of wearing the rags next to my feet and then drawing the
socks over them. And I was very little troubled with sore feet while I
did so; but for the one week when I tried to go without the rags I
suffered considerably.
Overcoats are worn by the hoboes who go South in winter, but tramps who
spend the cold months in jail do not need them, and if they beg any,
usually sell them. Underclothes in some form or other are worn all the
time, not so much for warmth as for cleanliness. Even the cleanest
hoboes cannot keep entirely free of vermin, and they wear underclothes
to protect their outer garments, changing the former as often as they
can, and throwing away or burning the discarded pieces. The tramp's
shirt is always of flannel, if he can find it, and very often he wears
two, either for the sake of trade or to keep warm. Other garments are
doubled also, and one finds men wearing two coats, two vests, and two
pairs of trousers. It is by no means uncommon to see a tramp who wears
linen and cotton shirts with two or three layers on his back. As one
becomes soiled he throws it away, and so on till the three are
discarded.
There is one more indispensable article of a tramp's toilet, and it is
called the "shaver." This is a razor incased in a little sack, generally
leather, which he hangs around his neck with a string. It is used for
fighting and shaving, and is very good as a "guy" for getting him into
jail. I saw how this was done one day in western Pennsylvania. The time
was late October, and three tramps who came into town decided that the
local jail would be a good place in which to spend the winter. They
wanted a ninety-day sentence, and knew they could not get it for simple
drunkenness; so they decided to pretend drunk and make a row in order to
be sentenced on two charges. They began their brawl in the main street,
and flourished their razors in good style. The officers arrested them
after a little fight made for appearance' sake, and the judge gave them
four months--thirty days more than they expected. Their razors were
confiscated, too, but they got others the minute they were released. It
sometimes happens, however, that the shavers are not discovered, because
the men are not properly searched, and, owing to this lack of careful
inspection by officials, rows in jails have often ended seriously.
VIII
A friend at my elbow, to whom vagabondage is a _terra incognita_,
remarks just at this juncture: "You ought to tell just how the tramp
gets his three set-down meals a day."
I can scarcely believe that in our own country there is any ignorance in
regard to this matter. The house in the settled districts that has not
been visited by the tramp in search of one of his three meals seems to
me not to exist. But if anybody needs enlightenment on this point, the
following incident will be of interest.
One June day, some years ago, I strolled into the hang-out in a little
town in Michigan just as the bells were ringing for dinner. I was a
stranger in the place, and as I wanted to find my dinner as quickly as
possible, in order to make a "freight" that was due about two o'clock, I
asked one of the tramps at the camp whether he knew of any "mark" (a
house where something is always given to beggars) in the town.
"Well, there ain't many," he replied. "Town's too small and the people's
too relijus. The best is that big college building up there on the hill,
but they ain't always willin' even there. They go by fits. If they's in
the mood, they feeds you, 'n' 'f they ain't, they sicks the dog on you;
an' it takes a pretty foxy bloke to know what moods they is in. I struck
'em onc't when I felt dead sure they was in the k'rect one, 'n', by the
hoky-poky, I had to look fer a new coat 'for' I left the town--blasted
mean dog they got there. But there's another place not far from the old
red buildin' where any bloke kin scoff if he gives the right song 'n'
dance. It's No. 13 Grove Street. Great ole squaw lives there--feeds
everybody she kin; sort o' bughouse [crazy] on the subject, you
know--likes to talk 'bout her Sammy, 'n' all that sort o' stuff. Dead
cinch, she is. Better hit her up 'n' take a feed. Yer bound to get a
good ole set-down."
I followed his advice, and was soon at the back door of No. 13 Grove
Street. In answer to my knock there appeared a motherly-looking old lady
who wanted to know what she could do for me. What a tale I told her! And
how kind she looked as I related my sad experiences as a young fellow
trying to work his way to a distant town, where he hoped to find friends
who would help him into college!
"Come right in; we are just at table." Then she called to her daughter
Dorothy, a pretty lass, and told her to lay a plate for a stranger. She
and the girl were the only persons in the house, and I was surprised
that they took me in so willingly. Women, as a rule, are afraid of
tramps, and prefer to feed them on the back steps. But I had evidently
found an exception, for when I had washed my hands and face and combed
my hair on the little porch, I was invited into the cozy dining-room and
offered a place beside the hostess. How odd it seemed! I almost felt at
home, and had to be on my guard to keep up my rôle as a vagabond. For it
was certainly a temptation to relieve myself then and there, and have an
old-time chat on respectable lines. I had been so long on the road that
I was really in need of some such comfort, but I dared not take
advantage of it. So I answered their questions about my home, my
parents, and my plans as professionally as I could, and spun my story,
not entirely of fiction, however, and they smiled or looked solemn as
the occasion fitted. They seemed to take a great interest in my doings,
and always had a word of sympathy or advice for predicaments which I
fabricated. And how they fed me! My plate was not once empty, and I ate
and ate simply out of respect to their politeness. When I had finished
they both asked me to rest awhile before taking up my journey again; so
I sat in their interesting little sitting-room, and listened to their
talk, and answered their questions. Pretty soon, and evidently thinking
that it would help me to know about him, the mother began to tell me of
a lad of hers whom she had not seen for several years, and as she
fancied that he might possibly have traveled my way, she asked if I had
met him. I wanted to tell her that I had, if only to give her a mite of
comfort, but I knew that it would be more cruel than the truth, and I
said "I was afraid we had not met." Then she spoke of certain features
of face that we had in common, and asked the girl if she did not think
so.
"Yes," Dorothy replied, "he reminds me of Sam--just about the same
build, too."
I could not stand this, and told them I must be on my way. As I was
leaving, the old lady asked me not to be offended if she gave me a
little book. "Of course not," I replied, and she fetched me a
conventional little tract about a prodigal son. I thanked her, and then
she advised me to visit a certain lawyer in the town, who, she said, was
in need of a helper, and there I might find a chance for an education
without looking farther. And as if to prove my right to such employment,
while standing on the porch at her side, she laid her motherly hand on
my head, and said to Dorothy, with a smile on her kindly face:
"The lad has an intelligent head--something like Sam's. Don't you think
so?"
Both looked sadly and solemnly in earnest, and I stole away, hoping
never to see them again until I should know where their Sam might be
found. I have looked for him on many a road since that June day, always
with the determination that no other "wandering boy" should hear from me
of this kind mother's hospitality, and I hope they have him now, for
they certainly deserve surcease of sorrow on his account.
There are people like this in every town, and it is the tramp's talent
to find them, and "when found make a note on." He thus becomes a
peripatetic directory for the tramp world, which lives on the working
world at a cost which it is worth while to consider.
IX
That tramps are expensive no one will deny, but how much so it is
difficult to decide. I have tried to show that a large number of them
eat and wear things which certainly cost somebody considerable money,
but a careful census of the vagabond population alone can estimate the
amount. No one can tell exactly what this tramp population numbers, but
I think it safe to say that there are not less than sixty thousand in
this country. Every man of this number, as a rule, eats something twice
a day, and the majority eat three good meals. They all wear some sort of
clothing, and most of them rather respectable clothing. They all drink
liquor, probably each one a glass of whisky a day. They all get into
jail, and eat and drink there just as much at the expense of the
community as elsewhere. They all chew and smoke tobacco, and all of them
spend some of their time in lodging-houses. How much all this represents
in money I cannot tell, but I believe that the expenses I have
enumerated, together with the costs of conviction for vagrancy,
drunkenness, and crime, will easily mount up into the millions. And all
that the country can show for this expenditure is an idle, homeless, and
useless class of individuals called tramps.
FOOTNOTES:
[5] In Germany and England the tramps usually eat their set-downs in
cheap restaurants or at lodging-houses. They beg money to pay for them,
rather than look for them at private houses.
[6] It is most interesting to talk with Eastern tramps in the West who
are homeward bound. If they have been in the West long, and look rather
"seedy," and you ask them where they are going to in the East, they
invariably reply: "Gosh! P. A., o' course. We wants to fatten up, we
does." And there is no better place for this than Pennsylvania.
PART II
TRAVELS
PART II
TRAVELS
PAGE
I. LIFE AMONG GERMAN TRAMPS 169
II. WITH THE RUSSIAN GORIOUNS 200
III. TWO TRAMPS IN ENGLAND 229
IV. THE TRAMP AT HOME 267
V. THE TRAMP AND THE RAILROADS 291
I
LIFE AMONG GERMAN TRAMPS
William II of Germany is the ruler of about fifty millions of people. A
small fraction comprises the nobility, while the great majority are
commoners, and the rest, about one hundred thousand, are roving beggars.
His Imperial Majesty is probably well acquainted with his nobles, and he
thinks that he understands the commoners, but the tramp who passes his
castle now and then is a foreigner at home. Yet he is found in every
city, town, and village, and there is hardly a home in the empire which
he has not visited. He tramps the public highways as freely and
fearlessly as the laborer, and rides on the royal railways as boldly as
a king. His business in life is to prey upon the credulity of the
charitable, and to steal when the eye of the law is not on watch. In
spite, however, of all this publicity, comparatively little is known of
his real life and character. Various books and pamphlets have been
written about him, but they have usually been grounded on second-hand
information, as I have looked in vain for any account of a personal
study of tramp life.
Being desirous of knowing the real facts in the case, I at first
supplemented my reading by various conversations with beggars as they
lounged around near my home in Berlin, and occasionally invited some of
the more intelligent into my study, and plied them as cleverly as
possible with all sorts of questions. But they invariably fooled me, and
told the most romantic of tales, believing, probably, that they were
what I wanted. Time after time I have said to them, "Oh, come now, give
over this story-telling, and let me have something that is really true."
But they seemed unable to comprehend my purposes, and, true to their
national traits, it was not in them to take part in any scheme which
they could not understand. How to get at what I desired was the
question. I called at the Bureau of Statistics, hoping surely to find
here carefully tabulated statistics of vagrancy; but I was disappointed.
Dr. Berthold,[7] who kindly told me all he knew, said that Pastor von
Bodelschwingh was the man who had made the best census of trampdom, and
he had claimed that there were 200,000 arrests in Germany each year for
begging; that 100,000 of them represented irreclaimable vagabonds,
80,000 bona-fide seekers of work, and the remaining 20,000 the maximum
number of reclaimable beggars. Dr. Berthold continued: "The only way to
know the entire truth about the tramp is to live with him. I had the
intention to do this myself, but I delayed it too long, and now I am too
old." He was very kind and gave me some valuable hints, but admitted
that nothing very definite was known about the wandering beggar.
I finally decided to give up these fruitless investigations, and to
become a tramp myself in order to achieve my ends. I felt fairly
equipped for such an undertaking, having had a two years' residence in
Germany, and having also played the tramp in my own country. My plan,
however, was not to study the enforced vagrant, but rather the man who
wanders because he desires to, and prefers begging to working. And in
that which follows I have attempted to describe my experiences with
voluntary beggars only.
[Illustration: THE FOURTH-CLASS CAR.]
Early in April I made ready for the journey. My outfit was a close copy
of the fashions in trampdom, my clothes being both old and easy to bear.
I took no pass with me, because, in the first place, I could not get a
German pass, and, secondly, I was anxious to find out just what
experiences an unidentified man must go through. If I were to repeat the
experiment I should do differently. Having decided to begin my
investigations in Magdeburg, there being various reasons why I should
not play the beggar in Berlin, I left my home on the date mentioned, and
hurried through the streets to the railroad-station, where I invested a
few groschen in a fourth-class ticket. My first afternoon was
consequently spent in what very closely resembles the common American
freight-car, except that it is windowed and occasionally has planks
braced against the sides to serve as seats. The floor, however, or a
piece of baggage, is the more customary resting-place. A ride in this
miserable box costs two pfennigs the kilometer, and the passengers are
naturally of the lower order of travelers, including the tramps, who
make almost as much use of fourth-class privileges as our own vagrants
do of the freight-trains.
My companions on the first trip were a queer lot. In one end of the car
was a band playing the vilest music for the few sechser (five-pfennig
pieces) occasionally thrown down to them. Their only rival was a little
tambourine girl, who danced and rattled her noisy instrument as if her
life depended upon her agility, as no doubt it did. The other travelers
were market-women, laborers, and journeymen, and a fellow called Peasant
Carl, who was more of a tramp than anything else, in spite of the fact
that he had a trade. We were soon talking on various subjects, and it
was not difficult to lead the conversation to the subject of tramp life.
Carl was considerably surprised to find that an American should be _auf
der Walze_ (on the road), and needed some proof ere he was convinced
that I was a roadster. My old clothes and general forlorn condition were
not sufficient, and I was compelled to tell him a story. Once satisfied
on this point, he turned out to be a good friend, and among other
valuable facts that he generously gave me were scraps from the German
tramp vocabulary, which he said might "come handy," since I was a
stranger. I found that _Kunde_, or customer, was the general word for
vagrant, but as the term vaguely covers the thousands of traveling
journeymen in the community also, another term has been invented for the
genuine tramp, none other than _Chausséegrabentapezirer_, or upholsterer
of the highway ditches. What could be more genuinely, deliciously
German?
As this dialect is rather unique, and as different from the German
language proper as black from white, I am tempted to give a few more
words, tabulating them, for comparison's sake, alongside their American
equivalents:
_German_ _American_
_Tramp_ _Tramp_
_English._ _German._ _Dialect._ _Dialect._
Bread Das Brod Der Kramp Punk.
Water Das Wasser Der Gänsewein
To beg Betteln Abklappen To Batter.
To walk Laufen Tibbeln To Drill.
Policeman Der Schutzmann Der Putz The Bull.
Gendarmes Gendarmes Der Deckel
Village Das Dorf Der Kaff Jerktown.
Whisky-flask Die Schnappsflasche Die Finne The Growler.
Passport Der Reise-Pass Die Flebbe
Hunger Der Hunger Der Kohldampf
This vocabulary will give a fair idea of the dialect. It is much more
complete than the American, affording, as it does, ample means whereby
entire secrecy can be secured in public places. It is spoken by both
_Handwerksburschen_ and tramps, and it is my opinion that the former
were not the originators, as is sometimes averred, but have rather
acquired a fair knowledge of it by associating year after year, on the
road, with beggars.
On my arrival in Magdeburg, my friend Carl suggested that we go to Die
Herberge zur Heimath, a lodging-house somewhat above the common grade,
where we could at least have our supper, but where I could not lodge,
having no pass. This institution must be distinguished from the ordinary
Herberge, or low-class lodging-house, and has a history worth more than
a passing paragraph. It is a sort of refined edition of the Salvation
Army "shelter," and was founded on religious and humanitarian principles
by Professor Perthes of Bonn, whose first enterprise of the kind at Bonn
has been so widely copied that at least three hundred towns of Germany
now furnish this comfortable and respectable refuge to the traveling
apprentice or journeyman, and, if he will conform to its usages and
requirements, to the tramp also.
Entering the main room of the Heimath, I was surprised to see Carl rap
on a table and the men sitting at the same to follow suit. I found out
later that this meant "Hello," and that the after knock indicated "All
right." Shaking hands is also a customary greeting in German trampdom,
but hardly ever in American vagrancy. Tramps also call one another
"brother," and use the pronoun "thou" invariably in preference to "you."
The inmates of the Heimath, I soon found, were drawn from three classes.
First, the apprentice making his first journey, and usually a very
stupid fellow. The tramp was here also, but only, I think, to prey upon
the Handwerksbursche, for no whisky is sold on the premises, and prayers
are held morning and evening, a custom which all true roadsters despise.
The rest were men fairly well on in life, who work occasionally and beg
the remainder of the time. I counted altogether sixteen recognized
beggars (Chausséegrabentapezirer), but made no attempt to make their
acquaintance, having decided not to study them in foreign quarters, but
to seek them in their real homes. For Die Herberge zur Heimath is not a
tramps' nest, although some Germans think so, and as soon as I had had a
fair supper, for which I paid three cents, I left with Carl for another
domicile. We were not long in finding the Herberge proper, or perhaps
improper, where life is seen in all its dirtiest phases. Entering the
common meeting-room, and saluting as usual, we sat down at a table where
there were other tramps also. I was immediately asked: "Wo kommst Du
her? Wo willst Du him? Was hast Du für Geschäft?" I answered these
questions as cleverly as I could, and was soon deep in various
conversations. Before I had been talking long, I made the acquaintance
of a beggar belonging to the class called _Kommando-Schieber_. These
fellows beg usually within very small districts, and know every house
that is "good" for a meal or a pfennig. My newly made friend was kind
enough to instruct both Carl and me in regard to Magdeburg.
"This town is rather _heiss_ [unfriendly]", said he, "but if you look
out and beg very carefully you can get along. A great trick here now is
to tip the _Portier_ of good houses, and thus get the pull on every
flat in the building. You've got to look out for the _Putz_, though,
for if you're caught, you're sure for twenty-four hours in the _Kasten_
[prison]. Another scheme that works pretty well with us fellows who know
the town is to send around begging letters. You can easily make quite a
_Stoss_ [haul] if you work the plan well. Still, it's risky for
strangers. If you're going to stay here long, you'd better make friends
with the _Herbergsvater_. He's a pretty good _Kerl_ [fellow], and if you
let him know that you've got a little money, he'll look out for you when
the Putz makes his inspection now and then. There's nothing, you know,
like standing in with them that are _klug_ [clever], and you can bet
that fellow is.... What do you say to a schnapps, brother?"
He had earned his drink, for he gave me a great many hints which were
necessary to successful begging. One of them was about getting a pass.
"Now, if you can scrape a little coin together," he said, "I'll tell you
how to get a _Flebbe_ that no Putz can find out whether it's forged or
not. You see that fellow over there near the window--well, he looks like
a fool, but if you can give him five marks, he'll get you a _Wanderbuch_
that'll pass you anywhere. But don't go at him too clumsily, you know;
take the matter easy. Nothing like taking your time, brother, is there?"
I agreed that this was orthodox tramp doctrine, and determined to think
the matter over, which I did, and came to the conclusion that I might
eventually get into more trouble with a false pass than without any. And
later experience approved the decision.
My first night in this tramp-nest was one I shall never forget. I slept
with an old beggar in a bed long since given over to other lodgers, who
fought us that night as if we were Frenchmen. And the stench in the
sleeping-room was similar to that in a pigsty. Any complaint, however,
would have been useless, for the price paid was only three cents, and
for that sum of money one could not expect very much. Then, too, the
host asked for no _Legitimations-Papier_, and this was an advantage
which must be set over against most of the annoyances. Nevertheless, I
was glad enough to turn out early in the morning and look for a
breakfast, which was soon found, but thoroughly European in quantity.
Carl continued begging even after his breakfast, while I remained in the
lodging-house talking with some of the inmates. I was surprised to see
how fairly well dressed the German tramp is. The men in the Herberge
were clad much more respectably than their American _confrère_, and
seemed to have a desire to appear as decent as possible. Their
intelligence was also very fair, every one being able to read and write
as well as cipher. This, however, is not so surprising, for they were by
no means young. It is my opinion that the majority of German tramps are
over thirty years of age. There are some boys on the road, it is true,
but by no means the number found in American trampdom. And I am happy to
say that my experience convinces me that their treatment by the elder
men is much more humane than in my own country. There is not in the
German that viciousness which seems ingrained in the character of the
American vagrant. The latter is a more generous fellow, however, than
the German, as I learned by practical experience. When some of the
tramps returned to the Herberge in the afternoon, I tried their good
fellowship by asking several for a sechser with which to buy a cup of
coffee. I offered my very sore foot as an excuse for not having myself
begged. But they were not touched in the slightest. One fellow said: "If
you can't beg your own money, why, you'd better get off the road, for no
other Chausséegrabentapezirer will hustle for you." An American beggar
would, as a rule, have handed me a penny, if he had it. But these men
sat drinking their beer, schnapps, and coffee, utterly incapable, at
least then, of a bit of brotherly charity. They had plenty of money,
too. During the day nearly every one had begged from ninety pfennigs to
one mark twenty, while Carl returned about five o'clock with three marks
in hand.
I think the usual wage for diligent begging is between one mark fifty
and four marks, in addition to the three meals. Of course there are a
few who are much more successful. One fellow at the Herberge, for
instance, who had been in England and could speak English quite well,
claimed that he begged forty marks in one week during the previous
winter from the Americans in Dresden.
Another vagrant told a story of a man he had met in South Germany on the
road with two hundred marks in his pocket, which he had collected in two
weeks in Munich. It is a great amusement for the tramp off duty to
figure out the possibilities of his calling, and to illustrate the same
with stories. There was one beggar in the room who even kept an account
of his income and expenses. I saw the record for March, and found that
his gains had been ninety-three marks and a few pfennigs, not including
the meals which he had had in various kitchens where the servants were
friendly. I must say right here, however, that such success is found
only in cities. For I sampled the charity of the country time after
time, and it is worth a bare living only, or, as Carl was wont to say,
"One can't get fat on it."
We were convinced of this as soon as we had left Magdeburg and started
afoot for Brunswick. Carl begged in every village that we passed
through, but he could seldom get more than twenty or twenty-five
pfennigs, with numerous slices of bread. I made no attempt to beg money,
but visited several houses and asked for food, so that my companions
might not suspect me. I was fairly well treated, at least quite as
charitably as I would have been in the United States, and I think that,
taking the country as a whole, the rewards of begging in Germany are
much higher than in either England or America. The people seem bound to
give, although they have had beggars among them for centuries.
My second night on the road was quite as interesting as the first. I had
stopped with Carl and two other men in a little village not far from
Brunswick, where there was no Herberge, and only one inn, or _Gasthaus_,
as it was called. We asked the woman in charge if we could lodge there
for the night, but she was by no means friendly, saying we were unclean.
She told us to go to the barn, where we could sleep for a groschen
apiece. As there was nothing better to do, we followed her instructions,
and spent the night, which was cold for April, on some bundles of straw.
I was fairly well repaid for this unpleasant experience by the various
conversations which I overheard. One tramp was philosophizing in a
maundering way over his life on the road, and what first brought him
there. He reasoned that as he was born lazy, the blame should be put on
his parents, but he finally concluded that the _Schnappsflasche_ also
had had a hand in the business. Another companion said: "Why should I
work, when I can beg more than I can possibly earn? Now, if I should
follow my trade I could earn about eighteen marks a week. But as a
beggar I can beat that by ten marks. No, brother; it isn't all the blame
of the Schnappsflasche that we're on the road. I, for one, am here
because I can do better than anywhere else. Isn't that so?" And he
nudged me for an answer.
"Well," I said, "we lads on the road seem to have more money than most
laborers, but we seldom have a decent place to lay our heads. For
instance, what sort of place is this we're in now?"
"Yes, that's true," he returned; "but then we're never sick, always
happy, and perhaps we're just as well off as anybody else. You forget
that we never work, and that's a great thing in our favor. Those lads
who have their homes have to work for them, and don't you forget it.
It's my opinion that the home isn't worth the labor."
I think this latter opinion is very general in German vagrancy, and is
one of its main causes. Liquor, however, is just as much of a curse in
Germany as elsewhere, and brings more men into trampdom than is usually
estimated. The Schnappsflasche is in nearly every tramp's pocket, and he
usually empties it twice a day. It is a wonder to me how he can do it,
for the schnapps is almost pure alcohol, and burns the throat terribly.
Yet I found just outside of Brunswick a female tramp, nearly sixty years
of age, who could empty _Die Finne_ in a single "go," and seemed healthy
too. This woman was the only feminine roadster I met during the journey,
and I think she is one of the very few.
About noon of April 14 I arrived in Brunswick with Carl, who was on his
way to Bremen, where he intended shipping as a coal-trimmer to New York,
if possible. He was disgusted with Germany, he said, and felt that
America was the only place for his nervous activity. He was somewhat
surprised, however, as I was too, to find in Brunswick three American
negroes who seemed to think quite the contrary of their country. One was
an "actor," and the other two were ex-waiters, and they were traveling
about the community and getting their living by dancing and singing in
the streets and saloons. Charley, the actor, said: "We're doin' pretty
well; have our three squares a day, and all the booze we want. Can't do
better than that at home." I explained this to Carl, as none of the
negroes spoke German; but he could not be convinced that gold was not
lying loose in the streets of American cities. In the afternoon his
hatred of Germany was not quite so intense, as he begged a mark and a
half in about two hours. One man that he visited was a member of "The
Society against Begging and Vagrancy," and had a sign to that effect on
his gate-post; but Carl found him, it seems, a generous Samaritan. This
interested me considerably, for I had heard good reports of this society
and its members, as well as of its success in fighting vagabondage. I
asked several fellows what they thought of the organization. One tramp
claimed that he always visited its members,--at least, those having
signs on their gates,--for he was quite as apt to be well treated as
not. Others were drastic in their criticisms, and said that the society
would let a man starve rather than feed him. Carl, I think, was about
right when he said that some members of the society fed vagrants, and
some did not, and it was all according to chance.
[Illustration: AN AUCTION.]
From Brunswick a crowd of tramps, including myself, rode in a
fourth-class car to a little station called Peine, in the direction of
Hanover. A few of the men remained here in order to take in the
_Verpflegung-Station_ until the next day. This station, of which there
are about two thousand in Germany, is a place where a man professing to
be penniless can have a night's lodging, together with supper and
breakfast, for a few hours' work. I moved on toward Hanover with fifteen
other men who were bound in the same direction. They all had money, and
no love for the Verpflegung-Station. We tramped along at a pace of about
five kilometers to the hour--the usual gait of tramps when they are
compelled to use the highways. They can beg food enough on the road, and
thus the walking is not so disagreeable, for the German roads are
superb.
At one little village where we stopped for refreshments the crowd took
the place by storm, and the people were actually frightened into giving
us bread and meat. It is true that the men were rather violent and used
threatening language, yet there was no need to fear them, as they could
hardly have attempted to do any great harm. For the German tramp, as a
rule, though a great talker and "blower," is a coward, after all, and
when answered rather roughly usually subsides. At the village of Lehrte
we again boarded a train, and rode into Hanover late in the evening.
Some of my companions went to the Heimath, but the majority hunted out
the common Herberge, and I followed the crowd. I was treated in the same
fashion as at Magdeburg, and was asked no questions about a pass. There
was great excitement in the Herberge over several little auctions, which
the tramps were conducting for their own benefit. Some had coats, vests,
and trousers to sell, while others were crying up the virtue of old
buttons, collars, cuffs, neckties, and even pocket-books, the latter
being found in almost every tramp's pocket. He finds them companionable,
he says, whether he has any money or not. Several coats sold for five
and ten cents apiece, while trousers brought higher prices. Knives were
also on the market, and fully a dozen changed hands. I was struck in
these auctions by the absence of Jews. In fact, I met only three during
the trip, and they were extremely well dressed. I fancy that a tramp's
life hardly offers inducements to men of their predilections. Yet one
would think that no work and a fair reward for begging might satisfy
even their trading propensities.
[Illustration: DANCING AROUND A BONFIRE.]
The trip from Hanover to Bremen was uninteresting, with only one
incident worth recording. Five of us stopped on Easter night at one of
the large bonfires that the peasants had built, just outside of Hanover,
to commemorate the great holiday. When we arrived they were carousing
most jovially, and seemed only too glad to welcome other companions; so
we all took part, and danced around the fire, sometimes with the peasant
girls, and then again by ourselves or singly. The peasants took no
notice of the fact that we were tramps, and shared their sour milk and
brown bread with us as if we were their best friends. One old fellow
took such a fancy to Carl that he actually gave him a sechser. I was
surprised to see him accept it, for the old man needed it much more than
he did. This illustrates very truthfully the utter lack of friendly
consideration in the character of the German tramp. One of the American
species would have returned the penny with thanks, for he is a generous
fellow, and can appreciate other interests than his own. But the
Chausséegrabentapezirer has the least tender feeling of any beggar of my
acquaintance. Even as a boon companion he falls far below the standard,
and would never be tolerated in American trampdom. I can now understand
why the great majority of German beggars in America are compelled to
"flock" by themselves, and to choose companions from their own ranks.
Their selfishness bars them out of the true brotherhood.
In Bremen poor Carl suffered a keen disappointment. He found that he
could not ship as a coal-trimmer without a pass permitting him to leave
the country. I advised him to seek work, and to earn money enough to pay
his passage to New York. His trade was not overcrowded, and he had had a
chance to labor in nearly every town we had visited, and I knew that he
could succeed in Bremen. He finally decided to follow my advice; but the
resolution weakened him so that I fear for a week at least he was a
sorry-looking fellow. When we separated, he said, "Auf Wiedersehen in
Sheekago in '93." Indeed, nearly every tramp that I met intended to
cross the ocean in '93, and to take part in Germany's exhibit at the
fair. Of course they did not all succeed, but some most certainly did.
[Illustration: HUNTING FOR HIS PASS.]
While I was sitting in the Heimath in Bremen, who should come in but a
policeman and a detective. They passed around among the laborers,
journeymen, and vagrants, asking a few questions, and looking
occasionally at the men's passes. I was in somewhat of a tremor, and
expected to be quizzed also. But, as luck would have it, they passed me
by, and I escaped a searching. They arrested one tramp, but he was the
only unfortunate I met during my travels. I learned afterward that he
was sentenced to two days' imprisonment. An American beggar would have
told the judge that he could stand on his head that long, but the German
took it more seriously. From Bremen I decided to go south, and compare
my experiences in northern Germany with tramp life in the vicinity of
Cologne. I left Bremen with seven men on the train, and traveled the
first day as far as Osnabrück, where I made an unnecessary halt, for I
found nothing new or interesting there. There were plenty of tramps, it
is true, but they had no news to impart, except that Osnabrück was a
poor town. One youngster could hardly say enough against its
hospitality. He claimed that he had even begged of the clergymen, and
all that he received were "a few paltry pfennigs." I must admit that the
boy was not far from correct in his judgment, for I visited several
houses, and all I got was a dry piece of bread, which was given me by an
old woman wiser than she was generous. Learning that I was a foreigner,
she must needs know all about my ancestors, where I had come from, and
where I was going. And then she made me listen to a long account of her
boy in Piper City,--she was not sure whether it was in North or South
America,--and asked me if I had ever met him. I told her that I had not,
and she was nearly dumfounded. She thought that in the United States,
"where there were so few people," everybody should know everybody else.
I left her to her surprise and chagrin.
[Illustration: ON THE ROAD.]
The city of Münster was my next stopping-place, and a greater contrast
to Osnabrück could hardly exist. At the Herberge I learned that the town
was considered one of the best between Hamburg and Cologne. The evidence
was certainly convincing, for the tramps had all the liquor they could
drink, as well as numerous bundles of food. Two fellows were doing a
good business in exchanging their bread and _Wurst_ (sausage) for
groschen which others had begged instead of something to eat. I invested
a few sechser in these wares, and was most bountifully repaid,
receiving half a loaf of bread and two good-sized sausages for two and a
half cents of our currency. This custom is very prevalent in German
trampdom, and will illustrate the machinery of vagrancy. Some men will
beg only for food, while others devote most of their lives to looking
for money, and in almost any Herberge, even in the Heimath, these two
parties can be found trading as if they were in a market. They scold,
"jew," and fight one another while the trade is progressing, but when
the bargain is finished good fellowship is again resumed. The joviality
in the Herberge after the "market" was as boisterous and companionable
as if there had not been the slightest trouble. Even the innkeeper took
part, and danced around the room with his guests as if he were as much
of a tramp as any of them. I think he had been a roadster sometime in
his life, for he entered into the schemes and plans as earnestly as the
law allows. Some of the men were discussing the number of charitable
families in Münster, and more especially those "good" for money. One
man, in order to make his point, enumerated by name the families
friendly to beggars. The innkeeper, not agreeing with him, gave his own
census of the Münster people, and it was most interesting to hear from
his lips just what citizens were worth visiting and what not. Having
conducted a tramp hotel in the city for years, he had found it to his
interests to gather and dispense information useful to his customers. He
could tell exactly what house was "good" for a meal or a hand-out, and
could also map out the districts sure to yield pfennigs, groschen, or
half-mark pieces. It is needless to say that such a man is invaluable to
beggars. They hold him dearer than any other member of the clan, and
pay him most liberally for his wisdom by spending nearly all of their
money in his inn. This they can afford to do, for without his
information and protection they would encounter hardships and
difficulties insurmountable. During my stay at the Herberge, the
proprietor sent out as many as eight fellows to different parts of the
town, well posted and equipped for successful begging. Three of these
men returned while I was still there, having averaged three marks and a
half apiece in about five hours. If they had worked for this length of
time their wage would have been about one mark apiece.
The journey from Münster to Düsseldorf is so tiresome afoot, and there
is so little of interest lying between the towns, that I made the trip
by rail, with three companions bound for Bavaria. These men had been
tramping around in northern Prussia for nearly two months, and were
thoroughly disgusted with their experiences. This was not surprising,
however, for the Bavarian as well as the Saxon tramps think there is no
prosperity outside of their own provinces, and, wander as much as they
may in foreign parts, usually return to their own fields, feeling that
they made a mistake in leaving. Begging in these provinces is also much
more remunerative than anywhere else in Germany. Even the religion in
Bavaria favors mendicancy, and it is only necessary to stand on a Sunday
morning in front of some church to make a very fair haul. The tramps
loaf around in the neighborhood of the churches and _stossen_ (tackle)
the poor Catholics as they pass in and out, usually getting a pfennig
at least. One old roadster, thankful that he had lost a leg in the war
of 1870, was unusually successful; but I heard afterward that he had
been in the city for years, and probably the people take care of him as
a sort of relic. He was rather clever, too, and had formed some sage
opinions on charity and poverty. "The poor people," he said, "are the
best friends we have. They give ten times where the rich man gives
once." This is an indisputable fact.
In Cologne, where I arrived on April 21, the tramps were planning trips
into southern Germany, Switzerland, and the Tyrol. I had intended to
make at least one of these excursions, but I was tired, nauseated, and
homesick. I made quick work with the towns of Elberfeld, Essen, Barmen,
and Dortmund, and once settled down in Berlin, with almanac and
gazetteer before me, found I had been fifteen days _auf der Walze_, had
traveled over one thousand kilometers, studied more than seventy towns
and villages, and met three hundred and forty-one voluntary vagrants,
all of them, however, less voluntary than I.
The German tramp, if these experiences justify me in judging him, is a
fairly intelligent fellow of not more than average tramp education, more
stupid and less vicious than his American _confrère_, and with the
traits of his nationality well stamped upon him. He is cautious,
suspicious to a degree, ungenerous, but fairly just and square-dealing
in the company of his fellows. He is too much of a Bohemian to be a
Social Democrat, but has not enough patriotism to be easily fired with
enthusiasm for his Kaiser. He loves schnapps and hates what he calls
the _verdammte Heiligkeit_ such as Die Herberge zur Heimath seeks to
cultivate. He has generally served his three years in the army, but will
dodge the recruiting officer by skipping his country whenever possible,
if he has not. Besides this pervasive lack of patriotism, he has other
dangers for the country. In the February riots in Berlin (1891) he was
out in force, not for labor rights as against capital, but lending his
shoulder to the wheel which he fondly hoped might turn in the direction
of a general overthrow of the existing social state and order.
In regard to the public on which the German tramp lives and thrives, it
is only necessary to say that it is even more inanely generous than its
counterpart in the United States. With all its groans under taxes,
military and otherwise, it nevertheless takes upon itself voluntarily
the burden of the voluntary vagrant--the man who will not work. This is
the more surprising when one recollects that the entire theoretical
treatment of beggars in Germany is founded on the supposition that each
one is a bona-fide seeker of labor. The community practically says to
the culprit: You can make use of our Verpflegung-Stationen, where you
can work for your lodging and meals, and have also a half-day to search
for work, if you can identify yourself as a seeker of labor. We not only
offer this, but also attempt to guarantee you, through the efforts of
our philanthropists, a casual refuge in Die Herberge zur Heimath, while
you are out of work. And if, through untoward circumstances or through
your own carelessness and weakness, you have fallen so low that the
Stationen and the Heimath cannot take you in because your
identification-papers are irregular, and you appear more of a vagabond
than an unfortunate laborer, we then invite you into the labor colonies,
founded also by our philanthropists, where you can remain until you have
earned good clothes and proved yourself worthy. But if we catch you
begging, we will punish you as a vagrant; consequently you would do
better to make use of all the privileges we offer, and thus break no
laws. This is the theory, and I consider it a good one. But the man who
will not work passes through these institutions as freely as the man who
will, owing to the lack of determined discrimination on the part of the
officers, and the desperate cleverness of the offenders.
FOOTNOTES:
[7] Dr. Berthold is a well-known statistician, writer, and authority on
matters pertaining to German labor colonies.
II
WITH THE RUSSIAN GORIOUNS
I
It was not my intention, in going to Russia, to tramp there. I planned
merely to see St. Petersburg and Moscow, work for a while on Count
Tolstoi's farm at Yasnaya Polyana, and then, after a short trip in the
south, return to Berlin. I did all these things according to
expectation, but I also made a tramp trip. It happened in this way: I
had no more than reached the Russian capital when the tramp was forced
upon me. As I jumped into the cab with my friend, who had come to the
train to meet me, he pointed out about twenty tattered and sorry-looking
peasants, marching by us under police escort.
"There go some Goriouns," he exclaimed--"look quick!"
I had only to follow the men with my eyes to know that they were Russian
tramps.
"What are the police doing with them?" I asked.
"Oh, they probably have no passports and are to be sent back to their
villages."
"Are there many tramps in Russia?"
My friend laughed. "Thousands of them. You can hardly go into a village
without meeting them. They are one of the greatest problems Russia has
to deal with."
I soon saw also that I could not even approach a church without being
accosted by them. They stood on the steps and at the doorway of every
one I visited, and invariably begged of me, saying, "Radi Krista" ("For
Christ's sake"). Even at Yasnaya Polyana, fifteen miles from the nearest
town, and several minutes' walk from a highway, the Goriouns put in an
appearance. I was there ten days, and at least one called every morning.
They all seemed to know about Count Tolstoi's gospel, and came to his
home, sure, at least, of something to eat. On the highway, at some
distance from the house, I saw bands of ten and twenty marching by every
day, and they often camped at a bridge which I crossed on my walks.
This continual meeting the tramp and hearing about him naturally made me
curious, and I wondered whether it would be possible to make a journey
among them. I knew enough Russian at least to make myself understood,
and could understand much that was said to me. The great question,
however, was whether, as a foreigner, I should be allowed to make such
a trip. I talked with Count Tolstoi one day about the matter, telling
him some of my experiences in other countries, and asking his advice.
"Why not?" he said, in his jovial, pleasant way. "Of course you will
have hard work in understanding their dialects, and you can hardly
expect to be taken for one of them, but otherwise you ought to get on
easily enough. From your pass and other papers the police will see that
you are nothing dangerous, and if anything should happen, all you have
to do is to send to St. Petersburg. I should like to make such a trip
myself, if I were younger. I'm too old now. Once I went on a long
pilgrimage and saw a good deal of the life, but of course you will see
much more if you go directly into the tramp class. If you decide to make
the trip, I wish you would find out how they look upon the authorities,
and whether they really believe in what they call their religion. It
ought to be very interesting to talk with them on these topics, and
perhaps you will be able to gather some useful material--only you will
not be permitted to print it here in Russia"; and he smiled.
I finally decided to make a trial trip, and was fortunate in finding a
Moscow student who was willing to accompany me for a few days. He had
tramped perforce in some of the southern provinces, and being much
interested in the tramp class in the Vitebsk government, consented to go
with me if I would begin my investigations there. I was fortunate also
in having brought a tramp outfit with me. It had already seen service in
England, Germany, and Italy, and I had taken it along for work in the
fields at Yasnaya Polyana. It was a little better than the usual
Gorioun dress, but I should really have been ashamed to put on anything
shabbier. My friend the student was clad in a patched university
uniform, which all of his class have to wear in Russia, and he looked
like pictures I have seen of ragged Union soldiers in Libby Prison. We
both had a little money in our pockets, and it was not our intention to
beg for anything more than bread and milk, and not even for these things
unless it was necessary to make good our pose. We reasoned that the
peasants of whom we should have to ask for them needed them much more
than we did, and I am glad to say that neither of us on this trip, nor I
on others, which were sometimes made alone, asked for much that we did
not pay for.
Our credentials for the journey consisted of our passports, some
university papers, and an open letter which I had received in St.
Petersburg from Prince Chilkoff, the Minister of Ways and Communication.
It was addressed to the director of the Siberian Railway, but I kept it
by me for the sake of identification, and it helped me through many a
predicament, although the officials to whom it was presented could never
get it through their heads how I, an Amerikanski tramp, could be in the
possession of such an almighty document. There were times, I fear, when
they were tempted to arrest me as an impostor, but they never did--a
good fortune which I can only explain on account of the singularity of
the situation. The Russian "system" was evidently not prepared for so
weird a creature, and I was allowed to pass as an anomaly.
With the Moscow student I tramped for three days in the Vitebsk
government, between the towns of Polotsk and Dünaburg, as dreary a
stretch of country as is to be found anywhere in our West. It was warm
August weather, and the sun came down on us in all its Russian
fierceness. There were times when I simply had to get under a tree to
keep from sun-stroke. At night we slept out of doors, or in haystacks
and barns. The peasants always offered us the hospitality of their
cabins, as they do to all tramps, but we could not bring ourselves to
put up with the vermin we should have found there. In winter, on the
other hand, the Gorioun is glad enough to curl up over their stoves, and
I suppose that we also should have been, had the weather been cold. As
it was, most of the vagabonds we met slept outside, as we did, and we
always had plenty of company. On this trip we met two hundred, traveling
in bands and families. They invariably wanted to know where I came from,
which is the first question they ask, after the greeting,
"Strassvuitye," and I told them the truth on each occasion.
"America--America," they would say in their simple way. "What government
is that in?" meaning what Russian province. I could not make them
understand that it was not in Russia at all, which to them is the entire
world, but they called me "the far-away brother," and I was probably
considered a new species in their class. I never had the feeling that
they accepted me as one of their own,--it would have been strange if
they had,--but they, at any rate, dubbed me "brother," and this was as
much as I could ask. They always wanted to share their simple fare with
me, and I soon saw that there was but little danger in associating with
them.
II
There are two types of tramps in Russia, and they may be classified as
the authorized and the unauthorized. The first are the so-called
religious mendicants, who are protected by the church and tolerated by
the police; the second are the common vagabonds. It is these last who
constitute, from the Russian point of view, the tramp problem. The
religious beggars are considered an inevitable church class, and are
taken care of almost as conscientiously as the priests. The common
tramps, on the other hand, are looked upon as a very unnecessary burden,
and ever since the conversion of Russia to Christianity, laws have been
passed and institutions founded for their suppression and reform. It is
estimated that in European Russia alone they number over nine hundred
thousand, and in Siberia their class represents an even greater
proportion of the population.
Their national name among themselves is "Goriouns"--mourners, or victims
of grief. The word is an invention of their own, but is supposed to come
from the Russian word _gore_, meaning sadness. In Russian proper they
are called _brodiagi_. If you ask them why they do not work,--and the
great majority are perfectly able to do so,--they reply in the
forlornest voice mortal ever heard: "Master, I am a Gorioun--a victim of
sorrow." They seem to have accepted the philosophy that a certain number
of human beings are foreordained to a life of misery and sadness, and
they pose as members of this class. On many of their passports I saw
such expressions as "Burned out," "Has lost all his relatives," "Has no
home," "Will die soon," "Is possessed of the pitiful spirit," and others
of a like nature, which they bribe officials to write, or themselves
forge. I could have had similar explanations put on my own passport.
There are tramps who make a regular business of this kind of imposture,
and it is another evidence of how difficult it is to make even a
passport tell the truth. In Germany the same trick is practised by
tramps, and in both countries the beggar can buy false passes which the
police cannot detect. I saw several in Russia which looked exactly like
the genuine thing, and, had I wished to appear to be a Russian, could
have bought one any day for ten rubles.
In looks and dress the Gorioun acts out to a nicety the story which his
papers are supposed to substantiate. Never have I seen such sad faces as
these men and women have when begging. At heart they are capable of
considerable fun and boisterousness, but they affect a look of
despondency, which many of them retain even when off duty. In other
respects they resemble very closely the ordinary peasant, or _muzhik_.
They all have an immense shock of hair, parted in the middle and chopped
off roughly at the edges. The face is generally covered with a huge
beard, which gives them a backwoodsman look not always indicative of
their character. In America, for instance, they would be taken by tramps
for "Hoosiers," but, in their way, they are just as clever and sharp as
the hobo who would laugh at them. Indeed, I know of no hobo who can
equal them in facial trickery and disguise, and wherever this is the
necessary qualification for successful begging they are past masters.
Their clothes are invariably rough and patched, and if by some chance
they get a good suit it is pawned or sold immediately. The usual peasant
shirt or blouse takes the place of a coat, and the trousers are tucked
into the boots also in peasant fashion. A tea-pot hangs at the belt, and
a bundle, containing all their possessions, is slung over the shoulder.
Thus they tramp about the country from village to village, year in and
year out, and are always distinguishable from the fact that on meeting a
_Gospodinn_ (gentleman), or any one else of whom they can beg, off come
their greasy caps, down go their great shocky heads, and they say, "Radi
Krista."
[Illustration: SLEEPING IN A BARN.]
When tramping on the highway, they average about fifteen miles a day,
but a great many never make over five. One old man on the Kursk road,
between Tula and Orel, told me that he was satisfied if he covered three
versts a day,--a verst is two thirds of a mile,--and he expected that it
would take him the entire autumn and part of the winter to reach Odessa,
whither he was bound. In this respect the Goriouns are like all other
vagabonds; they love rest, and if they find a good place, stick to it as
long as possible. In the country they make their homes with the
peasants, sleeping in summer in sheds and haystacks, and in winter in
the peasants' cabins. Plagues though they are, the peasant always gives
them shelter, and it very seldom happens that they die of cold or
starvation in districts thickly populated. I could have stopped for
days in every village I passed through, and the peasants would even have
protected me from the police if it had been in their power. Their own
life is so hard that it comes natural to take pity on the tramp, and
they all have the feeling that favors thus shown prepare a place for
them in the heaven of their imagination. Indeed, the Gorioun plays on
this feeling in begging of them. I often heard him say, in asking for
alms: "It will help you out above"; and his humble friends seemed
pleased to be thus assured.
Men predominate in the Gorioun class, but in no other country that I
have visited are there so many women and families "on tramp." They are
all mixed up together, men, women, and children, and no great effort is
made to keep even the families intact. I was told by tramps that in the
peasants' cabins there is very little separation even between the
peasants and the vagabonds, and on cold nights they all curl up in a
heap on the tops of the great piles of masonry which serve them as
stoves. In large cities they live in lodging-houses and night-shelters.
In St. Petersburg these places are found mainly in what is called the
"Siennaia," about five blocks behind the Kazan cathedral. There are
entire alleyways and courts in this district given up to the Goriouns,
and in one house alone, Dom Viazemski, over ten thousand lodge every
night. They have the right to return to their planks at any time during
the day, and speak of them as their homes--their _dom_. The cost of a
"spot" on the benches is thirty-five copecks (about twenty cents) a
week, in advance.
The life that goes on here is pretty much the same as in lodging-houses
everywhere, but there are a few peculiar features to be noticed. In the
first place, there is a chief, or _ataman_, of the Goriouns of each
room, and he is given the rights and privileges of a bully. He is the
strongest and most daring of all, and his companions allow him to play
"the almighty act," as the hobo would say, in their confabs and
councils. Any tramp who refuses to knuckle down to him is considered
either a spy or a rival candidate, in which latter case he must fight it
out with fists, and sometimes with knives. If he is successful he takes
the ataman place, and holds it until some one else dislodges him. In
case he is taken for a spy he is shunned by all concerned, and I was
told that every year several men are killed on this suspicion. When an
actual raid by the police is planned, the ataman generally gets wind of
it beforehand, and all lights are put out before the police arrive. They
can then accomplish very little, and while I was in St. Petersburg
several of their attempted raids ended unsuccessfully.
Another queer custom is the way each man takes care of his boots. In
every country the _Schuhwerk_, as the Germans say, is prized, perhaps,
more than any other part of the wardrobe, but the reason in St.
Petersburg is unique. Thanks to his boots, the Gorioun can be enrolled
as a torch-bearer or mourner at funerals, and this is one of his most
lucrative employments. The agencies which manage funerals recruit from
the tramp class so many mourners for each interment; about thirteen
thousand are employed in this way every year. The agencies furnish the
suitable clothes and pocket-handkerchiefs--everything, in fact, but
the shoes, which the tramp must be able to show on his feet, or he will
not be hired. When a funeral is "on," the tramps gather at the Nikolski
market, and are selected by an employee of the agency. Those chosen are
conducted to the house of the deceased, and there, under a porch, in a
shed, or even in the court, ten, twenty, or thirty of them, according to
the elaborateness of the funeral, undress themselves entirely, even in
the dead of winter, and put on the mourner's garb. Their own clothing is
rolled up in a bundle and taken to the cemetery in a basket, where,
after the ceremony, it must be put on again. The promised wage for this
service is forty copecks a man, but with tips and drinks it usually
amounts to a ruble. The St. Petersburg street-gamins have a way of
crying out, "Nachel li?" ("Hast thou found it?") to the Goriouns as they
file along--an allusion to their daylight torches. Some very funny
scenes take place when the boys get too saucy; for the men forget, in
their anger, the solemnity of the situation, and, dropping their
torches, run after the boys, much to the consternation of the agency and
the family concerned.
The funeral over and the money in their pockets, they return to the
lodging-house for an uproarious night spent in drinking _vodka_. When
the last drop is gone, they fall over on their planks senseless, and to
see them in this condition makes one fancy he is looking on in a morgue.
They lie there as if dead, and the stench in the room could not be worse
if they were actually in a state of decay. One would think, under such
circumstances, there must be a heavy percentage of sickness and
mortality among them, but I think this is not true. I saw a number of
crippled and deformed beggars, but otherwise they seemed a fairly
healthy lot, and never anywhere have I seen such herculean bodies. Many
of them looked as if they could lift an ox, and in one of the few
squabbles that I witnessed, they knocked one another about in a way that
would have done honor to professional pugilists. However, these
knock-down fights are not frequent. For a people so degraded they are
phenomenally sweet-tempered; in England and America, tramps with their
strength would be measuring it on all occasions.
In the lodging-houses, as in the peasants' cabins, men and women are
mixed up together, and there seems to be no effort at all to keep them
separated. They say that they are married, or "belong to the family,"
and the _Starosta_ (proprietor) allows them to keep together. Their
children--and each couple has its full share--are used for begging
purposes; indeed, they are the winning card of the Russian tramp. If
they are deformed or crippled, so much the better.
The food of these tramps is probably the simplest bill of fare known
among European vagabonds. On the road they seldom have more than black
bread and milk, and even in towns they are satisfied with the addition
of a dish of potatoes. Meat they know very little about, and it almost
never occurs to them to spend their money for a good steak; they prefer
to buy vodka. Of course there are exceptions to this rule; in every
country there are beggars who keep up with the latest styles and
indulge in a gourmet's dishes, but they are not common in Russia.
There is another trait of the Goriouns to record--their clannishness. In
almost every government of the empire they are organized as compactly as
a trade-union, and even in St. Petersburg, strict as the police are,
they have their peculiar _artel_. It was impossible for me to become a
member of these corporations. I should have had to knuckle down very
submissively to some ataman, or bully, and this I was not willing to do.
It would also have been necessary to learn the different dialects, and I
had all I could do to make use of my small Russian vocabulary. Each
artel has its own peculiar lingo, and it is almost as hard to learn as
Russian itself. Even the native inhabitants know very little about such
dialects, and the students who traveled with me had as much difficulty
as I did in understanding them. Fortunately, however, the tramps can
also speak Russian, and we generally conversed with them in this
language. I give here what I learned about their various artels, but it
is in no sense an exhaustive report. There are many of which I heard
nothing, and it would take a book to describe them all.
In Moscow one of the most notorious clans is the so-called "Gouslitzki,"
or "Old Believers," who came originally from the district of Bogorodsk.
They are mixed up with the regular working population of the town and
have no particular sign by which a stranger could distinguish them, but
their business is entirely criminal. They counterfeit money, forge
passports and baptismal certificates, beg and steal, and the police have
to keep a continual watch over them. Ostensibly their business is
manufacturing trinkets, colored images, and toys, but these are merely
subterfuges to gain them the privilege of standing on the sidewalks as
hawkers. In their lodging-houses--and there are several supported by
them alone--they live under the direction of a head man whom they must
obey, and a certain percentage of their day's earnings has to be
contributed to a common fund. From time to time this fund is divided
equally among all the members of the organization, but it is almost
immediately given back as "renewed stock." The Gouslitzki are unlike
most of their class in being very parsimonious, and they have the
reputation of drinking very little--some not at all. They speak two
languages, Russian and a dialect which is practically their
mother-tongue. They have been settled in Moscow for generations, and the
police find it impossible to drive them out.
The "Chouvaliki," another well-known gang, are mainly peasants, but they
come also from the Moscow government, being settled in the districts of
Veresisk and Mozhaisk. It would be very peculiar in America to see a
band of farmers starting off on begging and marauding trips, but this
happens in Russia, and the Chouvaliki are of this class. In the census
of Russia they are put down as peasants, and they do pretend to work a
part of the year, but they are known from Moscow to the Don as the
begging Chouvaliki. They go on the road twice a year, and exploit by
preference the governments of Tamboff, Voronesh, and so on down to the
Don. The Russians call them brigands, and tell frightful stories about
their robberies, but the Goriouns spoke of them merely as beggars, and
I fancy this is what they are. On returning from their trips, which last
sometimes several weeks, they spend in one orgy all the money they have
taken in.
It is in White Russia, and above all in the government of Vitebsk,
farther north, that the tramps form these beggars' organizations. During
my journey through the Vitebsk government I heard of them right and
left, and it is this district that contributes largely to the criminal
population of St. Petersburg. The rich Ukraine is also a notorious
haunt. At Kharkoff, for instance, I got into a regular nest of them,
called "Tchortoff Gniezda" (Nest of Devils). They live there in dirty
little cabins and underground caves, a close community with its ataman
and common funds. They start out in the morning on their begging trips,
and return at night for debauches, those who have been most successful
inviting their _rakli_, or pals, to celebrate with them. There is a
careful division, or _douban_, of all the spoils taken in during the
day, and each one receives his share, minus the contribution to the
common tribe.
In Kazan, the Tatar town on the Volga, there is an artel of beggars
whose origin goes back to the taking of Kazan by Ivan IV, and they are
known all over Russia as the "Kazanskia Sieroty" (the Kazan Orphans).
Although Mussulmans, they beg "in the name of Christ" ("Radi Krista").
They will beg even from other beggars if they do not belong to their
organization, and consider everybody their prey who is not an "Orphan."
They can only be compared to the tramps who exploit the governments of
Samara and Saratoff, and those coming from fifteen villages of the
districts of Saransk and Insarsk, in the government of Penza. These
last, although officially peasants, are all organized into narrow
begging corporations, and call themselves "Kalousni," which comes from
their dialect word _kalit_, meaning "to reap," or, as they would say,
"to beg." In Moscow, on the other hand, the generic dialect term for
beggars is "Zvonary," which comes from _zvonit_, also meaning "to beg."
The Kalousni, or "Reapers," start out on their begging trips in their
wagons immediately after harvest. All of them who can move, excepting
the very oldest and youngest, depart for "the work," as it is called.
Those who have no blind or deformed children of their own rent them in
neighboring villages. The village of Akchenas is the center of this
trade, and peasants send their deformed children there to be marketed
off. In the Galitzin village, in the government of Penza, amounting to
three hundred cabins, five hundred of the inhabitants are peasant
beggars; in Akchenas, one hundred and twenty cabins, there are only four
persons who are not "Reapers"; in Germakoff, another hamlet of the
district, there is not an inhabitant who does not go kalit (begging).
The return of these bands to their homes is celebrated by fêtes and
orgies. The main one is on November 8, St. Michael's day, when they
spend every copeck they have collected. The next trip takes place in
winter, and they return to their villages by Lent. The third return is
just before Pentecost.
Although I did not tramp in Siberia, I traveled there and heard much of
the local tramps. They are not so definitely organized as in European
Russia,--many travel entirely alone,--but I saw and heard of several
categories. On the highway between Ekaterinburg and Tiumen the traveler
is accosted by beggars known as the "Kossoulinski." They live
exclusively by begging, and in summer sleep out of doors along the route
between the towns mentioned. At Ekaterinburg there are also unnamed
gangs of young men and little boys and girls who are continually begging
of the inhabitants. They are generally the children of deported
convicts, or those of peasants who were driven by famine out of
neighboring districts.
If I could have got into the wooded parts of Siberia I might also have
made the acquaintance of that queer product of Siberian prison life, the
runaway convict tramp. Early in the spring he makes a dash for liberty,
sometimes being shot down in the attempt, and then again succeeding. He
runs to the woods and lives there until autumn, when, if there is no
hope of getting back to European Russia, he gives himself up and returns
to prison again. In the spring, "when the birds call him," as one of his
songs pathetically relates, he makes another dash for the trees. Only at
night does he venture into the villages, and then merely for a moment to
snatch the food left for him on the window-sills by the generous-hearted
peasants. He grabs the bread, or whatever it is that they have set out,
and then scampers back to the woods like a wolf.
III
Religious beggars in Russia are a class by themselves. In giving alms to
them the average Russian thinks that he is making so much more likely
his welcome in heaven, and they, of course, stand by him in the conceit.
If you give them a ruble they will swear that you are going to heaven,
and even twenty copecks make one's chance pretty good.
The most easily distinguished type is what is called the religious lay
mendicant. He is always standing around the churches in St. Petersburg
and Moscow, and everybody who has visited these cities will recall him.
He is generally an old peasant, begging for some village church, and the
police or church authorities give him the necessary passes and stamped
documents. He stands at a church door or near some shrine, bareheaded
and with a little plate in his hand, covered with cloth on which is
embroidered the cross. This is a _passe-partout_ wherever he goes, and
serves as an excuse for entering restaurants, railway-stations, and
other public places. As a Russian gentleman said to me: "You can't drive
a man out with the cross in his hand," and he is consequently allowed to
go pretty much where he pleases. Unfortunately, however, it is not very
difficult to imitate him, and there are a number of Goriouns in Russia,
posing as religious lay mendicants. They counterfeit the necessary
papers, buy the plate and cross, and then beg with all their might.
Occasionally they are discovered and severely punished, but the winnings
from this kind of begging are so tempting--sometimes as much as ten
rubles, or five dollars a day--that they are willing to run the risk.
There are also monk beggars who proceed in the same way as those of the
lay order, except that they wear monk costumes. It is consequently not
easy for the common tramp to imitate them, but it has been done.
Authorized and permitted though these monks are, there is but little
need for them to beg, for their convents are almost without exception
rich. The more they have, however, the more they want, and so the monks
are sent out to beg of poor and rich alike. An amusing story is told of
how one of these convents was relieved of some of its superfluous
wealth. During the Crimean War Nicholas I borrowed ten million rubles
from the Laura monastery at Kieff, and gave in exchange his note like
any other mortal. Alexander II, after coming to the throne, made a tour
of the provinces and visited Kieff, where, according to custom, the
first thing he did was to call at the Laura. He was received by the
metropolitan and clergy in great array, and during the ceremony the note
of Nicholas was presented to him, of course for payment, on a beautiful
plate. He took the bit of paper, read it carefully, and then, holding it
high in the air, said in a very solemn voice: "Behold the most touching
proof of the patriotism of Russia's clergy when she has need of them! I
cannot better thank you than by giving you, as a glorious memento, this
autograph of my august father." And that ended the matter for all time.
The pilgrims are another type of religious beggar. They also are mainly
old peasants, who have made a vow to go afoot to some distant shrine,
often a thousand miles away. They take with them only money enough to
buy candles to place at the altars where they worship en route, and
trust to the mercy of the people they meet for food and shelter. No
peasant would refuse them hospitality, and they are taken in whenever
they appear. Money is never offered them, because it is known that they
will not accept it. All they want is food enough to keep body and soul
together, and this they feel free to ask for.
These pilgrimages are very frequent in Russia, and are always the result
of a vow, made sometimes many years before. Each famous monastery, like
the Soloviecki, near the White Sea, the Troitzke, near Moscow, the
Laura, at Kieff, and many others, has its days of "grand pardon," which
attract pilgrims from the farthest points of the empire. They travel
invariably on foot, and occasionally in bands, but the typical pilgrim
goes alone. His destination is sometimes even Jerusalem. This is often
the case among devoted monks, who make this the last act of a life
consecrated to the church. The peasants feed and shelter the pilgrim,
and he is one of their main objects of veneration.
There is one more class of authorized beggars in Russia--the nuns. These
women, with long robes and pointed bonnets, generally travel in couples.
They beg on what is called the "contract system." An arrangement is made
with a convent by which they are allowed to exploit certain districts,
and they agree in return to give the convent a certain percentage of
their winnings; all over this amount belongs to them personally. They
are taxed according to their ability, the percentage varying from one to
three rubles a day. When they are young and pretty, which they
sometimes are, they do very well. As a Russian who has often given to
them said to me: "You can't give copper to a pretty woman," and they
know wonderfully well how to make their attractions tell. They are
acquainted with all the "good places," and learn quickly to discern the
generous giver. There is no doubt, however, that much is given them
without any thought of the church or religion, and it is an open secret
in Russia that there is a great deal of corruption among them. I myself
saw them in a state of intoxication several times, and their conduct was
not at all in keeping with their religious calling.
IV
Something remains to be said about the causes of vagabondage in Russia
and what is being done to suppress it. The religious mendicants must be
left out of the discussion, for they are not supposed to be a part of
the problem. It is the Gorioun class that the Russians are particularly
anxious to be rid of, and it is they who correspond to the tramp class
in more Western countries.
The love of liquor is the main cause of their degradation. Two thirds
could be made respectable men and women if they were free of their
passion for drink, and until they are, I see no hope of bettering them.
They will even steal from the churches, religious as they are, if
impelled by thirst for vodka, and it is simply impossible for an
employer to have anything to do with them. In St. Petersburg a large
number of them are discharged mechanics and day-laborers, who know
perfectly well how to earn their living, but have lost position after
position on account of their loose habits. The minute they get a week's
wage, they go off and spend it for drink, and then there is no place for
them.
Besides this strictly individual cause, there are certain economic facts
which help to explain the situation. The lowering of railroad fares has
started a regular hegira of peasants toward the towns, where they
imagine that they are to make their fortunes. We think in America that a
great deal might be done to change the lot of outcasts if they could be
led back to the country and settled on farms, but Russia teaches us
plainly enough that this alone will not suffice. There must be something
besides country air and surroundings to offset the attractions and
temptations of city life. In Russia it has been found that after the
peasant has once experienced these attractions he is never happy on the
farm.
Over seven thousand peasant tramps are sent away from St. Petersburg
every year, but a still larger number find their way back. There is a
case on record where a man was sent away one hundred and seven times and
returned after each expulsion. When one takes into consideration that
the majority of all those thus sent away receive new clothes before
leaving, it is easy to see what an expense they are to the town, and the
most of them sell their new clothes at the first opportunity. This is
one of the weakest points in all the Russian methods with tramps. The
police return vagabonds to their villages, expecting them thus to be
kept away from city temptations, but the trouble is that they cannot
hold them there. They run back to the towns the first chance they get,
and then there has to be another expensive expulsion. Lately some of the
governors of inland districts have petitioned the police to stop doing
this, explaining that tramps thus returned corrupt their village
companions.
Besides returning a beggar to his village, there are also light
punishments. If he is arrested for the first time in St. Petersburg, he
is brought before a commission, by which he is questioned and then
handed over to a more special committee, before which he must submit to
another cross-questioning. If he can prove that he has been driven to
beg by poverty alone, he is recommended to the care of the poor
authorities of his district. If he has been arrested several times
before, he is taken immediately to a justice, by whom he is condemned to
a punishment, varying, according to circumstances, from a month's to
three months' hard labor in prison. These are only such beggars as have
been caught in the act, so to speak, and have papers certifying to their
identity. Those who are found without passports are taken in hand by the
police alone. If nothing very bad is found against them, they are
allowed to go free, if some one will stand sponsor for them; in this
case they must send to their home authorities for a passport, and if it
is received they can remain in the town for a period of three months. It
is possible with good conduct to have this term of probation prolonged
to nine months, but after that, unless very good reasons are given, the
man must return to his village.
There are also reformatory and charitable institutions which seek a
regeneration of the tramp on philanthropic grounds. Recently a number of
workhouses have been put up in the largest towns, and great hopes are
placed in these very praiseworthy undertakings. The present empress has
taken them all under her personal protection, and there is every
likelihood that they will be well supported. The effort is thus made to
offer every tramp a chance to work; they are to serve as a test-house
where the Gorioun can show what he really is. He is not compelled to
make use of them, but if it should be discovered that he knew about them
and still begged, he would be punished very severely.
Both men and women are received, and they can earn their daily bread by
working for it. Lodging must be found elsewhere, but children can be
left during the day in a crèche belonging to the institution. Father
John of Kronstadt is credited with having founded the first of these
workhouses, but it is only lately that they have become popular. If well
managed they ought to do good, for the great question in Russia, as well
as everywhere else, is to find out who the really deserving are, and the
workhouses can be of great assistance in developing the facts. How much
they will aid in lessening the professional vagabondage of the country
remains to be seen. If the police--and everybody knows what powers the
Russian police have--are unable to accomplish this, it is hardly likely
that the workhouses can do much more. Indeed, I fear that nothing can
root out entirely this class in Russia. It is too old and settled to
give up the struggle without a long resistance, and there are
traditions dear to all Russians which will forever aid the Gorioun in
his business. A Russian prince with whom I talked about the possibility
of getting rid of the tramp class said to me: "It is simply out of the
question. We are all beggars, every mother's son of us. The aristocrat
begs a smile of the czar, and others ask for honors, positions,
decorations, subsidies, and pensions, and it is these beggars who are
the most persistent of all. Russia is the land of _na tchai_ ["for tea,"
like _pour boire_ in French, and _Trinkgeld_ in German], and no laws or
imperial ukase will ever make it any different."
III
TWO TRAMPS IN ENGLAND
The British tramp had long been an object of curiosity with me. I felt
that I knew his American cousin as well as it is possible to know him by
living with him, and I had learned the ways of the German
_Chausséegrabentapezirer_. Among my friends in the university at Berlin
was a student of philosophy who also regarded the English tramp with
interest so great that he was willing to make a tramp journey with me to
discover and study him. He doubted somewhat his ability to pass for an
undeveloped vagrant, but decided to try it. We suffered, I am proud to
say, no diminution of our friendship in this curious comradeship in a
new field.
One February day we drew up our agreement, and on the same day left for
Hamburg. There we took ship for Grimsby, on a boat carrying mainly
steerage passengers. Our fellow-travelers were twenty-two
homeward-bound sailors, an old woman, and a young girl on her way to
London to marry a man with whom she had fallen in love by telegram--at
any rate, so she said.
We were all cooped up together in a nasty little hole absolutely without
ventilation. I felt sorry for the women, and they, in their kind-hearted
way, said that they were sorry for me, "because I looked so sick-like."
But I anticipate a little.
While we were still lying at the dock we had an amusing experience. Just
as the gang-plank was nearly ready to be hauled in, two detectives came
on board. I was surprised that they had not appeared before; for it is
one of Kaiser Wilhelm's strong points to see that none of his young men,
or "dear servants," as he calls them, get out of his domain before they
have done their duty in his army. The sailors laughed at them, and told
them to go home; meanwhile Ryborg and I were supposedly asleep. That
there was method in this drowsiness I cannot deny, for Ryborg had no
really current pass, and we were both fearful of being detained. We were
finally discovered, and when one of the officers asked me if we were
sailors, I rather naturally said, "Yes," being half asleep, and having
seen that they had not disturbed the true seamen.
The man was determined to see my passport, however, and the long sheet
of paper amused him considerably. He called it _ein mächtiges Ding_, and
I patriotically told him he was right, and that it was about the
"greatest thing" he had ever handled. He failed to see the point, and
poked Ryborg. Then I quaked a little, but laughed inwardly too, when
Ryborg handed him his student's card; for it did seem odd to find a
student of philosophy in that miserable den. The detective thought so
too, and claimed that he did not exactly understand the situation.
"Are you a sailor, a workman, an American, or what?" said the officer.
"Ich bin--ein Studierter" ("I am--a learned one"), gasped Ryborg.
That settled the matter. The detectives walked off, and we were left for
the following thirty-two hours to our North Sea misery, which was of
such a character that, when we landed, we vowed never to go to sea
again.
Grimsby was uninteresting, so we went straight on to Hull. As this was
the point where our vagabondage was properly to begin, I soon had my eye
on watch for what American tramps call a "town bum." I found one in a
main street, and introduced myself thus:
"I say, Jack, can you tell us where the moochers hang out in these
parts?"
"You're a Yank, ain't you?" said he.
This I acknowledged, at the same time asking, "Why?"
"Because I know a lot of blokes over in your country, an' I'm thinkin'
o' goin' over myself. How d' you think I'd like it?"
"Tiptop," I answered; "but you know they're givin' the likes of us
ninety days in Chicago now."
"O-oh, well, p'r'aps I'll go over later," was his rejoinder; and then he
told me where the moochers were to be found.
"You see thet corner! Well, just turn thet, an' keep hoofin' along till
you come to an alley. Go up to the top, then down on your right to the
bottom, an' ask roun' there somewhere for Blanket Row. You'll find all
the moochers you want there; but look out for the Robert and the Dee
[the policeman and the detective]. They'll give you seven days if they
catch you moochin'."
[Illustration: A LODGING-HOUSE.]
We found Blanket Row all right, and, luckily enough, at No. 21, a
kip-house (lodging-house), or doss-house, as some call it, nicknamed
"The Dog's Home." It looked rather uninviting, and we gazed at it
carefully before entering. After a little consultation we made up our
minds to go in, so we walked through a long and dirty passage, pushed
open a creaky, rickety door, and found ourselves in a smoky, dirty hole
containing about fifty moochers. I was greeted with: "Hello, Yank!
Where'd you come from?"
The voice came from the fire, and I walked over from the door, and found
as miserable a specimen of vagrancy as one often sees. I sat down, and
told him a long "ghost-story" (yarn), and he returned the favor in the
same coin. When he was convinced that I was one of the fraternity, he
pointed out various things of interest.
"Them fires," said he, "is where you cook your scoff [food]. You can
make tea, too, any time you like, provided, of course, you've got the
tea. You'll find all the pots, cans, pans, and boilers in that corner;
they b'long to the missus, but we use them. Them cupboards over there is
where you put your grub, ef you're stayin' here any time; they cost a
tanner [six-pence] apiece, but they ain't worth hawkin'. My stomach's
the only cupboard I need. That piece o' paper on the wall's the only
sort of picter they've got in the place."
I looked over at the wall, and saw upon it a notice to the effect that
smallpox was in the district, and that persons would be vaccinated free
of charge at a place specified.
All this while Ryborg was doing his best to play tramp, and the stories
he told, the tough way in which he tried to tell them, the half-and-half
effects they achieved, and his general out-of-place condition, were
almost as interesting to me as the real moochers. I overheard him
telling one of the men that he was "a sailor by inclination, but a tough
by temperament."
One of the tramps had taken a fancy to him, and was determined to be
hospitable, so he boiled a large can of tea, and made poor Ryborg drink,
drink, drink, till he had actually taken two quarts of the beverage at
one sitting. He told me afterward that he had made up his mind, if any
more were offered him, to pour it into his pocket, and trust to luck not
to get caught.
The Dog's Home in the second story consisted principally of beds. The
price of each is threepence a night, and this is the common price all
over Great Britain, except in the so-called "Models," where a penny more
is charged simply for the very deceitful name. I am sorry to say that
the house was not much cleaner in the second story than in the first, if
the tramps told us the truth. They all agreed in saying that the place
was "crummy" (infested with vermin); consequently we decided to sleep
elsewhere; for we wanted a good night's rest, and there was nothing
especially to be gained by staying there.
We lived in the "home" in the daytime, however, and were on the watch
for everything of interest. As for the "sweet charity" of Hull, I
learned that most of the moochers were satisfied when they could beg a
"bob" (shilling) a day besides "scoff," and some seemed happy on
fourpence a day. The old men and the young boys were most successful in
begging. There were vagrants of middle age, and some much younger, who
did fairly well; but they lacked the determined spirit of the
grandfathers and the kids. I had noticed this before in America, and
suppose it is because the very old and the very young tramps realize
that they must rely on their begging for subsistence, while the vagrants
of twenty-five and thirty know that they have an alternative in work
when luck goes against them, and are consequently less in earnest.
My companion and I, being somewhat better dressed than most of the
lodgers, were objects of considerable interest. Our hats, peculiarly
American in style, were the main curiosities. They proclaimed our
nationality wherever we went. Never in my life have I been so bothered
with stares. One day I took off my hat in a small crowd of people, and
asked a bystander if he saw anything peculiar about it. He admitted that
he did not; but still the citizens of Hull guyed me unmercifully, and,
for that matter, so did their countrymen elsewhere.
[Illustration: AN ENGLISH TYPE.]
I had been accustomed in America to dress fairly well when tramping, and
the very clothes I was wearing in England had seen service at home and
in Germany also; therefore I was quite unprepared for their comical
reception by the British. There was only one man in the Dog's Home who
appreciated our style, and he was a countryman not so very long out of
America. He was a most interesting fellow; had been both workman and
tramp at home; but one day bade good-by to Hartford, Connecticut, and
decided to go abroad. He came to Glasgow on a cattle-ship, expecting to
get a return pass on his arrival, but was deceived, and put ashore with
only four shillings in his pocket. Naturally he was angry, and made up
his mind to see Scotland, England, and Wales at the expense of
Scotchmen, Englishmen, and Welshmen. It was a courageous thing to do, if
not a moral one; and, perhaps, it was not so very wicked, for his one
ambition seemed to be to see the Tower of London. He had been "on tramp"
about two months, had had some interesting experiences, and had become
somewhat opinionated. Hearing that he had been in Scotland, I was
interested to know whether he liked the country and had learned any of
the tramp dialect that one might need there.
"To tell the truth, mate," he said, "I was too drunk. You see, I got
hold of a fellow in Glasgow who had some boodle, and we chummed it
together till the boodle was gone; and the only thing I can tell you
about Glasgow or Edinburgh is that they've got a fine pile of stone in
Edinburgh, right in the main street, to the memory of that
story-writer--you know his name--what is it?"
I suggested "Scott," and he went on:
"Yes; that's it--Scott. Well, since I've been out of Scotland I've had
some hard times, and I'd 'a' been in Ameriky long ago if I hadn't pawned
my rubber boots. I tell you, Jack, I'd ruther be lynched in our country
than die a natural death over here; and as for moochin' and lodgin',
why, I can beg in five minutes in New York more money than I can here in
a day. As it is, I'm a little bit of a wonder to some of these fellows,
because I'm so dead struck on havin' the pleasures of life. I look for
'em till I get 'em, you know, and so fur I've had my bob a day, besides
chuck. And that's more than some of these blasted gay-cats can say. Did
you ever in your life see such badly faked bums? They make me think of
prehistoric gorillas. Half the time only a few parts of their bodies are
covered in, and yet they think they can batter more when togged that
way. How's that for bein' bughouse [crazy], eh? Oh, well, you can laugh
all you want to; but by the time you've seen two per cent. of what I've
seen, you'll say, 'Thet Yank warn't fur from bein' right.'" He promised
to have another talk with me at the World's Fair.
The fellow was correct about the clothes and the filthiness of the
English moocher. Generally he dresses in a way that in America would be
thought indecent and in Germany criminal. He is too lazy to clean up, if
he had the chance, and harbors vermin as if he liked them. It is not
surprising that lodging-houses are so unclean; for if the proprietors of
these places should admit only decent tramps, their houses would be left
without occupants in a very short time. This is not an attractive
theme, but it is one for the practical reformer to treat; for I am
convinced that when a man becomes callous in regard to filth, his
reformation will be far to seek. And there is nothing that can make a
purely temporary vagrant a thoroughgoing one so surely as the inability
to keep himself clean in person.
One little incident in the Dog's Home is worth telling, for it
illustrates a trait that is international among tramps. A kid had in
some way offended an older moocher, and the man was on the point of
striking him, when the Hartford tramp stepped forward and said: "You
wouldn't hit a kid, would you?"
The man started back and answered: "Well, I ortn' to, I know; but he
plagued me like a reglar little divil."
That is a trait in trampdom, and even among criminals, that I have
noticed wherever I have been. My own case illustrates it also. I am
somewhat smaller than the average man, and I have no doubt that I have
often enough offended some of my cronies; but never in all my experience
have I had a real row or been struck by a tramp. I remember once
quarreling with a vagabond until I became very hot-headed. I was
preparing boldly for action, when the great, burly fellow said: "I say,
Cigarette, if ye're a-goin' to fight, I'm a-goin' to run." Such
sentiment is fine anywhere, and doubly fine when found, as it is so
often, in the life of the vagrant beggar.
From Hull, Ryborg and I walked to York, visiting nearly every kip-house
on the way, as this place is the best for studying English moochers. In
the kip at Beverley we learned that Mr. Gladstone was always good for a
bob--a statement that I very much doubt; for if it had been widely
known, the Grand Old Man would have gone to the workhouse, so numerous
are English beggars. Another story told there was that of the "hawker
tramp." He had a little girl with him, and the two evidently did a very
fair business.
"We've just come from Edinbro," said the old man, "and altogether we
ain't done bad; but we'd been nowhere 'thout the bible.[8] You see,
now'days in England, to beg much of a swag a feller has got to have some
sort of a gag, and the hawkin' gag is as good as any. We've had
shoe-strings, pencils, buttons, and lots of other things in stock; but
all the good they've done us, and all the good they do any moocher, is
to get him into a house or pub with a good excuse. When he's once in, he
can beg good enough; and if Robert comes along, he can claim that he's
simply peddlin'. See? Besides, I've got a license, in order to be safe;
it only costs five bob, an' is well worth havin'. If you're goin' to beg
much in these parts, you'd better git one, too."
This is the "hawkin' gag," and very popular it is, too. In America it
has almost exhausted itself, with all the other peddling tricks,
excepting always the "mush faker," or umbrella peddler and mender, and
the "fawny man," or hawker of spurious jewelry. In England simple and
artistic begging is by no means so well done as in America. The English
moocher has to resort to his "gag," and his "lurks" are almost
innumerable. One day he is a "shallow cove" or "shivering Jimmy ";
another he is a "crocus" (sham doctor): but not very often is he a
successful mendicant pure and simple. He begs all the time, to be sure,
but continually relies on some trick or other for success.
On arriving at York, we went at once to Warmgate, the kip-house
district, and picked out the filthiest kip we could find. The inmates
were principally in pairs; each moocher had his Judy (wife), and each
little kid had his little Moll (sister). These children are the very
offspring of the road, and they reminded me of monkeys. Yet one has to
feel sorry for them, since they did not ask for life, and yet are
compelled to see its meanest and dirtiest side. Their mothers, when they
are not drunk, love them; and when they are, their fathers have to play
mothers, if they are not drunk themselves. Never in my life have I seen
a more serio-comic situation than in that York kip-house, where two
tramps were rocking their babies to sleep. Moochers--Bohemians of the
Bohemians--fondling their babies! I should far sooner have looked for a
New York hobo in clergyman's robes. But tramping with children and
babies is a fad in English vagabondage.
From this I turned to listen to a very domestic confab between a Judy
and her mate. She had just washed her face, and made herself really
pretty. Then she sat down on a bench close to her man, and began to pet
him. This bit of discourse followed:
"Just go and get a shave now, Jim. I'll give you a wing [penny], if you
will, for the doin' o' 't."
"Bah! What's the matter uv my phiz, anyhow?"
"Naw; you doan't look purty. I can't love you thet way."
"Blast yer love, anyhow! Doan't keep a-naggin' all the time."
"Please, now, git a scrape. I'm all washed up. You mought look as decent
as I do."
"Lemme alone; I'm on the brain [I'm thinking]."
"Well, you mought have me on the brain a little more than you do. Didn't
I git you out o' bein' pinched the other day?"
He looked at her, relented, patted her head, and went for a shave.
The surprise to me in all this was the genuine wifeliness of that Judy.
She was probably as degraded as womankind ever gets to be, and yet she
had enough humanity in her to be really in love.
Just a word here as to tramp companionship in England. Among the men,
although one now and then sees "mates," he more often meets the male
vagabonds alone, so far as other men are concerned. Women, too, do not
often ally themselves with other women. But between the sexes
partnership is common; though seldom long-lived, it is very friendly
while it lasts. The woman is practically the slave of the man; he is the
supposed breadwinner, but the Judy does more than her share of the
begging all the while.
We went by rail from York to Durham, for there was little of interest to
be found between the two points. Everywhere it was the cities far more
than the country that furnished the most amusing and instructive sights.
On the train a rather pleasant-looking man, overhearing our
conversation, asked Ryborg who we were.
"You'll excuse me," said he, "but your intelligence does seem a little
more valuable than your clothes; and would you mind telling me what you
are doing in England?"
As he seemed a candid sort of fellow, Ryborg began very frankly to tell
him our mission, and I took up the story when he was tired. It was
difficult for the stranger to express his astonishment.
"What!" said he. "Do you mean to say that you've left good homes behind
you, and are over here simply to study tramps? What good will it ever do
you?"
"Well," said Ryborg, "it's one way of seeking the truth."
"I declare, you're the rummest pair of fellows I've ever seen," he
returned; and he looked after us curiously as we got off the train at
Durham.
Here we gave the vagabonds a wide berth, on account of smallpox; three
tramps had been taken out of a kip-house that very day; so after a
night's rest we moved on to Newcastle, stopping for a few hours on the
way at the dirtiest kip that we found in England. One of the inmates, a
powerful poser as a bully, was terrorizing an old man.
"I say, granddad, get me a light, will you? Be sharp, now!"
OLD MAN. I'm too rheumatizin'-like. Caan't you get it yerself?
BULLY. Naw, I caan't. I waant you to get it. Hustle, now!
OLD MAN. I sha'an't do it. I ain't yer Hi Tittle Ti-Ti, an' I waant you
to rec'lect it, too.
BULLY. See here, pop; what date is to-day?
OLD MAN. Fifth of March.
BULLY. Well, pop, just twelve months ago to-day I killed a man. So look
out!
The old man brought the light.
[Illustration: A MOOCHER.]
Newcastle, from the vagabond's point of view, exists principally in
Pilgrim Street. I visited three kips there, saw eighty-four new faces,
and learned something about the wages of beggars in England. Four
moochers gave me the information. They were quarreling at the time.
Number One was saying: "It's a lie. I'd git off the road in a minute ef
I could only beg what you say I can. Ef I hustle I can git four bob a
day, and I'm willin' to fight that I can, too."
Number Two said: "You never mooched four bob in your life; you knaw
you're happy when you git ten wing a day. I'm the only moocher in this
'ouse, an' I want you to know it. I beg 'xac'ly five bob in eight hours;
an' ef I begged twenty-four hours, 'ow much'd that be?"
Number Three here put in: "Tired legs an' 'n empty stomach."
Number Four: "Keep still, ye bloomin' idjits!"
None of them could beg over two bob a day, and they knew it. There are
beggars in England who can average nearly half a sovereign a day, but
they are by no means numerous. Most of them are able to get about
eighteen pence or two shillings; that is all.
Our Newcastle friends told us that the road between there and Edinburgh
was not a profitable one. They claimed that the people were too
"clanny-like," meaning too stingy. The Durham district they called the
"bread and cheese caounty," while Yorkshire was the "pie and cake
neighborhood." Accordingly, we took ship for Leith.
A fellow-passenger, half hoosier and half criminal, made up his mind
that I was a crooked man. "Don't come near me," he said; "you're a
pickpocket, an' I can feel it."
I said: "How can you tell?"
"By your hand-shake and the cut of your phiz."
And throughout the trip he continued to regard me as a species of
bogy-man, while Ryborg he considered a most reputable traveler. So he
was and is; but he made some of his most criminal faces on that same
voyage, nevertheless. One of them, I particularly remember, seemed to
say, "I can't eat, can't sleep, can't do anything"; and his under lip
would fall in a most genuine manner. He was often eloquent in his
representations of my ability to pose as a tramp; but I am sure that
nothing I can do would so quickly throw even the vigilant off the track
as that face of my companion.
We went into Scotland without any prejudice; but we had scarcely been in
Edinburgh three hours when an English roadster tried to make me
believe terrible things of the "Scotties," as he called the Scotch
tramps. "The Scotties are good enough to mooch with," said he, "an'
ain't bad people in some ways till they're drunk; an' then they're
enough to make a cat sick. Why, Yank, they can't talk about anything
then but Bobbie Burns. It's Bobbie did this, an' Bobbie did that, till
you'd think the sun didn't rise an' set on anybody else. I wish the
feller hadn't ever lived." The poor man had evidently never read
Bobbie's "Jolly Beggars"; for if he had he would have long since made a
pilgrimage to Ayr.
Edinburgh can almost be reckoned as one of the best mooching towns in
Great Britain, and if I were a beggar casting about for a
life-residence, I think I should select this beautiful city, and that
from my own personal experience. There is something deliriously
credulous in the true citizen, and the university makes it a specially
good place for clothes. Our first meal in the town we found at a
"refuge" in High Street. We paid a penny apiece for a quart of good
thick soup and half a loaf of bread. It was the largest quantity of food
I have ever had for so little money; but it should be remembered that it
was a charity. Cheap-restaurant living, in both Scotland and England, is
more of a theory than a reality. For twopence I have had a dinner at a
Herberge in Germany that I could not get in Great Britain for five; and
for ten cents I have had _table d'hôte_ with four courses in Chicago
that I could not get in London for a shilling.
The cheapest restaurants that I know of in the United Kingdom are the
cocoa-rooms; but a tramp can live three times as cheaply in the
kip-house, if he cooks his own food. Tramps fully realize this, and it
is seldom that they go near a cocoa-room. One old moocher said to me,
when I questioned him on the subject, "I've been in them places time and
again, but I never get my stomach's worth in them"--a statement to which
I can add my own similar testimony.
When traveling from Edinburgh to Glasgow, the tramp has two routes--one
by way of Bathgate, the other by way of Linlithgow. Neither of them is a
good begging highway. The people along the road are, as the German tramp
would say, _ausgepumpt_. Nevertheless, it must be traveled afoot, for
railway fares in Great Britain are much too high for the beggar's purse.
Ryborg and I determined this time to separate, he going through
Bathgate, and I by way of Linlithgow. In this way we covered more
ground, and at the same time Ryborg had the desired opportunity to play
the tramp alone. His argument for the experiment ran in this wise: "To
save my life, I don't seem to be able to talk with these beggars more
than two minutes at a time, and I'm really afraid that I am spoiling
your scheme. You see, if they discover that I am not what I pretend to
be, our work is in danger; so I'll try this trip alone, and see if I
can't get a little more into the tramp spirit." We promised to find each
other in front of the general post-office in Glasgow.
On the whole journey I found but one interesting moocher, and that a
moocheress. She traveled my way for about two hours, and as she smoked
my cigarettes she gave me a little of her biography. She had lived just
fifty years, did not know when she entered trampdom, had no recollection
of her parents, and believed mainly in "booze," as she called it. She
prided herself on being a fighting woman, as do a great many of the
English Judies.
"Why, I'm a reg'lar Charley Mitchell," said she, "when I want to be."
"Wouldn't you rather be a John L. Sullivan?" said I, to test her
patriotism.
"Oh, yes, ef I wuz Amerikin; but I'm English--I'm patriotic, I am."
"Then," said I, "you wouldn't want to be Lackie Thompson."
"D' you want t' insult me?" said she. "Naw; I wouldn' be anything
Scot-like."
"How is it, Judy, that you are in Scotland, then?"
"Oh, I'm just lookin' fer me mate. I lost him in Edinburgh, an' 's soon
's I find him, I'm goin' back to England." Just before I left her she
said: "Tell me how you draw thet smoke in. I've heard thet it's real
good; but how d' you do it?"
I told her how to inhale the smoke of a cigarette. She tried it, choked,
and promised herself by all the gods of her poor heaven never to try it
again. English Judies are great smokers, but they use clay pipes, as a
rule.
Glasgow is the best kip town that we found. Its lodging-houses are known
all over Great Britain, and as soon as I was well within the city I
asked for a "Burns Home." There are several of these in Glasgow, all
belonging to Mr. Robert Burns, who was once a working-man, but is now a
wealthy proprietor. He built his homes mainly to make money, but also to
furnish poor workmen a cheap and fairly respectable sleeping-place. I
stayed at the Watson Street Home, and although there were many workmen
in the place, there were also numerous vagabonds. In the "sitting-room"
there must have been about a hundred and fifty people, and some of them
had been loafing around Glasgow for months. I made friends with one of
these old residents, and he did me some good service. He had been in
America, had been well treated there, he said, and so wanted to treat me
well. I asked him about the industrial intentions of the lodgers at the
"home."
"Well," said he, "it's hard to tell about all of them. Some of these
fellows sit in this room from morning till night, and never are seen to
beg a copper; yet they live, too. Others do a little work now and then
as 'sandwich-men,' and other little jobs, while there's a few of us do
nothing but beg."
"Is Glasgow a good town for moochin'?" I asked.
"Well, that depends on the moocher. There's enough charity here, and
some to spare, if you know how to look for it. I never get over half a
crown a day, but I can tell you a dozen places where you can get your
dinner. Scoff's always more plenty than money."
"D' you mind tellin' what's the main gag in Glasgow just now, for
raisin' money?" I queried still further.
"Well, I think gettin' vaccinated 's about the best thing goin' just
now."
"What d' you mean?"
"Well, you see, smallpox 's on the boards; the people are scared; bums
are likeliest to get the sickness; so it's been arranged that any man
who will get himself vaccinated can have a week's kip free. Some
blokes've been jagged [vaccinated] two or three times."
This same vagabond did me another good turn down near the docks. We were
walking along a street when three town tramps came along and guyed my
hat. My companion noticed it, and as I had told him that I had been
considerably martyrized in this way before, he turned round sharply on
the guyers, and thundered out:
"Who're you lookin' at? Ef you're tryin' to guy this Yank, you'd better
stop. Ef you don't, there'll be a fight."
I said: "Let's run, if you really mean that."
"Not much! I'm English, you know; and I can knock out any Scotchman that
comes around, and I'm in the mood for 't right now."
The town bums took him at his word, and left. I said to him: "You
English fellows seem to have things pretty much your own way here."
"Yes," he answered; "we English fellers know how to bluff. We've been
bluffin' the world now for a good many years."
"You forget the United States," I could not help interjecting.
"Beg pardon, Yank; beg pardon!"
Ryborg and I met at the post-office, according to agreement. He had seen
so few tramps along the way that he was still in doubt as to his
abilities. He remained courageous, however, and I proposed a trip to
Dublin. This meant Irish Sea, no appetite, and general ill health. But
off we sailed to see Ireland. We stayed nine hours, and then sailed back
to Liverpool. On the way I saw more of Ireland in a dear old Biddy than
I did in Dublin. She claimed that she saw Ireland in me also--a
discernment truly penetrating, considering that the Irish in me died out
about two hundred years ago.
In Liverpool our tramp work began again in good earnest, and I was
fortunate in meeting there an old friend--Manchester Charley. We went
around the Horn[9] together a few years ago, and got very well
acquainted, as tramps will on such journeys; but we did not expect to
meet next in Liverpool, though I knew Charley had left the States for
London. He seemed glad to see me, and yet a little ashamed of me, too.
My shoes were rather played out, and in other respects, also, I was
somewhat below the American tramp grade. Charley noticed this, and his
first greeting was, "Shall I get you a new pair of shoes?" I explained
the situation as best I could, but Charley could not understand how I
could "lower myself so." I told him that I was certainly better dressed
than most of the tramps I had met along the road, whereat he laughed
most scornfully.
"Why, Cig," he said, "the fellers you've been bummin' with are nothin'
but skugees [a species of gay-cat]. You haven't seen a first-class hobo
yet, I'll bet."
That was true, if one takes the American hobo as the standard, and I
admitted it. Then he introduced three of his companions, saying: "Here
are some of the real article."
They were very clever-appearing vagabonds, and very well dressed, too. I
acknowledged their vast superiority as politely as I was able to do, and
asked Charley how it had come about that I had so missed the genuine
beggars, as I had all the while been on the lookout for them.
Charley said: "The fact is, there are not many of us in England. Up at
London you'll find more than anywhere else, but we ain't anywhere near
as strong as you fellers in the States."
"Why is this? You certainly ought to be," I returned.
"Well," he replied, "this is how it is. The country is full of these
half-and-half bums. They go everywhere, and the people get tired of
them; so when a really sharp moocher comes along, he has to run his
chance of bein' classed with them chaps--that is, if he begs at houses.
If he does as I do,--sends letters of introduction,--his luck will
probably be better. Here in Liverpool, for instance, we do fairly well
at the letter racket; but we could never make a livin' at all if we had
to batter the way most beggars do."
Later in the day Charley explained matters more fully, and it turned
out, as I expected, that he did "crooked work" also, both he and his
comrades. I said to him at parting: "I could succeed in England, too, if
I wanted to do that sort of business; but that isn't legitimate
mooching."
"It all depends," he answered. "A tramp ought to do anything he can,
and there's no feller so able to dodge the Dee as a bum if he plays the
beggar and is a crook besides."
This is a fact; but still it is not true hoboing or mooching, this being
a beggar only in appearance. Some men do it constantly, I know; but the
real tramp, wherever he is found, will rarely go into anything outside
of begging and cheating. Thieving he leaves to more experienced hands.
Liverpool fairly swarms with the lowest class of tramps, and we many
times voted Manchester Charley's testimony correct. They live off any
one they can capture, even "visiting brethren," and are cordially hated
by them.
[Illustration: A REST BY THE WAYSIDE.]
We planned to separate in our journey to London, after the manner of our
last trip in Scotland. Ryborg was to take his way through Crewe,
Birmingham, Warwick, and Oxford; I was to visit Chester, Shrewsbury,
Hereford, Bristol, and Bath. We were to meet at the end of a week in
Reading, and journey on to London together. My own experiences on the
way were very common. I saw only a repetition of what I had become
familiar with in the other parts of England: "prehistoric gorillas," a
few rather clever beggars, about twenty kip-houses, and more than two
hundred vagrants. Nearly half of them, however, were seeking work. Two
nights I slept in straw-stacks, and each time I had fully a dozen
companions. They called themselves "free dossers," and in one way they
were rather amusing--in fact, a new species of tramp: they were
determined not to spend a copper of what they begged.
It seems that these fellows start out from London early in the spring,
and batter all summer. In the autumn they return to London with their
swag and spend the winter in some comfort. On their travels they either
beg what they need or go without. If they cannot beg a lodging, they
sleep in barns, brick-yards, and straw-stacks; and from early in March
till late in September they do not squander a single halfpenny that
comes in their way. I had never before met this variety of vagabond, and
I doubt very much whether they would be allowed to associate with the
real American hoboes; for the true tramp likes more generosity among his
fellows, and when he meets a stingy brother he is likely to give him a
wide berth.
Once in Reading, Ryborg and I met at the appointed corner, and he gave
the following account of himself:
"In the first place, I had a mean road, and saw but few vagabonds. I had
only three experiences. The first was not far from Crewe. I was
practising to become a beggar, and I tried to smoke a pipe. For a while
I made out very well, and accomplished a lot of smoke. I thought I
should get on well now in kip-houses. But the second pipe played me a
mean trick. I felt bad all over, and staggered along the road most
unbecomingly for either a gentleman or a beggar. I gave it up. My second
experience was with a crazy tramp. He traveled with me for nearly an
hour, and I could find nothing interesting in him except his habit of
wetting his middle finger and rubbing it on his cheek-bone. This he did
constantly; but though I questioned him carefully, I could get nothing
out of him. Finally he got angry with me, and leaned up against a fence
till I left him. My last adventure happened when a workman gave me
fivepence. He thought I was an honest and unfortunate laborer, and
after we had talked awhile he handed me the money, saying very politely,
'Perhaps this will help you on your travels.'"
Our first night in London was spent in a German Herberge in the East
End. The second night we slept in a Salvation Army shelter in
Whitechapel Road. At this last place we paid twopence each for our
beds--boxes, I should say. They look like coffins with no bottoms except
the floor. Yet they are comfortable enough, considering the price. The
blankets are of leather, and if a man keeps his clothes on he can sleep
warmly enough. On entering the shelter, we went to the rear of the
building, where some of the lodgers were smoking their pipes and
recounting their day's experiences. Everything was as orderly as
possible, although many of the men were out-and-out vagabonds. I devoted
myself to an old man who had a very bad cough. He spoke kindly of the
Salvation Army, and had only one complaint to make.
"These Salvationers," said he, "forget one thing: they forget that we
men are tired. In the meetings they want us to sing 's loud 's ef we'd
just got out of bed. They say, 'Come on, men; sing away, be happy--sing,
now!' But how 's a man goin' to sing after he's mooched and walked all
day, I should like to know? I ain't no enemy of the Salvationers, but I
wish they'd remember that we get fagged out."
Ryborg and I went into the meeting, and as long as I live I shall never
forget the sincerity of its leaders. They were not especially wise or
delicate, but they were in earnest all over. One of the "soldiers"
handed us hymn-books, and said, "Cheer up, men; better times a-comin'";
and the entire spirit of the meeting was of the same good fellowship. I
felt then what I had felt often before, that the Salvation Army, in
spite of its many mistakes, is, after all, one of the most consistent
agencies for the betterment of the class it seeks to uplift. The leaders
of this meeting believed in their hearts that we should be "lost" unless
something interposed to "save" us, and they were determined to save us
if they could. In other words, the Salvation Army actually believes in
hell, and is "hustling" to keep men out of it.
We went to bed about ten o'clock, but I slept very little. The lodgers
coughed nearly all night, and it was impossible to rest in such a
racket; but as some of the men said, it was better than sleeping out.
The next two nights of our stay as tramps in London were spent in the
Notting Hill casual ward, or "spike," as it is called in tramp parlance.
There are twenty-four of these wards in London, and they are well
scattered over England at large also. Their object is to afford
wanderers a place where they can get food and lodging for a night or two
by earning it. The usual work required is stone-breaking and
oakum-picking. We had delayed visiting these places until we should
arrive in London, as they are all very much alike, and we cared for only
one experience of their hospitality. As I knew that this Notting Hill
ward is considered one of the best in all England, we went there. Two
years before I had visited this ward as a "gentleman." I had a letter
from the president of the Board of Guardians, and I was treated most
kindly. But on this March evening I went in as a tramp, and, as was to
be expected, my treatment was entirely different.
We appeared at the door of the ward about half-past seven. A little
window was raised, and I stepped forward to state our business.
Unconsciously I leaned against the sill of the window, which offended
the inspector in charge considerably.
"What's your name?" he thundered. Still leaning on the sill, I gave him
my name honestly enough. He then remarked to some person inside that we
were not accustomed to such places, evidently, and called out, "Stand
back, will you!" Back I stood. He cried out again, "Take off your hat!"
My hat came off instanter. Still again: "You come in here as if you was
a meeleeonary. You're not; you're a casual." I was as meek as could well
be. Ryborg was itching to grab the inspector with his long arms. The
next question was as to where we had slept the night before.
"Straw-stack," I replied.
"None of your impudence! You slept out--why don't you say so? Have you
got any money?"
"A ha'penny, sir."
"Hand it in!" In it went. Then I had to tell my trade, which was that of
a sailor; and naturally the next question was as to where I was bound.
"To Ameriky, sir, if I can ever get there."
"You're goin' to tramp it, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir; that's my intention"; but for the life of me I could not see
how I was to reach America that way. I was so frightened that I would
have told him anything he wanted.
When he was through with us, a kind-hearted attendant took us in hand,
gave us some gruel and bread, a bath, clean night-shirts, and then a
cell apiece, in which we slept very well.
As there were only four inmates that morning, we were needed for the
cleaning up, and so escaped stone-breaking, which I dreaded exceedingly,
and were put at various light occupations--or rather I was. Ryborg was
the victim of his strength. Our breakfast consisted of the same dish as
our supper of the night before. I was soon busy as general fireman,
scrubber, knife-cleaner, coal-carrier, dish-washer, and helper of my
sister-sufferer, Mrs. Murphy, as she washed her task of towels and
shirts. At noon we had pea-soup and bread. I enjoyed it, but Ryborg did
not. The poor fellow was feeling badly; he had had to scrub nearly
twenty cells, and the bending over incident to such a feat had nearly
broken his back. At dinner he said plaintively, "Flynt, I want to go
home." "So do I," I replied; "but I fancy we're wanted here till
to-morrow morning." This proved to be the case; but he felt better in
the afternoon, and got through comfortably, wheeling nearly a ton of
stone from some of the cells to the general pile. He earned his keep, if
ever any poor prisoner did.
I fear I was more shiftless, for about the middle of the afternoon the
attendant who was with me at the furnace said: "You might as well rest;
just keep your eye on the fires, that's all." It was kind of him; and as
I had at least earned my pea-soup and gruel, I took his advice. He was
kinder to me, I think, because I gave him a corn-cob pipe which he had
had to take away from me the night before. During the day he had asked
me several questions about it, and I said: "It's a very decent sort of
pipe--coolin'-like, you know."
"Doesn't Mark Twain always smoke one o' them pipes?" said he.
"Blest if I know," said I; "but I can well think it."
"I'm a great friend of Mark Twain," he pursued; "an' I'm a-thinkin' o'
gettin' one o' them pipes, jest out of respect for him."
"Well," said I, "permit me, in the name of your respect, to present you
with my pipe; besides, you've got it, anyhow."
He thanked me profusely, and promised to keep it forever. Later in the
day he reported it to be just as I had said, "sort o' coolin'-like." And
he was a good friend to me all the rest of my stay in the Notting Hill
station.
On Wednesday morning we were turned loose with our two ha'pennies. We
were both so happy that we decided to get off the road that very day.
We had been tramps for three weeks, and had walked most of this time
fully fifteen miles a day; so we looked up my friend at the Temple, and
in a few hours were respectable again. That same day I took my tramp
clothes out to the casual ward, and presented them to my friend the
attendant. I had told him the day before that I expected to get new togs
soon, and he had put in a plea for my old ones. Good luck to him and
them!
* * * * *
Something definite ought to be said here, I think, regarding the
character of the English moocher, and as Ryborg is new in trampdom, and
as his impressions are likely to be sharper than mine, I have asked him
to write out, in a few words, his general opinion of the tramps he met
in this three weeks' journey.
Most of the tramps we met during our trip in England impressed me
as being a trifle insane. There is a peculiar dullness and lack of
nervous energy about them that distinguish them very noticeably
from the working-men. Still, they have a marked sagacity in
getting up tricks to secure their food and lodging, and in getting
out of work. Their life, together with ill-nourishing food, would
tend to produce a mild form of insanity. There is surely a
peculiarity about their mental structure that I have observed
nowhere else.
They are fond of philosophizing about themselves, and in a comical
way. One of the worst vagabonds I saw told me that he considered
himself as fine a fellow as any one, and that he had two brothers
who were well-to-do, but he could not stick to one thing long
enough to lay up money. He said that it never did anybody any good
to knock about, unless his mind was so formed that he could learn
by it. He did not see that he was not the equal of anybody in
perseverance, and he was not able to understand why it was not
considered very noble to live by begging and by peddling without a
license.
Some attribute their pauper condition to a roving disposition;
others lay their misfortunes to a cruel fate; but it is very
evident that the passion for drink is at the bottom of ninety per
cent. of the vagrancy in England.
The tramps do not seem at all discontented or unhappy. They
complained sometimes that people were stingy, but almost all of
them looked well fed. There are a few of them who really want
work, but the majority are not very anxious for a job. As one of
the men in the kip-house said one day, after there had been a good
deal of discussion on the subject: "Well, there's more talk about
work in this house than there's doin' of 't."
Most of the tramps we met were well informed, and fully half of
them had been in America, or the "States," as they say. They also
keep up to the times on political issues and pugilistic and police
news. In one of the lodging-houses I heard the keeper of the place
reading the police news of the week to an interested circle of
beggars. I was struck by a remark of one of the fellows, that the
sentence of the court was not so severe as one culprit had
deserved.
They are a very hospitable set to their own kind. I never entered
a kip without a seat being offered to me, and in many cases they
gave me a bowl of tea and a bit of bread. I never saw any
quarreling over the cooking-utensils or the corner of the
fireplace. Though they are without doubt the dirtiest and the
raggedest and the poorest of men, I was everywhere treated by them
with politeness, so far as they understood politeness; in fact,
they were often far more courteous than the steamer and other
officials under whose charge I came during the journey.
These conclusions are identical with my own. Excepting workhouses,
casual wards, one or two "ticket systems," and jails, there seems to be
no great amount of legal machinery for the treatment of vagrancy in
England. The workhouses are places where any one who can prove that he
is penniless may be taken in indefinitely. The casual ward has already
been explained. The ticket system is simply the issuing of tickets, at
police stations, to vagrants in need of food, the tickets calling for so
much bread, and perhaps a lodging. Sometimes the ticket must be worked
for, and sometimes it is gratis. The jails are mean places to get into,
the discipline being severe, and work being exacted of the prisoners.
Sentences for begging range from seven days upward, but most of the
tramps with whom I talked spoke of seven days as the usual punishment
for simple begging, unless the offender could be proved to be an old
stager.
As regards the punishment of the confirmed beggar in England, there
seems to me to be but one thing to say: it is too slight and trivial.
The professional beggar should be shut up indefinitely. There are plenty
to laugh at this suggestion, I am aware. Well and good. Just so long as
they laugh, the beggars will laugh also; and it is my opinion that the
beggars will come out ahead.
FOOTNOTES:
[8] The "bible" is tramp slang for the hawker's little parcel of things
which he is supposed to peddle.
[9] The Horn is a bit of railway in Iowa, extending from Red Oak
southward for about twenty miles, then northwest for twenty more. It is
used principally for long trains, as the main line from Red Oak to
Pacific Junction is too hilly.
IV
THE TRAMP AT HOME
In an article which appeared in the "Contemporary Review" for August,
1891, I made a first attempt to relate some of my experiences in tramp
life in the United States, and endeavored to describe a true knight of
the road. It was a short paper, and there was a great deal left unsaid
that might have been said, but it was a truthful report as far as it
went. To one intimately acquainted with the hoboes I doubt whether the
article would have seemed inaccurate, but it was so judged by some
critics, and a number of my statements were challenged. Among other
criticisms made, it was said that I had mistaken the character of the
"American tramp" in three particulars: first, his nationality; second,
his numbers; third, his unwillingness to work. It was also assumed that
an Englishman was responsible for the supposed false statements.
I was in New York at the time, and having ten days at my disposal before
leaving for Europe, I decided to retrace some of my old routes and have
another view of the situation. This chapter is a report of my
experiences on the journey, and I have confined myself to the rehearsal
of bare facts without further comment, believing that the reader will
moralize and philosophize whenever necessary.
It was about five o'clock on the afternoon of a cool September day that
I left my friend's home clad as a tramp, and started for the night boat
for Albany. I wore an old suit of clothes, a flannel shirt, a good pair
of shoes, and a respectable hat. I had paid special attention to the
shoes and hat, for it is a piece of tramp philosophy that the two
extremities of a beggar are first looked at by the person of whom he is
begging. While riding from Harlem down to the landing-place of the
steamer, I laughed to myself while thinking how the tramps would envy me
my nice head- and foot-gear. I wondered, too, whether I should be
allowed to return with these coverings.
At the ticket-office I paid one of my three dollars for a ticket on the
boat to Albany. I made this heavy draft upon my slight exchequer because
I was afraid to beat my way on the railroad between the two cities. I
knew of old how roadsters are hated by the residents of both banks of
the Hudson River, and not being at all sure that I should be successful
in making the journey from New York to Albany in one night as a
"dead-beat" on a freight-train, I felt safer in buying a second-class
ticket on the steamboat, and beginning my journey in the morning at
Albany.
I fear that the reader would have laughed at my calamity had he seen me
after landing at Albany. Then I was a tramp indeed, for the other two
dollars had disappeared from my pockets while I was sleeping with a
motley crowd of Italians on some boxes thrown promiscuously about the
hold of the steamboat. There was now no possibility of dilettantism. I
had to go head over heels into the beggar's life. I am glad now that it
was so, but for the moment I was downhearted, for I had leaned on those
two dollars as possible friends if my begging courage should fail me at
the crucial moment. But this was past, my bridges were burned, so I
began my journey in earnest.
I sauntered lazily over to West Albany, for it was still early, and
arrived as the people were lighting their breakfast fires. I waited
until it seemed that the fires should have done their duty, and then
began. I visited several houses. Sometimes the man of the house said
that his wife was sick, or that he was out of work himself; and
sometimes they told me to get out--that they had already fed one tramp.
My fifth call was at the home of a German woman who claimed that she had
fed beggars in the Fatherland. She invited me in, placed a nice warm
breakfast before me, and then we began a conversation in German about
life, labor, and beggars. She was sorry for me, and said that I looked
too young to be a beggar. I told her a tale. It was one of those stories
in which the ghost of a truth still lingers--such as tramps know so well
how to tell. I shall never know exactly how much of it she believed, or
what she thought of me, as I told her that I was the outcast of a
_hochwohlgeboren_ family in Germany. I know, however, that she was
sympathetic, and that she took me in, whether she did the same for my
romance or not.
After breakfast I started for Troy. I knew that I should meet with
plenty of loafers during the walk, and I preferred chatting with them on
or near the highway. For Albany has a penitentiary. There is not a
well-informed tramp in the United States that does not know about that
prison; it has punished many a vagrant, and the Albany policemen are no
friends to beggars. Syracuse Tom will bear me out in this statement, for
he winters in Albany with his kid every year; but he does this simply
because he is so well posted. Of course other tramps visit Albany as
well, for it is a well-known town for "refreshments"; but only a few can
thrive long there by begging only for money.
On my way to Troy I found a camp of thirty-three tramps. They were
living off the charity of Albany. They had all been in for breakfast,
and were now returned to the hang-out to chat and scheme. Some were
discussing Albany prisons, its policemen, saloons, and general
hospitality. Others had built a fire, and were boiling their shirts in a
borrowed kettle to kill the vermin. Still others were planning Southern
tours. Some had decided to winter in St. Augustine, some in
Jacksonville, and a few were talking of the best routes to New Orleans.
One of the fellows recognized me. He must needs know where I had been so
long, and why my hands were so white. "Cigarette," he said, "have you
been a-doin' time? Where did you get yer white colors?" I told Yorkey
that I had been sick, and had been back on the road only a few days. He
would not believe me, and I am afraid that he took me for a "crooked
man," for he said: "Cig, you've not been in the sick-lugger all this
while, and I hain't seen your register for many a day. No, my young
bloke; you can't fool me. You've been up a tree, and you can't deny it."
I could not convince him of my innocence, so we dropped the subject, and
I told him that I was bound for Buffalo, where I had friends who would
help me to brace up and get off the road. I assured him that I knew now
what a foolish business "bumming" was, and that I was going to make a
grand effort to get work. Even this he would not believe, and he
insisted that I was going West to some town where I knew that the tramps
were going to have a "drunk." He tried to persuade me to go South with
him, and claimed that Yonkers Slim was going to meet him in Washington
with some money, and that the bums intended to have a great
"sloppin'-up" (drinking-bout). I made him understand that I was
determined to go West. Then he gave me some advice which was typical.
"Young feller, you're goin' to a pretty poor country. Why, when I left
Buffalo two weeks ago, the bulls [police] were more than pinchin' the
tramps right in the streets, and givin' them ninety days. The only
decent thing about a journey up that way is the New York Central
Railroad. You can ride that to death. That's the only godsend the
country has. Jes let me tell you, though, what towns it cuts through,
and then you'll squeal. Now, there's Schenectady. You can chew all right
there, but divil a cent can you beg. Then comes Fonda, and you must
know what a poor town that is. Then you've got Utica, where you can feed
all right, for any fool can do that, but you can't hit a bloke for a
dime in the streets without a bull seein' you and chuckin' you up for
fifty-nine days in Utica jail. And you must know well enough what that
jail is this time o' year--it's jes filled with a blasted lot o'
gay-cats [men who will work] who've been on a booze. After Utica there's
Rochester, a place that onc't was good, but isn't worth pawnin' now
since that gay-cat shot a woman there some time ago. After Rochester,
what you got? Buffalo--the most God-forsaken town a bum ever heard of."
Here I interrupted my lecturer to say that I had heard of Buffalo as a
good "chewing town." He turned upon me fiercely. "What d' you want? D'
you only want to chew? Don't you want boodle, booze, togs, and a good
livin'? Of course you do, jes like ev'ry genooine hobo. It's only a
blasted gay-cat that'll fool around this country now. Cig, you'd better
come South with us. Why, las' year the blokes more than sloughed in
money around the Ponce de Leon Hotel in St. Aug'stine. We kin git there
in a week if we ride passenger-trains. You'll hustle for an overcoat if
you stay here much longer, an' I'll bet my Thanksgivin' dinner that
every bloke you meet up the road is bound South. You'd better foller
their coat-tails." I thanked Yorkey, but satisfied him that I was
determined to get to Buffalo. "Well, so long, Cigarette," he said, when
I left the camp for Troy.
Between Troy and Cohoes I found another camp of tramps. Here were
forty-two men and boys who were enjoying what tramps term a
"sloppin'-up." Some of them had just returned from the hop-country, and
had gathered together the fellows in their vicinity, and were now
drinking keg after keg of beer. Thirteen kegs had already been emptied.
These men seemed well satisfied with their treatment around Troy, and
the majority of them had been there for nearly a week. One half-drunken
loafer from Milwaukee was so anxious to praise the town's hospitality
that he was haranguing some of his comrades most zealously. "I've boozed
around this town," he said, "off and on for the last seven years, and
I've not been sloughed up yet. There's only one or two bulls in the town
that's after tramps, and if a bloke is anyway foxy he can slip them all
right. Two years ago I fooled around here for two months, and had my
three square meals every day, and booze too, and I was never touched.
You can't hustle pennies, o' course, as well as you can down in the City
[New York], but you can batter for clothes, chuck, and booze all right
enough. I know as many as ten saloon-keepers in the town that'll give me
a drink and ask no questions. Yes; Troy's all right, and it's only a
rotten gay-cat that 'u'd say it wa'n't. The only mean thing about the
town is that it's slow. Us hoboes must be on the march, and it's not in
us to fool round a jerk town like this 'un too long. It's tiresome,
blokes."
A hunt for supper in Cohoes afforded me a great deal of amusement, for I
was entertained by an alderman's wife. At any rate, she told me, while I
was eating my supper in the large restaurant dining-room, that her
husband, eating his supper in a private room on the floor below, was a
village father and a hater of tramps. "But don't worry," she said; "he
shall not bother you while I'm around. I always feed a hungry man, and I
always shall. I can't understand how some people can turn away from the
door any one who claims to be hungry. If I should do this, I would
expect to be hungry myself before long." A freight-train passed by the
house while I was at the table, and my hostess noticed my anxiety to be
aboard of it. "Never mind," she said; "there'll be plenty of freights
along a little later, and this is a good place to catch them, for there
is a grade here, and you can keep away from the station, where you might
be arrested." I remembered this woman throughout my journey, and every
tramp that I met bound in this direction was advised of her house. I
think it would hardly be so good another year.
From Cohoes to Schenectady is only a short ride, and it seemed as if I
had been asleep in the box-car only a few minutes when Ohio Red, who was
with me, cried out, "Cigarette, we're in the yards; let's get out." We
slept in a box-car overnight. This is an odd way of resting. The coat,
vest, and shoes are taken off, then the shoes are made into a pillow,
the vest is laid over them, and the coat is thrown over the shoulders.
So sleep most of the tramps during the warm months.
After an early breakfast, we went over to the hang-out on the eastern
side of the town. Thirteen rovers were already there, cooking a
conventional meal. They had begged meat, potatoes, bread, and coffee,
and had stolen some other vegetables, besides a kettle, and were now
anxiously watching the fire. Two more vagrants, who had been looking
for cigar-stubs in the town, came in later. Their pockets were well
filled, and they divided equally their findings. This "snipe" chewing
and smoking is the most popular use of tobacco in trampdom, and is even
preferred to "store brands" of the weed, which are easily begged. About
dinner-time a man came out to the camp, and offered every one of us the
job of shoveling sand for a dollar and a half a day, the work to
continue into November. He might better have stayed away. The tramps
told him that they had just left as good a job as that in Buffalo, and
were now looking for three dollars a day!
At nightfall sixteen tramps, including myself, boarded a freight-train
bound west. I was now on the main line of the New York Central, and had
no further need to fear any large amount of walking. During the night
ride I had an interesting talk with the brakeman at my end of the train.
I was in a "gondola" (open car), and he espied me from the top of a
box-car, and came down. "Hello, young fellow!" he said. "Where are you
travelin' to?" "Just up the road a bit, boss," I answered. "Well, let's
go to the other end of the car, where we won't catch the cinders; I've
got one in my eye now filin' it to pieces. Can you take it out, d' you
think?" he asked. I held his lantern on my arm, and looked for the
cinder, which was soon out. Just then the train whistled for Fonda, and
the brakeman said: "You want to lay low here, for there's a watchman in
the yards. I'll bring you a bit to eat out of my pail after we pull
out." He returned, when we were again started, with a parcel of food,
and began to speak of the towns up the road. "Utica," he said, "if you
intend gettin' your breakfast there in the mornin', is sort of a
snide place, this time of the year. You see, the hop-pickers are around
there, and the police always arrest a lot of 'em, and you fellows are
likely to be jugged too. This town that we've just left, however, is the
meanest one on the road. I was comin' through here about a week ago, and
didn't know there was a bum on the train. The watchman scouted around,
and found three of 'em in a box-car, and yanked 'em all up. If I'd known
they were round, I'd 'a' posted 'em about this town, but I hadn't an
idea they were there. I hate to see a lad get pulled for ridin' a train,
because I've been broke myself, and I know what it is to be on the road.
I'll always carry a man on my train if I can. But of course you know
that sometimes the con [conductor] is a mean devil, and we can't do
anything that'll give him a grudge ag'in' us; if he should see a bum on
the train, he might report us. So you see what risks we run. But I've
given many a lad a ride, and I'm always willing to be square to a square
plug [fellow]." This is a typical kind-hearted Eastern brakeman, and the
tramps like him.
[Illustration: A DIVISION.]
In Utica I made the acquaintance of a roadster called "Utica Biddy."
I met him at the tramp camp just outside of the town, near the
R. W. & O. R. R. tracks, where twenty-six other loafers were waiting for
three of their fellow-travelers to return from the hop-country, in order
to help spend their money. Biddy is one of the best-known tramps on the
New York Central, and he gave me more information about the districts
around Syracuse and Utica than I could possibly have accumulated
single-handed. While riding in a box-car from Utica to Syracuse we had a
long conversation, and the following is the substance of what he told
me:
"I've been a bum on the division of this railroad from Albany to
Syracuse for the last four years. I've had my three squares every day,
and in winter I've had a bed every night. I know you'll hardly believe
this, for some of you beggars come up to this country and curse it
because you don't get on the spot what you want. Now, I'll give you a
few pointers about these towns. We've just left a town [Utica] where I
can go to over a score of houses and get a square meal whenever I want
it. Of course I was born there, and that may make a bit o' difference,
but I can do the same in Rome, Albany, and Syracuse. I've been on this
beat so long and have watched my chances so carefully that I know now
just where to go when hungry. I hear a great many tramps kick about
Utica, its policemen and snide houses. But if a lad will just knuckle
down for a month or so and hunt out the good houses, make himself
acquainted with the tough policemen and keep out of their way, find good
barns for a doss at night, and make a business of bummin' carefully,
there's not a town on the Central that ain't good. The trouble with you
strange blokes is this: you come up here, booze, draw your razors when
you're drunk, do too much crooked work, and o' course the people get
hostile. Why, see how many lads are workin' my racket over in
Pennsylvania. You know yourself that on the Pennsy [Pennsylvania
Railroad] line there are tramps who not only bum within a division, but
inside of subdivisions, and can chew whenever they like. But they do
this 'cause they're foxy and have had their boozin' knocked out of
them. Now, those lads that we left back in Utica will more than likely
get sloughed into jail when they get to boozin'. You can't expect the
people to stand such stuff as that. And these are the kind of fellows,
too, who jigger our ridin' on this railroad. They get drunk, and if they
want to ride and can't find an empty car, they break a seal [a car
seal], and then there's the devil to pay about the tramps tryin' to rob
the cars. If the bums would only keep sober once in a while, there
wouldn't be a tramp pinched once a month. The bulls around here don't
care to yank a tramp unless they have to. But what can they do when they
find a bloke paradin' the streets with a jag on? They pull him in, o'
course, or else the people would kick. I'll gamble that he wouldn't be
touched, though, if he were simply huntin' a meal."
In Syracuse, Biddy, in order to prove his acquaintance with the town,
told me of a house where I was certain of getting something to eat. I
followed his instructions, and got exactly what I went for--a good
dinner. The great excitements in Syracuse, I found, were a big drunk and
the State fair. I have never seen such a number of tramps together at
one time. Between De Witt and Syracuse there was a camp of fifty, and
there were twenty empty beer-kegs lying around in the grass. Some of the
fellows were sick, others had sick clothes, and many of the rest were in
fine shape for a free fight. There were two well-dressed tramps whom I
immediately recognized as "fawny men"--fellows who sell bogus jewelry
for more than it is worth. One of these men was a notorious roadster of
American birth, who, for purposes best known to himself, went by the
name of "Liverpool George." He is the most successful fawny man that I
have ever met. He earned twenty-two dollars in one day at the fair by
selling for two dollars apiece rings which can be bought in Buffalo for
two dollars a dozen. The tramps call this worldly success.
Before I left Syracuse there came to the camp another batch of tramps
numbering sixteen. They had just returned from the hop-country, and
their money was well poised for another "shot at the growler." During my
stay of three days at the camp and vicinity, the men were intoxicated
almost all the time. They would even go into town half drunk to look for
something to eat. Yet I heard of no arrest while I was there. About a
mile from the hang-out, and east of Syracuse, there were two barns in
which the tramps slept. It was most amusing to see the loafers returning
to their nests in the hay-loft night after night. Sometimes I listened
to comical tales until the early hours of the morning. I was also the
spectator of a number of fights. One particular barn where I spent two
nights, near Syracuse, was a regular arena for fisticuffing and
squabbling. The men were so cross and ill-tempered after their recent
galas that they would quarrel on the slightest pretext. One fellow gave
his companion a black eye because he told him that he "ought to hustle
better togs" (clothes). Another poor excuse for a knock-down was that a
fellow had said that "tramps were bughouse" (crazy).
The journey from Syracuse to Buffalo was very prosaic. I rode from
Syracuse to Rochester with a kid and two colored tramps. The boy was in
search of his "jocker," or protector, whom he had lost in Albany. From
various registries at watering-tanks, he expected to find him in Canal
Street, Buffalo. At Port Byron a female tramp, with her companion,
Milwaukee Jim, entered the box-car in which we were riding. I learned
from him that I must be very careful in my conduct at Rochester. I
decided to leave the town as quickly as possible after arrival. On the
eastern outskirts of the place I met a gang of twenty-three tramps
walking to Fairport, ten miles distant, in order to escape any possible
arrest in the Rochester railroad yards while catching a freight-train
bound east. Between Rochester and Churchville I found still another
frightened crowd numbering twenty-seven. They were waiting for nightfall
before entering the city to board a train for Albany.
[Illustration: ASLEEP IN A FREIGHT-CAR.]
The kid continued with me on the journey to Buffalo, and I enjoyed a
talk with him in the car about his life on the road and what inducements
it offered. He was only sixteen years of age, but as bright and well
versed in tramp lore as many an aged roadster. He became interested in
tramp life in the Illinois Reformatory. Some of his companions at the
school, who had been with tramps, told him of their experiences, and he
never rested until he had satisfied himself with his own. "It ain't such
a bad lot," he said; "I chew every day, get a big swag of booze once in
a while, and when I'm travelin' with Slim [his protector] I have a purty
excitin' time." The boy found his man in Canal Street, just as he had
expected.
Buffalo did not interest me. There was nothing new in the tramp line. I
counted sixty-seven roadsters, and found that there was plenty to eat
and drink and a little money also, if looked for very diligently in the
main streets and offices; but there was nothing unique. My journey, when
I arrived in Buffalo, had extended over three hundred miles (from
Albany). I had had three meals every day, excepting the loss of a dinner
while traveling from Rochester to Buffalo, and I had met three hundred
tramps, who had probably had their meals just as frequently as I had had
mine. This number does not include, of course, those who may have been
traveling behind or before me, so that, not counting men who were
certainly on the road, but out of my sight, here was a voluntary vagrant
for every mile of the road between Albany and Buffalo. Further, I did
not see a train going west on the Central Railroad that was not carrying
at least one tramp, and I often saw a car passing by which appeared
simply alive with dead-beats. The reader must remember withal that New
York State is by no means such good tramp territory as certain other
States. Pennsylvania supports three times as many vagrants as New York
will tolerate.
Two extenuating statements ought to be made. In the first place, the
Central Railroad is a very easy one to beat, and probably half of the
tramps that I met were "residents" of other States. Secondly, a great
many tramps loaf around the hop-country in the vicinity of Syracuse and
Utica during the early autumn, in order to drink at the expense of the
too light-hearted hop-pickers. The nationality of these men, so far as I
could judge from pronunciation, some of their own statements, and
their professional names, was almost entirely American. I met one German
loafer called "Dutchy," and he was the only recognized foreigner that I
found. The others may have had parents born in other countries, but they
themselves were certainly Americanized. A good test of a tramp's
nationality is his professional name. For every genuine hobo couples the
name of his birthplace with whatever other name he chooses, and the
reader will find, if he will visit watering-tanks or other available
stationary railway property in his vicinity, like section-houses,
shanties, etc., where tramps "sign," that the names registered there
indicate, in the great majority of cases, a birthplace in the United
States.
My return journey to New York is worthy of comment only because its
quick performance may possibly interest the reader. I was desirous of
learning how quickly a tramp can make a journey if he desires; and it
being to my interest to be in New York at an early date, I decided to
forego any specific study of tramp life on the Erie Railroad and simply
to hurry over its tracks, if haste should prove possible. I left Buffalo
for New York on the night of the 16th, and arrived on the morning of the
19th, although I took a very circuitous route. I traveled from Buffalo
to Corry, Pennsylvania, over the W. N. Y. & P. R. R., and from Corry I
rode to Binghamton over the Erie road. From this place I made a detour
to Voorheesville, and then down the West Shore route to Weehawken, in
order to confirm certain rumors that I had heard of its hostility to
tramps. The entire trip was very tiresome and difficult, because, in
order to travel rapidly, I was compelled to ride on top and on the
bumpers of freight-trains, and on the trucks of passenger-trains. My
companion, Pennsylvania Whitey, and I rode after the latter fashion from
Elmira to Binghamton. It was a terrible ride. We made the mistake of
getting on the trucks of the rear car--a Pullman sleeper--instead of a
baggage-car. In doing this we suffered almost beyond description. The
gravel and dust flew about our faces until the exasperation and pain
were fearful. When I arrived in Binghamton my eyes were filled with
dust, and I suffered with them for days after I arrived in New York.
There are tramps, principally in the West, who are much more skilful
truck-riders than I can claim to be. But then they have to excel in this
mode of traveling, or they could not get over the country. In the far
West the brakemen have no scruples about throwing tramps off
freight-trains. In the East more civilized customs prevail, and the
tramp is politely asked to "jump off after the train has stopped."
Because railroad civilization is so backward in the West, the tramps
have invented a seat which greatly aids their truck-riding. They call it
a "ticket," but it is simply a small piece of board, with two cleats
nailed on one side, which fit over a rod and keep the seat firm. Some of
these tickets are quite elaborate, and are made to fold into a coat
pocket.
The journey from Voorheesville to Weehawken proved interesting. My
friend Whitey and I left Voorheesville for Coeyman's Junction on a
local freight-train. We were on a flat-car, and entirely open to view,
but were not once molested. During the ride I got a cinder in my eye,
which my companion could not find. The pain was intense, and when we
stopped next at a small station we jumped off in order that Whitey might
inspect it more conveniently. He was still unsuccessful, and the
station-master, standing by, beckoned me toward him and offered to take
the cinder out, which he did very skilfully. The train was just ready to
start when he called out, "Boys, don't miss your train." We followed his
advice.
[Illustration: RIDING ON THE BUMPERS.]
From the Junction down to Weehawken we underwent many trials. We left
Coeyman's with fifteen other tramps on a through freight-train. All of
us were huddled together on a flat-car, and of course the brakeman saw
us. After finding out that none of us had any money to give him in aid
of his collection for a "pint" (of whisky), he said: "You lads want to
look out at Kingston. It's all right until Catskill, but you'll get
collared at Kingston unless you're careful." The minute the train
slackened its speed at the hostile town, the roadsters jumped off _en
masse_. Whitey suggested that we separate from the crowd, run around to
the other end of the railroad yards, and catch the train again when it
came out. We arrived there just in the nick of time, and rode away again
triumphant. The next stop was Newburg, and just before we arrived the
brakeman again warned us. "Look out here," he said, from the top of a
car; "if you get pinched here, you're sure for the Albany pen." We left
the train again, and manoeuvered in the same way as at Kingston. Again
we traveled on without fear until nearing Haverstraw, and then came that
same warning from the top of a car: "Look out, you lads down there on
the bumpers; Haverstraw is a hostile town." This was sickening. I had
not complained before, but now I told Whitey that if ever I arrived in
Weehawken safely I should forever forbid myself to tramp near the Hudson
River. We were eventually successful in passing Haverstraw, and then the
brakeman assured us that there was a safe route into Weehawken. His
words proved true, and we arrived there at three o'clock in the morning.
The puzzling question that I put to Whitey now was how to get over to
New York without a cent of money. He told me not to worry, and that he
would "work it all right." He spoke the truth, for we slipped into the
ferry-house from the West Shore Railroad yards, and so eluded the sleepy
gate-keeper. When we were on the ferry-boat I noticed four more tramps
that I had met in Syracuse, and of course there was a general laugh.
On landing at Jay Street, Whitey asked me where I was going. I told him
that I was afraid we must part company, and that I should have to walk
up to Harlem. "I hate to see you do that," he said, "for it's ag'in' the
tramp natur' to like to hear of drilling [walking]. If you'll wait for
me up here on Broadway, I'll go over to the post-office and hustle your
car-fare." I thanked him, and waited on a corner for about five minutes,
when, true enough, he returned with sufficient money for car-fare and
slight refreshments over in the Bowery together. "Whitey, so long," I
said; "be good to yourself." "So long, Cigarette; hope I'll see you
again." I left him standing in front of the Old Tree House, our ways
henceforth forever separate, but as kindly sentiments inhabiting our
bosoms as ever fell to the lot of knights of the road.
* * * * *
For every voluntary vagrant there is a voluntary taxpayer, and in the
persons of these three hundred tramps I met three hundred voluntarily
taxed citizens of the State of New York.
V
THE TRAMP AND THE RAILROADS
Five years had elapsed since my last journey with the hoboes--indeed,
since I had so much as seen them. Study and recreation took me to Europe
in the autumn of 1893, and I did not return to this country till the
spring of 1898. Newspaper clippings containing accounts of the movements
of the hoboes, and stories about their life, occasionally reached me,
and once there came an invitation to be present at an Anti-Tramp
Congress, but beyond this I heard very little about my old companions of
the road. I always thought of them, however, when I saw the European
vagabond trudging along on the public turnpikes, and wondered whether
they were still permitted to travel on the railroads in their "side-door
Pullmans" (box-cars) as they had done, and as they taught me to do when
I was among them. In eastern Prussia I once stopped to talk with a
foot-sore old wanderer on the _Chaussée_, and told him of the way the
American tramp travels. "Ach, how beautiful that must be!" he exclaimed.
"And to think that they would probably hang us poor fellows here in the
Fatherland if we should try to ride in that fashion! In truth, son, a
republic is the only place for the poor and outcast."
There had been rumors, while I was still on the road, that a day of
reckoning was coming between the railroad companies and the tramps, and
that when it arrived, the hobo, like the _Chausséegrabentapezirer_,
would take to the turnpikes. Life in Hoboland is so precarious that it
comes natural to the inhabitants to be on the watch for impending
catastrophes, and I remember that I also believed that the railroad
companies would eventually stop free riding as the tramp practised it.
It did not seem natural that a class of people with so little influence
as the tramps should be allowed to enjoy such a privilege long; and
although I learned to ride in freight-cars with as much peace of mind
and often more comfort than in passenger-coaches, there was always
something strange to me in the fact that I never bought a ticket. During
my first trip in Hoboland, which lasted eight continuous months, I must
easily have traveled over twenty thousand miles, and there were not more
than ten occasions during the entire experience when any payment was
demanded of me, and on those occasions the "medium of exchange"
consisted of such things as pipes, neckties, tobacco, and knives. Once I
had to trade shoes with a brakeman merely to get across the Missouri
River, a trip which ordinarily would have cost me but ten cents; but as
that was the very sum of which I was short, and the brakeman wanted my
shoes, the only thing to do was to trade.
Had any one told me, as I was leaving Europe, that a week after my
arrival in this country I should be "hitting the road" again, I should
not have believed him. Civilization had become very dear to me in the
interval that had elapsed since my last tramp trip, and it seemed to me
that my vagabond days were over.
Once a vagabond, however, like the reserve Prussian soldier, a man can
always be called on for duty; and it was my fate, a few days after
setting foot in my native land again, to be asked by the general manager
of one of our railroads to make a report to him on the tramp situation
on the lines under his control. For three years he had been hard at work
organizing a railroad police force which was to rid the lines under his
control of the tramp nuisance, and he believed that he was gradually
succeeding in his task; but he wanted me to go over his property and
give an independent opinion of what had been done. He had read some of
my papers in the "Century" on tramp life, and while reading them it had
occurred to him that I might be able to gather information for him which
he could turn to good account, and he sent for me.
"On assuming management of these lines," he said to me in the
conversation we had in his office, "I found that our trains were
carrying thousands of trespassers, and that our freight-cars were
frequently being robbed. I considered it a part of my business as a
general manager to do my utmost to relieve the company of this expense,
and I felt that the company owed it to the public to refuse to harbor
this criminal class of people. In a way a railroad may be called the
chief citizen of a State, and in this tramp matter it seemed to me that
it had a duty as a citizen to discharge to the State.
"There are three conspicuous reasons that have deterred railroad people
from attacking the tramp problem. First, it has been thought that it
would entail a very great expense. Our experience on these lines has
shown that this fear was not warranted. Second, it has been thought that
no support would be given the movement by the local magistrates and
police authorities. Our experience shows that in a great majority of
cases we have the active support of the local police authorities and
that the magistrates have done their full duty. Third, it was feared
that there might be some retaliation by the tramps. Up to date we have
but very little to complain of on that score. From the reports that I
get from my men, I am led to believe that we are gradually ridding not
only the railroad property, but much of the territory in which it is
situated, of the tramp nuisance; but I should like a statement from you
in regard to the situation, and I want to know whether you are willing
to make a tramp trip and find out for us all that you can."
It was a cold, bleak day in March when we had this conversation, and
there was every inducement to postpone a journey such as the general
manager suggested; but I was so impressed with his seriousness in the
matter, and so thoroughly interested in what he had done, that I agreed
to begin the investigation at once. It seemed to me that a man who had
written so much about the tramp problem ought to be willing to do what
he could to help the community solve it, especially when he was to be
reimbursed for his work as liberally as I was to be; and although I
suffered more on this particular journey than on any other that I have
made, I shall never regret having undertaken it.
Before starting out on my travels a contract was drawn up between the
general manager and myself. It secured to me a most satisfactory daily
wage, and to the general manager weekly reports as long as I was out on
the road, with a final statement when the investigation should be
finished.
On no previous journey in Hoboland have I been such an object of
curiosity to the tramps as on this one when writing my weekly reports. I
was dressed so badly that I could write them only in lodging-houses
where vagabonds sojourn, and it usually took me a full half-hour to
finish one. It availed nothing to pick out a quiet corner, for the men
gathered about me the minute they thought I had written enough, and they
thought this before I was half through. If they had been able to
decipher my handwriting I should probably have received pretty harsh
treatment, but as they were not, they amused themselves with funny
remarks. "Give 'er my love," they said. "Writin' yer will, are ye,
Cigarette?" "Break the news gently." And they made other similar remarks
which, if I had not been forced to write, would have smothered any
literary aspirations that a lodging-house is capable of arousing. As it
was, I managed to send in my reports more or less regularly, and faulty
though they must have been, they served their purpose.
They told the story of the tramp situation on about two thousand miles
of railroad property, situated in five different States. The reports of
the first month of the investigation pertained to tramps on lines in the
neighborhood of the property I was investigating. I had not been an hour
on my travels when it was made very plain to me that my employer's
police force was so vigilant that it behooved me not to be caught riding
trains unauthorized on his lines. Every tramp I met warned me against
this particular road, and although a clause in my contract secured me
the payment by the company of all fines that might be imposed upon me as
a trespasser, as well as my salary during imprisonment, in case I should
find it useful for my purposes to go to jail, I found it more convenient
for the first month to wander about on railroads which I knew tramps
could get over. I reasoned that the experience was going to be hard
enough anyhow, without having to dodge a railroad police officer every
time I boarded a train, and I knew that the trespassers on neighboring
lines would be able to tell me what was the general opinion in regard to
my employer's road as a tramp thoroughfare. All whom I interviewed spoke
of it as the hardest railroad in the United States for a tramp to beat,
and I could not have learned more of the tramps' opinion of it had I
remained exclusively on the property. The roads that I went over crossed
and recrossed my employer's road at a number of places, and I was
frequently able to see for myself that it is a closed line for
trespassers.
It may interest the reader to know how I lived during the time I
traveled as a tramp. Except on one occasion, when my funds gave out, I
paid my way regularly so far as food was concerned. A friend sent me a
postal order for a few dollars nearly every week, and I managed to live
rather comfortably at lodging-house restaurants. Occasionally I would
meet a pal of former years, and if he had money, or found that I had,
nothing would do but we should celebrate meeting each other again, and
at such times my friend in the East got word that my remittance must be
hurried up somewhat; but, as a general thing, I dined fairly well on two
dollars a week. For sleeping-quarters I had bunks in lodging-houses,
benches in police stations, and "newspaper beds" in railroad
sand-houses. I chose one of these places as circumstances suggested. If
there was nothing to be gained in the way of information by going to a
sand-house or a police station, I took in a lodging-house, if one was
handy. Once I slept in the tramp ward of a poorhouse, and never had I
spent a more disagreeable night. A crowd of tramps to which I had
attached myself had used up their welcome in a town where there were
three police stations, and it had been arranged that on the night in
question we should all meet at the tramp ward of the poorhouse. A negro
was the first one to get there, and a more frightened human being than
he was when the rest of us put in an appearance it would be hard to
imagine. We found him in a cold cellar, absolutely without light and
furnished with nothing but an immense bench, about four feet wide, four
feet high, and ten feet long. In Siberia itself I have never seen a
gloomier hole for men to pass a night in.
"I turned up here 'bout five o'clock," the negro said, "'n' they sent me
to the smokin'-room, where them luny blokes was smokin' their pipes. I
never knew before that they sent luny people to poorhouses, 'n' I
couldn't understan' it. I told one of 'em what I was there for, 'n' he
told me that this cellar down here has ghosts in it. Well, o' course, I
ain't 'feard o' ghosts in most places, but, by jiminy, when the keeper
came 'n' put me down here 'n' left me in the cold 'n' dark, somehow or
other I got to thinkin' o' that luny bloke's stories, 'n' I jus' had to
holler. W'y, I never felt so queer before in my life. Suppose I'd gone
crazy; w'y, I could 'a' sued the county for damages, couldn't I? Don't
you ever soogest any more poorhouses to me; I don't wonder people goes
crazy in 'em." When the crowd first saw the negro he was shouting at the
top of his voice: "Spirits! spirits! There's spooks down here!"
We all spent a most miserable night in the cellar, and I doubt whether
any one of us would willingly seek shelter there again.
Indeed, when the first month of my investigation was over, and war had
been declared with Spain, it seemed to me that I had gone through so
much and was so hardened that I could go to Cuba and worry through all
kinds of trouble. I have since regretted that I did not go, but, at the
time, I had become so interested in the work that, when I returned to my
employer for further orders, and he said to me, "Well, now that you have
satisfied me in regard to the attitude of the tramp toward the company's
property, suppose you satisfy yourself concerning the attitude of the
company toward the tramp," I readily fell in with the suggestion. To
make my final report complete it was obvious that I ought to get an
insight into the workings of my employer's police force, and for the
second month he gave me permission to travel on freight-trains, engines,
and passenger-trains, and a letter introducing me to the different
employees of the company with whom I was likely to come in contact. With
these credentials I was able to circulate freely over the property, to
inquire minutely into the work of the police department, to meet the
local magistrates, and particularly the jail- and workhouse-keepers. It
was also possible for me to make an actual count of the trespassers who
were daring enough to attempt to travel on this closed road.
This work was not so tedious and dangerous as that of the first month,
and there were more comforts to be enjoyed; but I had to be up at all
hours of the night, and the bulk of my time was spent in train-riding.
After thirty days of almost constant travel I was convinced, first, that
the tramps had told the truth about the road, and that it is exceedingly
difficult to trespass on it with impunity; second, that although the
police force is not perfect (none is), it was doing exceptionally good
work in freeing the community of tramps and beggars. It differs from
ordinary railroad police forces in that it is systematically organized
and governed. In dealing with tramps and trespassers the plan is to keep
up a continuous surveillance of them, and they are taken off trains one
by one, day after day, rather than in squads of fifty and sixty, with no
more effort in this direction for weeks and sometimes months, as is the
prevailing custom on most railroads. There is consequently very little
crowding of magistrates' courts and jails, and the taxpayers are not
forced to board and lodge a great collection of vagabonds. I was also
impressed with the fact that the force is on friendly relations with
municipal and village police organizations along the road, and has the
respect of communities formerly at the mercy of a constantly increasing
army of hoboes.
So much for my personal experience and finding in this latest
investigation in "trampology"; it was as interesting a tramp trip as I
have ever made, and I learned more about the best methods to employ in
attacking the tramp problem in this country than on any previous
journey. It is now my firm belief that, if the tramps can be kept off
the railroads, their organization will become so unattractive that it
will never again appeal to men as it has done in the past. No other
country in the world transports its beggars from place to place free of
charge, and there is no reason why this country should do so.
The custom has grown up in the United States during the last thirty
years. Before the Civil War there were comparatively few tramps in
America, and practically no railroad tramps. After the war there
suddenly appeared on the scene a large class of men who had become so
enamoured of camp life that they found it impossible to return to quiet
living, and they took to wandering about the country. Occasionally they
worked a little to keep themselves in "pin-money," but by 1870 hundreds
of them had given up all intention of working, and had founded the
organization known to-day as the "Hobo-Push." By that year, also, they
had discovered that our turnpikes, particularly in the West, were very
poor roads to travel on, and they began to walk on the railroad-track.
If, at this time, the railroad companies had had laws passed, such as
are in force to-day in Great Britain and on the Continent, forbidding
everybody but an employee to walk on railroad property, except at public
crossings, we should have learned, ere this, to obey them, and the
railroad tramp would not have been developed. These laws not being
enacted, however, it was not long before it became very clear to the
tramp that it would be much more comfortable to sit in a box-car and
ride, than to "drill" (walk) over the ties. An appreciation of this
character is acted upon very soon in Hoboland, and by 1875 the majority
of the professional vagrants were taking lessons in jumping on and off
moving freight-trains. The trainmen, partly because they thought that
many of these trespassers were deserving but penniless out-of-works, and
partly on account of the inborn willingness of every American to help a
man in unfortunate circumstances, made practically no serious effort to
keep the tramp off their trains, and by 1880 the latter was accepted by
railroad companies as an unavoidable nuisance on railroad property.
[Illustration: A BRAKEMAN ON A FREIGHT-TRAIN COLLECTING FARES.]
To-day it is the boast of the hoboes that they can travel in every State
of the Union for a mill per mile, while in a number of States they pay
nothing at all. On lines where brakemen demand money of them, ten cents
is usually sufficient to settle for a journey of a hundred miles, and
twenty cents often secures a night's ride. They have different methods
of riding, among which the favorite is to steal into an empty box-car on
a freight-train. At night this is comparatively easy to do; on many
roads it is possible to travel this way, undisturbed, till morning. If
the train has no "empties," they must ride on top of the car, between
the "bumpers," on one of the car ladders, or on the rods. On
passenger-trains they ride on top, on the "blind baggage," and on the
trucks.
Taking this country by and large, it is no exaggeration to say that
every night in the year ten thousand free passengers of the tramp genus
travel on the different railroads in the ways mentioned, and that ten
thousand more are waiting at watering-tanks and in railroad yards for
opportunities to get on the trains. I estimate the professional tramp
population at about sixty thousand, a third of whom are generally on the
move.
In summer the entire tramp fraternity may be said to be "in transit."
The average number of miles traveled daily by each man at this season of
the year is about fifty, which, if paid for at regular rates, would
cost, say, a dollar. Of course one should not ordinarily pay so much to
ride in a box-car as in a passenger-coach, but the ordinary tramp is
about as comfortable in one as in the other, and, on the dollar-a-trip
basis, he and his 59,999 companions succeed in getting out of the
railroad companies sixty thousand dollars' worth of free transportation
every day that they all travel. Multiply this figure by a hundred, which
is about the number of days in a year when all trampdom "flits," and
you have an approximate idea of how much they gain.
Another serious loss to the railroads is that involved in the
disappearance of goods undergoing transportation, and in claims for
personal injuries. Some tramps steal, and some do not, but every year
considerable thefts are made from freight-cars, and tramps, or men
posing as such, are generally the guilty parties. Professional thieves
frequently become tramps for a time, both to minimize their guilt and to
elude capture, and the probability is that the majority of the greater
thefts are committed by them. Tramps proper are discouraged thieves, and
I have seldom known them to steal anything more valuable than fruit from
freight-cars and metal from idle engines. In a year's time, however,
including all the thefts committed by both tramps and professional
thieves, a very appreciable loss results to the railroads, and I can
recall, out of my observation, robberies which have amounted to several
thousand dollars.
That railroad companies should have to reimburse trespassers for the
loss of a hand or foot while riding unauthorized on trains will strike
every one as a very unjust tax on their resources, but such claims are
constantly made. Let us say, for example, that a young boy who has been
stealing his way on a freight-train loses a leg. There is a type of
lawyer who at once takes up a case of this sort, going to the boy's
parents or relatives and suggesting to them the advisability of claiming
damages, asserting his readiness to serve them in the matter. "All
right," says the father; "get what you can." In court the lawyer
draws a horrible picture of these engines of death, the railroads,
showing how they are constantly killing people. If the boy's father is
poor, this fact is also brought graphically to the attention of the
jury, and the wealth of the corporation is described as something
enormous. If the lawyer manages his case cleverly, making out that the
boy was enticed on to the freight-train by the trainmen, or that he fell
under the wheels through their carelessness, there are but few juries
that will refuse to give the father at least enough damages to pay the
lawyer's fee and the doctor's bill, and then there is a celebration over
having "squeezed" another railroad company. For a private person to be
compelled by a court to pay damages to the father of a boy who fell from
an apple-tree in the private person's orchard, where the lad was an
obvious trespasser and thief, would be considered an outrage.
I bring out these facts about the losses to the railroads in some detail
because the public is really the railroad company, and consequently the
sufferer.
To tell all that the country at large suffers from the free railroad
transportation of tramps would take me beyond the limits of this
chapter, but there are a few points which must be noted. In the first
place, the railroads spread the tramp nuisance over a much greater
stretch of territory than would be the case if the tramps were limited
to the turnpikes. There are districts in the United States which are so
difficult to reach by the highroad, on account of unprofitable
intermediate territory, that the hobo would never attempt to go near
them if it were not easy for him to get over the disagreeable parts of
the journey in a box-car. Take the trip from Denver to San Francisco,
for instance. There is not a vagabond in the country who would undertake
to walk across the American Desert merely to reach "'Frisco," and if
walking were the only way to get to that city it would be left largely
to "coast beggars." As matters now stand, however, you may see a beggar
one day in Fifth Avenue in New York city, and a fortnight later he will
accost you in Market Street in San Francisco. Many tramps can travel as
rapidly as the man who pays his way, and I have known those who could
even "hold down" the Chicago Limited from Jersey City to Chicago without
a break.
All this contributes to the difficulty of locating and capturing the
dangerous characters of tramp life; and, as I have said, many
professional criminals, who have nothing to do with beggars in other
quarters, mix with them in freight-cars.
A remark, in this connection, of Mr. Allen Pinkerton is popular in
Hoboland. He is reported by the hoboes to have once said, in a
conversation about the capture of criminals, that he thought he could
catch, in time, almost any kind of criminal except the tramp, and him he
could not catch because it was so difficult to locate him. "One day he
is in a barn, the next in a haystack, and the next Heaven only knows
where he is, for he has probably got on to the railroad, and there you
might as well look for a lost pin."
The railroads also help to keep the tramp element in our large cities.
It very seldom settles in the country, and not for any length of time in
provincial towns. New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, Boston, San
Francisco, Buffalo, Baltimore, New Orleans, and other like places are
its main strongholds. The more the criminal element of a country fastens
itself upon its cities, the harder it is to break up, and in the United
States this is what is taking place. Chicago, for instance, is as much a
center in the criminal as in the business world, and almost every
freight-train entering it brings a contribution to its criminal
population. Even without railroads the tendency of crime to predominate
in towns would exist; evil-doers feel more at home in city streets and
haunts than in the country; but their present strength in our cities is
largely due to the free transportation they get from the railroads.
Another striking fact is that out-of-works who beat their way on
freight-trains very easily degenerate into professional vagabonds. I
have traveled with men who, in six months' time, had become voluntary
vagrants merely because their first stolen rides, while in search of
work, had demonstrated to them how easy it is to manage without working
and paying their way. The average unemployed man in the United States
goes from one large city to another, rather than, as is the custom in
Europe, taking in the intermediate towns and villages, where there is no
such likelihood of the labor-market becoming congested. In a few weeks,
unless he is a man of very strong character, he learns to travel merely
for travel's sake, and develops into a "stake-man," who only works long
enough to get a "stake" and then go off on a trip again. Among the
so-called unemployed in this country there are thousands of this type,
and they are the result of this love of side-door Pullman excursions.
[Illustration: A TRAMPS' DEPOT.]
There is one more fact which cannot be overlooked--the temptation which
the railroads have for a romantic and adventuresome boy. A child
possessed of _Wanderlust_ generally wanders for a while, anyhow, but the
chance he now has to jump on a freight-train and "get into the world
quick," as I have heard lads of this temperament remark, has a great
deal to do in tempting him to run away from home. Hoboland is overrun
with youngsters who have got there on the railroads, and very few of
them ever wander back to their parents. Once started "railroading," they
go on and on, and its attractions seem to increase as the years go by.
Walking has no such charms for them, and if it were their only method of
seeing the world, the majority of those who now keep on seeing it, until
death ends their roaming, would grow tired. The railroad, however, makes
it possible for them to keep shifting the scenes they enjoy, and, in
time, change and variety become so essential that they are unable to
settle down anywhere. They are victims of what tramps call the "railroad
fever," a malady for which a remedy has yet to be prescribed.
* * * * *
Can the tramps be driven off the railroads? It was to satisfy my own
curiosity in regard to this question, and to find out how successful my
employer, the general manager, had been in his attempt to answer it in
the affirmative, that I undertook the investigation which I have
described. Previous to his efforts to keep tramps off railroads, it
had been thought, as he has stated, that it was cheaper to put up with
them than to pay the bills which a crusade against them would occasion.
It has at last been demonstrated, however, that they can be refused free
transportation, with a saving of expense to the company, and with great
benefit to the community; and the time has come when the public should
demand that all railroads take a similar stand in regard to this evil.
If all the companies would take concerted action, in a few years very
few tramps, if any, would try to beat their way on trains; an
appreciable number would give up tramping entirely, because their
railroad privileges are to many the main attraction of the life; a few
would try to become professional criminals again, partly out of revenge
and partly because tramping on the turnpikes would be too disagreeable;
and a large number would take to the highways, where some at least might
be made to do farm-work. The reader may take exception to the third
possibility, and think that great harm would come of an increase in the
professional criminal class; but, as I have said, tramps are really
discouraged criminals, and a return to the old life, of which they had
made a failure, would only land them in the penitentiary.
It is probably impossible ever entirely to eliminate the vagrant element
in a nation's life, and no such hope is held out in connection with the
reform advocated in this article; but this much is certain: had all the
railroads been as closed to tramps, during my first excursions into
Hoboland, as one of them has recently become, one man, at least, would
not have attempted any free riding, and would not have found so many
tramps to study.
PART III
SKETCHES
PART III
SKETCHES
PAGE
I. OLD BOSTON MARY 317
II. JAMIE THE KID 336
III. ONE NIGHT ON THE "Q." 355
IV. A PULQUE DREAM 366
V. A HOBO PRECEDENT 372
I
OLD BOSTON MARY
On the southern outskirts of the city of Boston, hidden away in a field,
and reached by streets that gradually degenerated into straggling lanes,
stood until a few years ago an old shanty, noted for nothing but
loneliness and spooks. No one in the neighborhood knew to whom it
belonged or what was its history. It was almost too forlorn to be
interesting, and few went near it. The children in the district claimed
that queer noises were heard in the shanty at night, and their mothers
threatened them with its sheltered ghosts when they were especially
naughty. But this was the extent of the shanty's reputation in its own
parish.
Its history, or at any rate so much of it as is known, is anything but
romantic. When first built, it belonged to a "Paddy" on the railroad;
and after various generations of this proprietary family had passed on
to the better quarters that Boston provides for its ambitious Irish
citizens, it became so dilapidated and forlorn that it was turned over
to some cows pastured near by, as shelter for stormy days. It was still
used for this purpose, I am told, when Old Mary rented it. How she
discovered it, and why it attracted her, are questions which even her
best friends found difficult to solve. But there was something about it
which appealed to her, and for several months she lived her queer life
in this uninteresting old building. Her neighbors knew almost nothing
about her, except that she was an eccentric old woman, and that she
harbored a strange class of friends who might with greater propriety
have lodged in the city almshouse. But otherwise she was a foreigner in
her own province, and no one could tell what she did or how she lived.
Strange, too; for in some respects this old creature was a most
notorious character, and had perhaps as many acquaintances and friends
as any citizen of Boston. Almost every evening, after dark, had there
been curious eyes on watch, stragglers of many sizes and conditions
might have been seen wending their way, stealthily and cat-like, to her
shanty, and ears alert might have heard a queer password tapped on the
wooden door, which, as of its own free will, swung back on noiseless
leather hinges, and, closing, hid the strangers from view. This went on
night after night, and no resident of the neighborhood knew or cared
much about it. Whatever was done in the shanty passed off so quietly and
unobtrusively that public curiosity was not awakened.
My first knowledge of the place was on this wise: One afternoon, while
studying tramp life in New York, I dropped in for a moment at a popular
resort of vagabonds in the Bowery. I had already had several months'
experience in their company, and was casting about for some new feature
or phase of the life; naturally enough, I turned to the saloon to hear
of something which would put me on a fresh track. As luck would have it,
I chanced to overhear two Eastern beggars discussing the customs and
institutions of Boston. Their conversation interested me, and I drew
nearer. During their talk, reference was made to Old Mary's place, which
I had never heard of elsewhere, and I determined to see it.
It was not long before I had found a companion and persuaded him to
accompany me to Boston. He also had heard of the place, and was fairly
well acquainted with its mistress, who, he declared, had been a
well-known hobo out West some years before. Her history, as he
recollected it, and which I know now to be quite true, was something
like this:
About forty years ago, a Gipsy girl in England, who had wandered about
with her tribe through France as well as Britain, came to America,
hoping to find her Rom friends here strong enough to afford her society
and protection. But for some reason she failed to meet with the welcome
she had expected, and as there was nothing else in the New World more
akin to her old life than the tramp's peripatetic existence, she joined
the brotherhood, and for over thirty years was recognized as a
full-fledged member. Her specialty, the hobo said, was "ridin' the
trucks"; and in this dangerous business she became an expert, and was
probably the only woman in the world who ever made a practice of it. It
may surprise some that a woman reared in Gipsy society, and accustomed
to the rigorous social divisions which obtain there, should ever have
entered trampdom, composed almost entirely of men. It must be
remembered, however, that there are women in all classes of society who
are men's women, not women's women, and at the same time none the worse
for their peculiarity. There is a certain comradeship in their relations
with men which even a stunted sense of honor will not abuse, and which
adds piquancy to their friendship.
The Gipsy girl was one of these, and had her friends as well as her
lovers. The lovers failed as she grew older, but this strong-souled
companionship stood her in good stead, and held the friends she made.
She who had been so poorly cared for all her life long had developed
somehow a genius for taking care of others, and so, after thirty years
of hard riding and hard faring of all sorts, her head not quite clear
about a good many things that human justice calls crime, she set up a
poor, miserable home for the brotherhood of tramps. It was a crazy idea,
perhaps, but the woman herself was pretty well "crippled under the hat,"
my friend declared, and was known from Maine to California, in true
tramp dialect, as "Bughouse Mary," or, as politer folk would say, "Crazy
Mary."
She settled herself at first in a tumble-down old tenement-house in the
very heart of Boston, and her place soon became known--too well known,
in fact--to certain officious and official personages who had on more
than one occasion found dangerous characters sheltered there. After some
weeks she thought it necessary to move on, and pitched her tent on the
spot already described. It was here that my companion and I first tested
her sisterly welcome. A town tramp put us on the right road, and gave us
explicit directions. He advised us not to go by daylight, and asked,
"Does you blokes know the rules out at Mary's? I guess she'd take you in
anyhow, but mos' the blokes, when they goes out there, takes along a
handful o' terbakker an' a chunk o' beef or somethin' else ter chew. She
allus 'xpects her half, too. It's a sort o' law out there, 'n' p'r'aps
you lads 'u'd better do as I tells ye."
We followed his advice, and I looked for some beefsteak, while my
companion found the tobacco and bread. About nine o'clock we started,
and spent fully an hour in finding the place. At the door, as we knew of
no especial knock, I whispered through one of the cracks the word
"Hobo," knowing that this was the usual tramp call. We soon heard a
queer voice asking our names.
"Cigarette," I replied.
"What Cigarette?" asked the voice.
I assured her that it was the Chicago brand.
This was sufficient, and the door opened far enough to allow us to
squeeze through, and we were in the famous Boston hang-out.
The first attraction, of course, was Mary herself, and she was well
worth a longer pilgrimage. I shall never forget the picture she made, as
she stood in the middle of the floor surrounded by her pals, and
welcomed us to her shanty. Her figure, although naturally strong and
straight, looked cramped and bent, and had certainly suffered from long
exposure and the hardships of truck-riding. Her dress, although
picturesque in some particulars, looked just as tattered and worn out as
did her poor old body. The original cloth and color of the skirt, if
indeed it had ever had any, were disguised by fully a dozen different
patches sewed on with coarse, straggling, Gipsy-like stitches. In place
of a waist she wore an old coat and vest, given to her, as I afterward
learned, by a clergyman. The coat was soldier's blue, and the vest as
red as a robin's breast. A strange costume, it is true; but as I looked
at her, it seemed, after all, a fitting one for such a unique being. The
head that topped the costume was most interesting of all: a certain pose
in moments of enthusiasm, and a certain toss at the climax of some story
relating her early triumphs, gave it an air of wild nobility such as one
sees in high-bred animals; and when, in the consciousness of her
weakened powers, it dropped sadly on her breast, with the ragged gray
locks streaming out in all directions, one could not escape the sense of
fallen greatness in the gaunt bowed figure and the tortured face.
Naturally she looked crazy, but I wished at the time that if crazy
people must really exist, they might look like her. Her eyes were her
most intelligent feature, and even they at times would become glazed and
almost uncanny. They were the most motherly, and also the wickedest, I
have ever seen on the road. This sounds paradoxical, I know, but as I
have heard other men describe them in the same way, I think I must be
right. And when she looked at me I felt that she was piercing my
character and history in every possible corner. I have no doubt that she
intended to impress me in this way. It is a Gipsy trick, and she
evidently had not forgotten it.
[Illustration: OLD BOSTON MARY'S SHANTY.]
But queer and crazy as Old Mary appeared, she was nevertheless quite in
harmony with her environment; for of all the odd hang-outs I have
visited, hers was certainly the oddest. The shanty itself was in many
respects just as the cows had left it, and the only furniture it
contained was a stove, a few old benches, a greasy lamp, a supply of
blankets, and a cupboard containing one or two frying-pans and some
polished and renovated tomato-cans. These were all that the old Gipsy
had been able to gather together, and it had cost her many days of
fortune-telling to collect even these. But, fortunately, it was not for
such things that the beggars visited her. What they wanted was simply a
place where they could be away from the police, and in the company of
Old Mary, whom they looked upon as a sort of guardian angel. On the
night in question she had as guests men who represented nearly every
kind of vagabondage. The "blanket-stiff," the "gay-cat," the "shiny,"
the "Frenchy," and the "ex-prushun" were all there. Some were lying on
the floor wrapped in their blankets; some were mending their coats and
darning their socks; while others were sitting around the stove playing
a quiet game of poker, using as an "ante" pieces of bread which they had
begged. In a corner there were still others who were taking off their
"jiggers," reminding one of that famous _cour des miracles_ which Victor
Hugo has described in "Notre Dame"; for the jiggers were nothing but
bandages wound around the legs and arms to excite the sympathy of
credulous and charitable people.
Mary was exceedingly kind in her welcome to both my comrade and myself;
but on learning that I was really the Chicago Cigarette she was a little
partial to me, I think, and made me sit down on a bench, where we talked
of various things and people, but especially of a St. Louis beggar
called "Bud," who had spoken to her of a Cigarette with whom he once
traveled. Learning that I was the very same, and that we had at one
time made a long journey in the West, she wanted to know just when I had
seen him last, how he looked, and what he was doing. I could easily see,
from the passionate way she spoke of him and her eagerness for late news
concerning his whereabouts, that he had once been a pal of hers, and I
had to tell her as gently as I could that the poor fellow had been
starved to death in a box-car in Texas. Some one had locked him in, and
when the car was shunted on to an unused side-track, far away from any
house or station, his fate was settled. Try as one will to get out of
such a predicament, there is no hope unless one has a large knife and
strength enough to cut through the walls. Poor Bud was without both, and
he died alone and forsaken. I had heard of the accident from a man who
was in the neighborhood where it happened; and thinking that the best
thing I could tell Old Mary would be the truth, I stammered it out in a
most awkward fashion.
I knew well enough that she would cry, but I hardly expected to see the
sorrow that my story occasioned. It was almost indescribable. She wept
and moaned, and swayed her old body back and forth in an agony of grief,
but not once did she speak. I tried my best to comfort her, but it was
of no use. She had to suffer, and no one could help her. I felt so bad
that I almost started to leave, but one of the men told me that she
would be all right pretty soon, and I waited. True, she did become
calmer, and in about an hour was enough herself to talk about other
matters; but there was a grief still in her eyes that was most pitiful
to see. And I shall always remember her strange and inarticulate agony.
It showed, not a comrade's bereavement, nor yet the heart-wound of a
motherly nature merely, but a phase of emotion belonging to younger
hearts as well. I think also that there was a Gipsy strain in her
suffering which I could not comprehend at all.
When fairly aroused from her sadness, she asked for our bundles of food,
and made the men playing cards on the stove move away, that she might
light a fire and cook our meal. While she attended to these things, I
passed around among the tramps. The place hardly coincided with my
expectations. I had looked forward to a rough hang-out, where there
would be more fighting and cursing than anything else, but I found
nothing of the kind. The men conducted themselves very respectably, at
least while Mary was looking on. There were a few harsh words heard, of
course, but there was none of that vulgarity that one would naturally
expect, for the hostess forbade it. Not that she was a woman who had
never heard bad words or seen vulgar sights, but there was something
about her which certainly quieted and softened the reckless people she
gathered together. What this was I cannot say, but I think it was her
kindness. For if there is anything which a tramp respects, although he
may forget it when it is out of his sight, it is gentleness, and it was
this trait in Old Mary's character which won for her the distinction and
privileges usually accorded the mistress of the house. She did
everything she could to make her shanty comfortable and her guests
happy. For example, one man had a sore foot, and while the meat was
frying she bandaged it most tenderly, making her patient lie down on a
blanket which she took from a cupboard. Others wanted string or tobacco,
and she invariably supplied them. She gave each one the impression that
she was really interested in him; and to know this is exactly as
pleasant to a tramp as it is to any other human being.
When our supper was ready, Mary handed me a little pail, and said: "Cig,
you'd better run out 'n' hustle some beer. You kin find it 'bout half a
mile up the road, ef you give the bloke a good story. But don't let the
bulls catch ye. I don't wan' cher ter git sloughed up."
I took the pail and went in search of the beer, which I found at the
place she spoke of. On my return she had the meat and bread placed on a
shingle, and my companion and I, together with the hostess, sat down on
a bench and had a most satisfying meal. During the repast Mary talked a
good deal on numerous subjects, and commented on tramp life in various
communities. She gave but little evidence of being crazy, but her mind
would wander once in a while, and she would say in a dreamy sort of way,
"Oh, Cig, this sort o' bummin' hain't like the old times. Them was the
days fer beggars."
Those old days, I suppose, were when she first came to this country; and
I have been told that a beggar's life in that period was, if not more
profitable, at any rate more comfortable. I also heard her mumbling and
calling herself "bughouse," and with the word her old head would fall
humbly on her breast. But her kindness was so sound and steadfast that
this occasional lapse into her inane mumbling did not much impress me.
She kept asking if I were having enough to eat, and offered to cook more
meat if I were not. When we had finished, she handed me a new clay pipe,
gave me some tobacco which was of a better brand than that which my
companion had begged, and then told me to smoke my "vittals stiddy." We
sat there for nearly an hour, not saying much, and yet knowing fairly
well what each one was thinking. There is something in tramp nature
which makes these silent conversations easy and natural.
At twelve o'clock we prepared for sleep. Mary was now at her best, and
the way she assigned each man his place was worthy of a general. As we
had to turn out about half-past four in the morning, so that all would
be quiet before people were astir, I was glad enough to have a rest. The
most of the men took off their coats and shoes, making of the former a
blanket and of the latter a pillow, said, "Pound yer ear well," to their
nearest neighbors, and then the candle was put out. Mary had a corner
entirely to herself.
I had been asleep for about three hours, I think, when I was awakened by
a light shining in my face, and a hand passing over a tattoo mark on my
right arm. I started up, and saw Mary kneeling beside me and inspecting
the "piece" very closely. Noticing that I was awake, she whispered:
"Come out o' the shanty with me fer a minnit. I wants ter ask ye
somethin'."
I rose and followed her quietly out of the building to a small hollow
not far away.
"Now, Cig," she said, "tell me the truth. Did Bud croak down in Texas,
dead sartain?"
I assured her that I had told her the truth.
"Well," she replied, "then the whole game is up. Ye see, Bud was a Rom,
too, 'n' we use' ter be great pals. Fer nigh onter a tenner we bummed
this kentry together 'n' never had a fight. But one day Bud got jagged,
'n' swore I had n' be'n square to 'im. So we had a reglar out-'n'-outer,
'n' I hain't seen 'im sence. I's sorry that 'e's croaked, fer 'e was a
good bloke; yes, 'e was--yes, 'e was--" Here the poor creature seemed to
forget herself, and I could hear her saying, "Bughouse--bughouse." I
recalled her to consciousness, and said that I must leave, as it was
nearly time for her to close up shop. She wanted me to promise to meet
her on the Common in the afternoon, where she did most of her begging,
and handed me a quarter to "keep me a-goin'" till then. I returned it,
and told her that I had to leave Boston that morning, but would gladly
visit her again some day. And I certainly intended to do so. But the
natural course of events took me out of vagabondage soon, and it was not
until quite recently that I heard any more of Bughouse Mary.
A short time ago, while seeking some special and late information
regarding tramp life in the large cities, I chanced upon an old friend
of Mary's, whom I plied with questions concerning her whereabouts and
fate. It was a long time before he would give me anything I could call a
straight story, but at last, finding I had been, years before, one of
the brotherhood, with hesitation and real sorrow he told me what
follows:
"I wuz drillin' one day, 'bout two months 'go, on the Boston 'n' Albany
road, 'n' hed jes got into a jerk town [a village], where I battered
[begged] fer some dinner. It begun to rain arter I'd chewed, so I
mooched down to the track 'n' found a box-car where I stopped fer a
while. I wuz waitin' fer the 'xpress, too, so the wettin' wa'n't much uv
a bother. Waal, I'd be'n in the car a few minnits, when I got all-fired
sleepy, 'n' ter save me gizzard I c'u'dn't keep me eyes open. So I jes
lay down 'n' pounded me ear [slept]. I'd be'n a-poundin' it, I guess,
fer 'bout two hours--fer 't wuz 'bout five 'clock when I begun, 'n' 't
wuz dead dark when I got me peepers open--when I heerd somebody pushin'
away at the car door to beat the divil, 'n' o' course looked out; an'
there on the groun' wuz one o' the funniest bums y' ever see--long,
flyin' hair, big gray eyes, coat 'n' vest, 'n', ez sure 's I'm a
moocher, a skirt too, but no hat. Course I was int'rested, 'n' I jumps
down 'n' gives the critter a big stare plump in the face, fer I had the
feelin' I'd seen it afore somewheres. See? An' it sort o' answered, fer
it seed I wuz koorios. 'I say, blokey, kin yer tell me when the flyin'
mail passes through these yere parts? I wants ter make it, ef it do.'
Then I knew who 't wuz, fer ye kin tell Old Mary ev'ry time when she
begins to chew the rag. I tole her that the mail come through 'bout
twelve 'clock, 'n' then asked her where her hat wuz.
"'Waal, blokey,' she said, 'I hain't a-wearin' them air t'ings any
more. I say, air yer right k'rect that the flyin' mail comes through
these yere parts?' I guv it to her dead straight, 'n' tole 'er I wuz
sartain. Then I asked, 'Mary, ain' cher recognizin' common peoples any
more? Don't chu know old Tom?' Ye sh'u'd 'a' seen 'er look! She put 'er
old bony han's on me shoulders, 'n' stuck 'er old phiz clos't ter mine,
'n' said, 'Who be ye, anyhow? I's gettin' sort o' old-like 'n' bughouse,
'n' I can't call yer name. Who be ye? 'n' kin ye tell me ef I kin make
the flyin' mail?' I tole 'er who I wuz, 'n' ye sh'u'd 'a' seen 'er! Ye
see, I's summat younger than 'er, 'n' she jes treated me like me old
woman. It made me feel sort o' queer-like, I tell ye, for I use' ter
like the old gal in great style.
"Waal, we had a good talk, as ye kin well 'xpect, but she kept askin'
'bout that blasted flyin' mail. I did n' wan' ter ride it that night,
'cause she wuz purty bughouse, 'n' I felt she'd get ditched ef we tried
it. So I jes argeyed with 'er, 'n' did me best ter make 'er stay where
we wuz; but I might jes 's well 'a' tried to batter a dollar in the
place. She was simply stuck on pullin' out that night. I asked 'er why
she didn't go back to Boston, 'n' she said, 'Boston! W'y, I's got the
mooch out o' Boston. Ye see, Tom, I got ter tellin' fortunes, 'n' the
bulls snared me, 'n' his Honor tole me to crawl. I did n' go at first,
but arter a bit it got too hot fer me out at the shanty, 'n' I had ter
mooch. So here I be, 'n' I guess I'm a' right; but I 's bughouse--yes,
bughouse'; 'n' she kept a-squealin' that word till I wuz sick. But she
wuz bughouse, dead sure. An' I guess that's why she wuz on the road, fer
when I use' ter know 'er she wuz too cute ter let any bull get roun'
her; anyhow, no Boston bull c'u'd 'a' done it. P'r'aps a Chicago one
might, but he's all eyes anyhow.
"Waal, ez I wuz sayin', I tried ter keep 'er from ridin' the mail, but
't wa'n't no use. So I made up me mind that I'd go with 'er 'n' help 'er
along. An' when the train whistled roun' the curve, I got 'er over to
the tank, 'n' made 'er lay low till the train wuz ready. Waal, the train
had come, 'n' I looked it over to find a blind baggage, but I c'u'dn't.
So I says to Mary, 'We've got to truck it.' She got horstile 's the
divil when I tole 'er that. 'Truck it!' she said. 'Course we'll truck
it. What else d' ye 'xpect us to do? I use' ter ride out West as well as
any o' ye, but I's gittin' old 'n' sort o' bughouse--yes, I is.' The
train wuz mos' ready to pull out, 'n' the con wuz swingin' his lantern,
so I took 'er hand 'n' got 'er into the baggage-car trucks. 'Get in
carefully,' I said, ''n' be sartain ter hang on to the right rod.' She
clumb in 'tween the wheels, 'n' fixed 'erself with 'er back to the
engine. It would 'a' made ye cry to hear 'er beggin' me to look out fer
'er. 'Don't leave the old gal, will yer, blokey?' I tole 'er I w'u'dn't,
'n' got in alongside her jes ez the whistle blew; 'n' away we went,
ridin', fer all either on us c'u'd tell, to the divil. 'T wa'n't no time
to think 'bout that, though, fer I had to remember the old gal. I didn't
dast ter hold 'er, fer I'd 'a' fallen meself, so I jes had to holler at
'er, 'n' be sure that she hollered back. I kept a-bellerin', 'Hang on,
Mary, hang on!' 'n' she kept sayin', 'I will, blokey, I will!' She
meant, o' course, that she'd do her best, but arter a few minnits I see
clear 'nough she'd never pull through. The way the wind 'n' the gravel
'n' the dirt flew round our faces, 'n' the cramps that took us, settin'
so crooked-like, wuz 'nough to make bigger blokes 'n she give up, 'n'
don' cher forget it. An' to make things worse, her hair blew all over me
face, 'n' matted down me eyes so I c'u'd hardly see. I das'n't brush it
away, fer I'd tumbled sure. The gravel cut me face, too, 'n' onc't a
good-sized stone hit me lips such a rap that I c'u'd feel the blood
tricklin' on me chin. But worse than all, Old Mary got to screamin', 'n'
I c'u'dn't see her fer her hair. She screamed 'n' screamed, 'The flyin'
mail--oh, I say--the flyin' mail,' an' 'er shriekin' 'n' the rattlin' o'
the wheels made me nigh bughouse, too. I called out ev'ry few minnits to
keep 'er down to bizness, 'n' I got one more answer sayin' she was doin'
'er best. An' then some o' her hair flew in me mouth, 'n' try me best I
c'u'dn't get it out, 'n' I didn't dast ter take me hands off the rod. So
I c'u'dn't see 'er or speak to 'er any more. See? I heard 'er screamin'
agen, 'Oh, I say--the flyin' mail--flyin'--bughouse,' an' then nothin'
more. I c'u'dn't say nothin', so I jes made a big noise in me throat to
let 'er know I wuz there. By 'n' by I heerd it agen,--'Bughouse--flyin'
mail--blokey,'--an' agen I lost 'er. I wuz nearly bughouse meself. Ef
that train hed only hauled up! Ef I hed only kept 'er from ever gettin'
on to it! I c'u'd n' hold 'er, I c'u'd n' speak to 'er, I c'u'd n' see
'er, an' all the divils wuz dead agen' us. An' she wuz gettin' wilder
ev'ry minnit. I shook me head up 'n' down, back'urd 'n' for'ard--'t wuz
all I c'u'd do. Once agen she begun her screaming 'Oh, I say, the flyin'
mail--flyin'--flyin',' an' then I said the biggest thankee I ever said
in me life fer bein' blinded in me eyes; fer when her old hair hed
swished away, 'n' me eyes wuz free agen, I wuz hangin' on alone, 'n' the
wheels hed carried me far away from where the old gal wuz lyin'. I
c'u'dn't help it, Cig--no, I c'u'dn't; 'n' you mus' tell the other
blokes that I done my best, but 't wa'n't no use--I done my best."
The tremor of the tone, the terror lest I should think he had not been
faithful to his awful trust, told better than words that his tale was
true, and that he had done his best to save the poor wrecked life so
confidingly placed in his care.
But the end was not unfitting. The "flyin' mail," the cramped and
painful ride, the pelting storm, the dust and gravel, the homeless
goal--what could be more symbolic of Old Mary's career! And on the wings
of steam and wind her Gipsy spirit went flying--flying.
[Illustration: OLD BOSTON MARY.]
II
JAMIE THE KID
It was my last night in San Francisco, and I could not leave without
saying good-by to Old Slim. His place was almost empty when I strolled
in, and he was standing behind his greasy bar counting the day's
winnings. The _adios_ was soon said, and I started for the street again.
I had hardly left the bar when the door suddenly squeaked on its rickety
hinges, and a one-armed man came in with a handsome kid. He was
evidently dying of consumption, and as he shuffled clumsily across the
floor, with the boy following solemnly at his heels, I fancied that he
wanted Slim to help him into a hospital. He called for his drinks, and
asked Slim if he knew of any one "bound East" the next day.
"W'y, yes," Slim replied; "that young feller right back o' ye leaves
ter-morrer: ain't that right, Cigarette?"
The man turned and looked at me. Grabbing my hand, he exclaimed:
"Well, I'll be jiggered! Where d' y'u come from? Don't remember me, eh!
Wy, you little beggar, have you forgotten the time we nearly croaked in
that box-car jus' out of Austin--have you forgotten that?" and he
pinched my fingers as if to punish me.
I scrutinized him closely, trying to trace in his withered and sickened
face the familiar countenance of my old friend Denver Red.
"Yes, that's right, guy me!" he retorted nervously. "I've changed a
little, I know. But look at this arm,"--pushing back his sleeve from the
emaciated hand,--"that crucifix ain't changed, is it? Now d' you know
me?"
There was no longer any reason for doubt, for down in Texas I had seen
New Orleans Fatty put that same piece on his lonely arm. But how changed
he was! The last time we met he was one of the healthiest hoboes on the
"Santa Fé," and now he could just barely move about.
"Why, Red," I asked, "how did this happen? You're nearly dead."
"Sleepin' out done it, I guess," he answered hoarsely. "Anyhow, the
crocus[10] says so, 'n' I s'pose he knows. Can't get well, neither. Be'n
all over--Hot Springs, Yellarstone, Yosem'ty, 'n' jus' the other day
come up from Mex'co. Cough like a horse jus' the same. But say, Cig,
drink out, 'n' we'll go up to Jake's--'s too public here. I've got a lot
to tell you, 'n' a big job fer you, too; 'll you come? A'right. So long,
Slim; I'll be in agen ter-morrer."
We were soon seated in a back room at Jake's. The boy stretched himself
on a bench, and in a moment was asleep.
"Purty kid, ain't he?" Red said, looking proudly at the little fellow.
"An' he's a perfect bank, too, 'f you train 'im right. You oughter seen
'im over in Sac[11] the other day. He drove some o' them Eastern stiffs
nearly wild with the way he throws his feet. Give 'im good weather an' a
lot o' women, 'n' he'll batter his tenner ev'ry day. They get sort o'
stuck on 'im somehow, 'n' 'fore they know it they're shellin' out.
Quarters ev'ry time, too. He don't take no nickels--seems to hate 'em. A
Los Angeles woman tried 'im once, 'n' what d' you think he did! Told 'er
to put it in an orphan 'sylum. Oh, he's cute, bet cher life. But,
Cig,"--and his voice dropped to a lower pitch,--"he's homesick. Think of
it, will you, a hobo kid homesick! Bawls like the devil sometimes. Wants
to see his ma--he's only twelve 'n' a half, see! If 'e was a homely kid,
I'd kick 'im. If there's en'thing I can't stand, it's homely bawlin'
kids. They make me sick. But you can't kick him--he's too purty; ain't
he?" and he glanced at the slumberer.
"You pull out at seven, do you?" he asked, after a pause.
"Well, Cig, I'm mighty glad it's you I found at Slim's. I was hopin' I'd
meet some bloke I knew, but I feared I wouldn't. They're mos' all dead,
I guess. Bummin' does seem to kill us lads, don't it? Ev'ry day I hear
o' some stiff croakin' or gettin' ditched. It's a holy fright. Yer bound
fer York, ain't you, Cig? Well, now, see here; I've got an errand fer
you. What d' you think 't is! Give it up, I s'pose! Well, you see that
kid over there; purty, ain't he?" and he walked over to the bench and
looked into the lad's face.
"Pounds his ear [sleeps] like a baby, don't he?" and he passed his hand
delicately over the boy's brow.
"Now, Cig," he continued, returning to his seat, "I
want--you--to--take--this--kid--back--to--the--Horn. That's where he
lives. What d' you say?"
There was only one thing I could say. A few months more at the outside
and Red would be gone, and it was probably the last favor I could do him
in payment for the many kindnesses he had shown me in the early days.
"If en'thing happens to 'im, Cig, w'y, it's got to happen, I s'pose; but
he's so dead stuck on seein' his ma that I guess he'll be purty foxy.
I'd take 'im myself, but I'm 'fraid I can't pull through. It's a tough
trip 'tween here 'n' Omaha, 'n' I guess he'll be safer with you. I hate
to let 'im go at all, but the devil of it is I ain't got the nerve to
hang on to 'im. You see, I'm goin' to croak 'fore long--oh, you don't
need to snicker; 't's a fact. A few more months 'n' there'll be one less
hobo lookin' fer set-downs. Yes, Cig, that's straight. But that ain't
the only reason I'm sendin' the kid home. I oughter sent 'im home 'bout
a year ago, 'n' I said I would, too, 'f I found 'im. I lied, didn't I?
Ye-es, sir; 'bout twelve months ago I told his mother I'd fetch 'im back
'f I collared 'im. How's that fer a ghost-story, eh? Wouldn't the blokes
laugh, though, if they'd hear it? Denver Red takin' a kid home! Sounds
funny, don't it? But that's jus' what I said I'd do, 'n' I wasn't drunk,
nuther. Fill up yer schooner, Cig, 'n' I'll tell you 'bout it."
He braced himself against the wall, hugged his knees, and told me what
follows.
"You know where the Horn is right 'nough, don't you? Well, 'bout a year
'n' a half ago I got ditched there one night in a little town not far
from the main line. 'T was rainin' like the devil, 'n' I couldn't find
an empty anywheres. Then I tried the barns, but ev'ry one of 'em was
locked tighter 'n a penitentiary. That made me horstile, 'n' I went into
the main street 'n' tackled a bloke fer a quarter. He wouldn't give me
none, but 'e told me 'f I wanted a lodgin' that a woman called College
Jane 'u'd take me in. Says he: 'Go up this street till you strike the
academy; then cross the field, 'n' purty soon you'll find a little row
o' brown houses, 'n' in No. 3 is where Jane lives. You can't miss the
house, 'cause there's a queer sign hangin' over the front door, with a
ball o' yarn 'n' a big needle painted on it. She does mendin'. I guess
she'll take you in. She always does, anyhow.' Course I didn't know
whether he was lyin' or not,--you can never trust them hoosiers,--but I
went up jus' the same, 'n' purty soon, sure 'nough, I struck the house.
I knocked, 'n' in a minnit I heerd some one sayin', 'Is that you,
Jamie?' Course that wasn't my name, but I thought like lightnin', 'n'
made up my mind that 't was my name in the rain, anyhow. So I says, in a
kid's voice, 'Yes, it's Jamie.' The door opened, 'n' there was one o'
the peartest little women y' ever see.
"'Oh, I thought you wasn't Jamie,' she says. 'Come in--come in. You must
be wet.'
[Illustration: BEATING A PASSENGER-TRAIN.]
"I felt sort o' sheepish, but went in, 'n' she set me down in the
dinin'-room. Then I told 'er a story. One o' the best I ever told, I
guess--made 'er eyes run, anyhow. An' she fed me with more pie 'n' cake
than I ever had in my life. Reminded me o' the time we thought we was
drunk on apple-pie in New England. Well, then she told me her story. 'T
wa'n't much, but somehow I ain't forgotten it yet. You see, she come
from the soil, 'n' her man was a carpenter. After they'd be'n West 'bout
six years he up 'n' died, leavin' her a little house 'n' a kid. She
called 'im Jamie. Course she had to live somehow, 'n' purty soon she got
a job mendin' fer the 'cademy lads, 'n' she boarded some of 'em. That's
the way she got her monikey[12]-see? Well, things went along purty well,
'n' she was 'spectin' to put the kid in the 'cademy 'fore long. H-e-e-e
didn't like books very well--hung around the station mos' the time. Sort
o' stuck on the trains, I s'pose. Lots o' kids like that, you know.
Well, to wind up the business, one night when he was 'bout 'leven year
old he sloped. Some bloke snared 'im, prob'ly, an' ever since she's be'n
waitin' 'n' waitin' fer 'im to come back. An' ev'ry night she fixes up
his bed, 'n' 'f anybody knocks she always asks, 'Is that you, Jamie?'
Funny, ain't it? Well, somehow the bums got on to 'er, 'n' ever since
the kid mooched she's be'n entertainin' 'em. Gives them his room ev'ry
time. An' she always asks 'em 'f they know where he is. She asked me
too, 'n' made me promise 'f I found 'im that I'd send 'im home. Course I
never 'spected to see 'im, but I had to say somethin'.
"Well, sir, six months afterward I was sittin' in Sal's place in
K. C.,[13] when who should come in but New York Slim. He called me out,
'n' says, 'Red, wanter buy a kid?' As it happened, I did want one, so I
asked 'im how much 'e wanted. He took me over to a joint 'n' showed me
that kid over there on that bench. 'Give you a sinker [a dollar],' I
said. He was satisfied, 'n' I took the kid.
"Well, sir, as luck would have it, 'bout a week later the kid got so
stuck on me that he told me his story. I didn't know what to do. He
didn't wanter go home, 'n' I didn't want 'im to. Course I didn't tell
'im nothin' 'bout seein' his ma--that 'u'd 'a' spoiled everything. Well,
I didn't say nothin' more 'bout it, 'n' we come out here. I've had 'im
now fer 'bout a year, 'n' I've trained 'im dead fine. Wy, Cig, he's the
best kid on the coast--yes, he is. But, as I've be'n tellin' you, he's
homesick, 'n' I've got to get 'im back to the Horn. I'm 'fraid he won't
stay there--he's seen too much o' the road; but I'll croak jus' a little
bit easier from knowin' that I sent 'im back. I'd like it 'f he'd stay,
too; 'cause, to 'fess up, Cig, I ain't very proud o' this bummin', 'n'
'f 'e keeps at it 'e'll be jus' like me 'fore long. So when 'e wakes up
I'm goin' to lecture 'im, 'n' I don't want you to laugh. May help, you
know; can't tell."
Two hours later we were in the railroad yards waiting for my train to be
made up. There were still about fifteen minutes left, and Red was
lecturing the kid.
"See here, kid," I heard him saying; "what's you learnt since I've had
you--en'thing?"
"Bet cher life I has!" the little fellow returned, with an assumed
dignity that made even Red smile.
"Well, how much? Rattle it off now, quick!"
The boy began to count on his fingers:
"Batterin', one; sloppin' up, two; three-card trick, three;
an'--an'--that song 'n' dance, four--four; an'--an' enhalin' cig'rettes,
five--five--" Here he stopped and asked if he should take the next hand.
"Yes, go on; let's have the hull of it."
"Well, then, I knows that cuss-word you taught me--that long one, you
know; that's six, ain't it? Oh, yes, 'n' I knows that other cuss-word
that that parson told us was never forgiven--remember, don't you? Well,
that's seven--seven. I guess that's about all--jus' an even seven."
"You sure that's all, kid?"
"Well, darn it, Red, ain't that enough fer a prushun? You don't know
much more yerself--no, you don't, 'n' you's three times old's I am"; and
he began to pout.
"Now, kid, d' you know what I wants you to do?"
"Bet cher life I do! Ain' cher be'n tellin' me fer the las' year? You
wants me to be a blowed-in-the-glass stiff. Ain't them the words?"
"No, kid. I've changed my mind. Yer goin' home now, ain' cher?"
"Jus' fer a little while. I'm comin' back to you, ain't I?"
"No, you ain't, kid. Yer goin' home fer good. Cigarette's goin' to take
you, 'n' you mustn't come back. Listenin'?"
"Say, Red, has you gone bughouse? I never heerd you talk like that in my
life."
"See here, kid,"--and there was a firmer tone in his voice,--"we ain't
foolin' now--understan'? An' in about five minnits you'll be gone. Now,
I wants you to promise that ye'll ferget ev'ry darn thing I've taught
you. Listenin'?"
The kid was gazing down the track.
"Listenin'?" Red cried again.
The kid turned and looked at him. "Can't I enhale cig'rettes any more?
Has I got to ferget them, too?"
"Well, kid, you _kin_ tell yer mother that I says you kin do that--but
that's all. Now, 'll you promise?"
"Gosh, Red, it'll be hard work!"
"Can't help it--_you got to do it_. You don't wanter be like me. You
wanter be somethin' dead fine--'spectable."
"Ain't you somethin' dead fine? I heerd 'Frisco Shorty say onc't you was
the fliest bloke in yer line west o' Denver."
"You don't understan', kid"; and he stamped his foot. "I mean like yer
mother. Listenin'? Well, 'll you promise?"
The kid nodded his head, but there was a surprise in his eyes which he
could not conceal.
The train was at last ready, and we had to be quick.
"Well, Cig, so long; take care o' yerself. Be good to the kid."
Then he turned to the boy. It was the tenderest good-by I have ever
seen between a prushun and his jocker. A kiss, a gentle stroke on his
shoulder, and he helped him climb into the box-car.
The last we saw of Red, as we stood at the door while the engine puffed
slowly out of the yards, he was standing on a pile of ties waving his
hat. Six months afterward I was told in the Bowery that he was dead.
The journey to the Horn was full of incident. For six long days and
nights we railroaded and railroaded, sometimes on the trucks and the
blind baggage, and again lying flat on top, dodging the cinders as they
whizzed about our heads, and the brakeman as he came skipping over the
cars to tax us for the ride. It was hard work, and dangerous, too, at
times, but the kid never whimpered. Once he wanted to, I thought, when a
conductor kicked him off the caboose; but he faked a professional little
laugh in place of it. And he also looked rather frightened one night
when he nearly lost his grip climbing up the ladder of a cattle-car, but
he was afterward so ashamed that it was almost pitiful. He was the
"nerviest" child I ever traveled with. Even on the trucks, where old
natives sometimes feel squeamish, he disguised his fear. But he was at
his best at meal-time. Regularly he would plant himself before me in
waiter fashion, and say:
"Well, Cig'rette, what's it to be? Beefsteak 'n' 'taters 'n' a little
pie--'ll that do?"
Or if he thought I was not having enough variety he would suggest a more
delicate dish.
"How'll a piece o' chicken taste, eh?" And the least eagerness on my
part sent him off to find it.
It was not, however, an entirely one-sided affair, for I was in his
service also. I had to protect him from all the hoboes we met, and
sometimes it was not so easy as one might think. He was so handsome and
clever that it was a temptation to any tramp to snare him if he could,
and several wanted to buy him outright.
"I'll give you five balls fer 'im," one old fellow told me, and others
offered smaller sums. A Southern roadster tried to get him free of cost,
and the tales he told him, and the way he told them, would have done
honor to a professional story-teller. Luckily for me, the kid was
considerably smarter than the average boy on the road, and he had also
had much experience.
"They's got to tell better short stories than them 'fore they get me!"
he exclaimed proudly, after several men had tried their influence on
him. "I'm jus' as cute as they is, ain't I? I know what they wants--they
think I'm a purty good moocher, 'n' they'll make sinkers out o' me.
Ain't that it?"
None the less I almost lost him one night, but it was not his fault. We
were nearing Salt Lake City at the time, and a big, burly negro was
riding in our car. We were both sleepy, and although I realized that it
was dangerous to close my eyes with the stranger so near, I could not
help it, and before long the kid and I were dozing. The next thing I
knew the train was slowing up, and the kid was screaming wildly, and
struggling in the arms of the negro as he jumped to the ground. I
followed, and had hardly reached the track when I was greeted with these
words: "Shut up, or I'll t'row de kid under de wheels."
The man looked mean enough to do it; but I saw that the kid had grabbed
him savagely around the neck, and, feeling sure that he would not dare
to risk his own life, I closed with him. It was a fierce tussle, and the
trainmen, as they looked down from the cars and flashed their lanterns
over the scene, cheered and jeered.
"Sick 'em!" I heard them crying. "Go it, kid--go it!"
Our train had almost passed us, and the conductor was standing on the
caboose, taking a last look at the fight. Suddenly he bawled out:
"Look out, lads! The express 's comin'!"
We were standing on the track, and the negro jumped to the ditch. I
snatched the kid from the ground and ran for the caboose. As we tumbled
on to the steps the "con" laughed.
"Didn't I do that well?" he said.
I looked up the track, and, lo and behold! there was no express to be
seen. It was one of the kind deeds which railroad men are continually
doing for knights of the road.
As we approached the Horn the kid became rather serious. The first
symptom I noticed was early one morning while he was practising his
beloved "song 'n' dance." He had been shaking his feet for some time,
and at last broke out lustily into a song I had often heard sung by
jolly crowds at the hang-out:
Oh, we are three bums,
Three jolly old bums,
We live like royal Turks.
We have good luck
In bummin' our chuck.
To hell with the man that works!
After each effort, if perchance there had been one "big sound" at all
like Red's, he chuckled to himself: "Oh, I'm a-gettin' it, bet cher
life! Gosh! I wish Red was here!" And then he would try again. This went
on for about half an hour, and he at last struck a note that pleased him
immensely. He was just going to repeat it, and had his little mouth
perked accordingly, when something stopped him, and he stared at the
floor as if he had lost a dime. He stood there silently, and I wondered
what the matter could be. I was on the point of speaking to him, when he
walked over to the door and looked out at the telegraph-poles. Pretty
soon he returned to the corner where I was reading, and settled down
seriously at my side. In a few moments he was again at the door. He had
been standing in a musing way for some time, when I saw him reach into
his inside coat pocket and bring out the tattered bits of pasteboard
with which he did his three-card trick. Unfolding the packet, he threw
the paper on the track, and then fingered over each card separately.
Four times he pawed them over, going reluctantly from one to the other.
Then, and before I could fancy what he was up to, he tossed them lightly
into the air, and followed them with his eye as the wind sent them
flying against the cars. When he turned around, his hands were shaking
and his face was pale. I cruelly pretended not to notice, and asked him
carelessly what was the matter. He took another look at the world
outside, as if to see where the cards had gone, and then came over to
the corner again. Putting his hands in his trousers pockets, and taking
a long draw at his cigarette, he said, the smoke pouring out of his
nostrils, "I'm tryin' to reform."
He looked so solemn that I did not dare to laugh, but it was all I could
do to keep from it.
"D' you think I'll make it go?" he asked, after a pause, during which
his feet had tried to tempt him from his good resolution, and had almost
led him into the forbidden dance. Almost every hour from that time on he
asked that same question, and sometimes the childish pathos that he
threw into his voice and manner would have unmanned an old stager.
The last day of our journey we had a long talk. He was still trying to
reform, but he had come to certain conclusions, and one of them was that
he could not go to school any more; or, what was more to the point, that
he did not see the need of it.
"Course I don't know ev'rything," he explained, "but I knows a lot. Wy,
I kin beat Red figgerin' a'ready, an' I kin read things he can't, too.
Lots o' words he don't know 't I does; an' when he's drunk he can't read
at all, but I kin. You oughter seen us in Cheyenne, Cig"; and the
reminiscence made him chuckle. "We was both jagged, 'n' the copper
served a paper on us, _'n' I had to read it to Red_. Ain't that purty
good? Red said 't was, anyhow, 'n' he oughter know, oughtn't he? No, I
don't think I need much schoolin'. I don't wanter be President of the
country: 'f I did, p'r'aps I oughter know some more words; but seein' 's
I don't, I can't see the use o' diggin' in readers all the while. I wish
Red had given me a letter 'bout that, 'cause ma 'n' I'll get to fightin'
'bout it, dead sure. You see, she's stuck on puttin' me tru the 'cademy,
'n' I'm stuck on keepin' out of it, 'n' 'f we get to scrappin' agen I'm
afraid I won't reform. She'll kick 'bout my smoking too; but I've got
her there, ain't I? Red said I could smoke, didn't 'e--h'm? Tell you
what I guess I'll do, Cig. Jus' after I've kissed 'er I'll tell 'er
right on the spot jus' what I kin do. Won't that be a good scheme?
Then, you see, she can't jaw 'bout my not bein' square, can she? Yes,
sir; that's jus' what I'll do"; and he rubbed his tattooed hands as if
he had made a good bargain.
The next morning, just as the sun was rising over the prairie-line, our
train switched off the main road, and we were at last rolling along over
the Horn. The kid stood by the door and pointed out the landmarks that
he remembered. Ere long he espied the open belfry of the academy.
"See that cup'la, Cig!" he cried. "Dad helped to build that, but 'e
croaked doin' it. Some people says that 'e was jagged, 'cause 'e
tumbled. Ma says the sun struck 'im."
A few minutes later the train stopped at the watering-tank, and my
errand was done. There was no need to jocker the boy any longer. His
welfare depended upon his mother and his determination to reform. He
kissed me good-by, and then marched manfully up the silent street toward
the academy. I watched him till the train pulled out. Thus ended one of
the hardest trips of my life in Hoboland.
* * * * *
One warm summer evening, about three years after leaving the Horn, I was
sitting in a music-hall in the Bowery. I had long since given up my
membership in the hobo fraternity, but I liked to stroll about now and
then and visit the old resorts; and it was while on such an excursion
that I drifted into the variety show. I watched the people as they came
and went, hoping to recognize some old acquaintance. I had often had
odd experiences and renewal of friendships under similar circumstances,
and as I sat there I wondered who it would be that I should meet that
night. The thought had hardly recorded itself when some one grabbed my
shoulder in policeman style, and said, "Shake!" I looked around, and
found one of the burliest rowdies in the room. He turned out to be a pal
that I had known on the New York Central, and, as usual, I had to go
over my remembrances. He also had yarns to spin, and he brought them so
up to date that I learned he was just free of a Virginia jail. Then
began a tirade against Southern prisons. As he was finishing it he
happened to remember that he had met a friend of mine in the Virginian
limbo. "Said 'e knew you well, Cig, but I couldn't place 'im. Little
feller; somethin' of a kid, I guess; up fer thirty days. One o' the
blokes called 'im the Horn kid, 'n' said 'e use' ter be a fly prushun
out in the coast country. Old Denver Red trained 'im, he said. Who is
he? D' you know 'im? He was a nice little feller. W'y, what's wrong,
Cig? You look spiked [upset]."
I probably did. It was such a disappointment as I had hardly imagined.
Poor kid! He probably did so well that his mother tried to put him into
the academy, and then he "sloped" once more. I told the tramp the tale I
have just finished. He was too obtuse to see the pathetic side of it,
but one of his comments is worth repeating:
"You can't do nothin' with them kids, Cig. After they's turfed it a bit
they're gone. Better let 'em alone."
But I cannot believe that that kind-hearted little fellow is really
gone. Whoever meets him now, policeman or philanthropist, pray send him
back to the Horn again.
FOOTNOTES:
[10] Doctor.
[11] Sacramento.
[12] Nickname.
[13] Kansas City.
III
ONE NIGHT ON THE "Q"
If there is any one thing that the hobo prizes more than another it is
his privilege to ride on the railroads free of charge. He is as proud of
it as the American is of his country, and brags about it from morning to
night. Even the blanket-stiff in the far West, who almost never sees the
inside of a railroad-car, will wax patriotic when on this subject. And
well he may, for no other country in the world provides such means of
travel for its vagabonds. From Maine to "'Frisco" the railroads are at
the tramp's disposal, if he knows how to use them, and seldom does he
take to the turnpike from any necessity.
[Illustration: A RIDE ON A TRUCK.]
There are, however, some difficulties and trials even in his railroad
life. When he rides a "passenger," for instance, either on top or
between the wheels, he encounters numerous dangers and hardships, and it
is months before he knows how to meet them heroically. Even on freight
trains his task is not so easy as some people think. A man must train
for such work, just as a pugilist trains for a fight, and it is only
when he is a real artist that he can enjoy it. The main difficulty in
riding freight-trains is with the brakeman. No matter where the hobo
goes, he runs the risk of meeting this ubiquitous official. If he is on
the "bumpers," the brakeman is usually "guying" him from the top of a
car; and if he goes "inside," so too does the brakeman. Even at night
the "brakey" and his free passenger are continually running up against
each other. Sometimes they become fast friends. The tramp will help put
on the brakes, and the brakeman will help conceal the tramp. But there
are other times when things are different. The brakeman tries to "ditch"
the tramp, and the latter tries to "beat" the brakeman. On such
occasions something happens. Usually the brakeman "gets left." The hobo
is too clever, and beats him at his own game. But now and then even the
hobo falls into a trap. Of course he gets out sooner or later, but while
in it he is an interesting study. When free again, he usually tells his
cronies all about it, and they pity or applaud him, as the case may be.
But once in a long while the trap he falls into turns out such a joke
that he says nothing about it, out of respect for the profession. He
hates to be laughed at just as much as other people, and no matter how
good the joke is, he keeps it to himself if it will tell against him.
I happen to know of just such a joke. It has been kept quiet now for a
number of years, but I think that it can do no harm to tell it, since I
was one of the sufferers.
One night I chanced to be in Galesburg, Illinois, situated on the
Chicago, Burlington, and Quincy Railroad. I was with a hobo called
"Elmira Fatty," and we were on our way to "Chi," or Chicago, as polite
people call it. We had just come in from the West, where we had spent
some time with the blanket-stiffs, and as far as Galesburg we had had no
misfortune or bad luck to report. In fact, from Salt Lake City on
everything had gone just as we had planned, and we were hoping that
night that nothing might interfere to prevent us from arriving in "Chi"
the next morning. We expected to travel on a freight-train that was due
in Galesburg about nine o'clock. It was a mean night for traveling, for
the rain came down in torrents and the wind blew most exasperatingly.
Nevertheless, we wanted to push on if practicable, and about half-past
eight went over to the railroad yards to wait for the freight. It came
in on time, and Fatty and I immediately took different sections of it in
search of an "empty." He looked over the forward part, and I inspected
the cars near the caboose. We met again in a few minutes, and reported
that "there wasn't an empty in the whole line."
"Wy," said Fatty, "it's nothin' but a ---- ole steer-train! Ev'ry
blasted car is full of 'em."
I suggested that we wait for another, but he would not listen to me.
"No, sir. If we break our necks, we'll ride that train."
"But where are you going to ride?" I queried.
"On top, o' course."
I knew that it was useless to argue with him, and followed him up the
ladder. We sat down on the top of a car, with the rain simply pouring
down upon us. Pretty soon the whistle tooted and the train started. As
we pulled out of the yards the brakeman came over the train, and espied
me instantly.
"Hello, Shorty!" he said, in a jovial way. "Where you goin'?"
"Oh, just up the road a bit. No objections, have you?"
"No, I guess I ain't got no objections. But say, you lads are big
fools."
"Here, here!" said Fatty, angrily. "Who you callin' fools?"
"I'm callin' you fools, 'n' y' are, too."
"See here," continued Fatty; "if you call me a fool agen I'll put yer
face in--I will, by gosh!" and he stood up to make good his threat.
"Don't get 'uffy; don't get 'uffy," said the brakey, soothingly. "Lemme
tell you somethin'. See them hay-boxes over there on the corner o' the
car?"
"Hay-boxes!" exclaimed Fatty, and he looked at me in surprise.
"Come over 'n' look at 'em."
We followed him to the end of the car, and there, true enough, after he
had lifted the lid, was a most comfortable hay-box, nearly full of nice
soft hay.
Fatty was almost wild with delight, and patting me on the back, said:
"W'y, Cig, this is a perfect palace-car, ain't it! Gosh!"
The brakeman held his lantern while I got into the box. The opening was
not very large, hardly more than a foot wide--plenty large enough for
me, it is true, but I was much smaller than Fatty. When he tried to get
in there was some trouble. His head and shoulders went through all
right, but then he stopped, for his paunch was the broadest part of him,
and he complained that "it pinched ter'bly." Exactly what to do was a
poser, but finally he nerved himself for another squeeze. He twisted,
slipped, and grunted, and at last had to beg me to hold his head and
steer him, so helpless had his exertions made him. I guided him as best
I could, and pretty soon he came "ka-plunk," as he called it, on the
hay. The brakey closed the lid and left.
Fatty had hardly settled himself before he began to wonder how he would
get out in the morning.
"By gosh!" he said, "p'r'aps I'll jus' have to stay here, 'n' they'll
carry me right over to the stock-yards. Wouldn't I be a great steer,
eh?"
But I was too tired to speculate, and in a few minutes was asleep. What
Fatty did for the next fifty miles I can't say, but in about two hours
he cruelly awakened me and asked for a match.
"Why, you're not going to smoke here?" I said.
"Cert," he crisply replied. "Why not?"
"You'll set the place afire, with all this loose hay about."
"Set yer gran'mother afire! Gimme a lucifer."
I told him I had none, and then he wanted me to get out and ask the
brakey for one. I did not want to do it, but I felt sure that he would
trouble me all night unless I did, so I consented to go. But, lo and
behold! when I tried to lift the lid it would not lift.
"Fatty," I said, "we're ditched."
"Ditched yer gran'mother! What's the matter?"
"This lid won't move."
"Lemme get at it."
Fatty weighed two hundred and fifty pounds,--"punds," he called
them,--and he put every one against that lid. It squeaked a little, but
still would not lift.
"Fatty," I repeated, "we're ditched."
But he was determined not to give in, and lay on his back to kick the
lid. He reasoned that that ought to mean fifty pounds more, and if three
hundred "punds' couldn't budge the thing, then something was going to
happen. He kicked and kicked. The lid squeaked a good deal, but was as
stubborn as ever. Then you should have heard Fatty scold. He scolded
everybody, from the president of the road down to the humblest
switchman, and then, as if he had not done enough, said:
"By gosh, Cig, we'll prosecute 'em! This is simply scandalous! Tramps
can't ride this way, and they ought to know it. Yes, sir, we'll
prosecute 'em."
Then he began to swear, and never in my life have I heard such
maledictions hurled at poor erring railroad officials. Soon even cursing
tired him, and he tumbled back on the hay exhausted. After he had rested
a bit, a new phase of the situation presented itself to him, and he felt
around in the box to see how much hay there was between us and the
steers.
"There ain't much, Cig," he whined; "---- little; an here we are locked
in! By the hoky-poky, I'd like to git hold o' that brakey's throat! I'd
squeeze it, take my tip for that. An', by gosh, if them steers kill us,
he'll croak for it, an' don' cher forget it!"
"Steers!" I exclaimed. "What do you mean, Fatty!"
"Wy, don' cher know them steers is right under us?"
"Well, what of that?"
"W'y, they've got horns--big ones, too."
"Well, what of that, Fatty?"
"Wy, you fool, we ain't got any."
"But, Fatty, what does that matter?"
"Matter! Matter! Ain' cher got no sense? Don' cher know nothin'? Ain'
cher never heard o' steers hookin' a bloke before? You must be a
tenderfoot."
Then I grasped the situation. We were at the mercy of those Texas
steers! Soon I heard Fatty saying, in a most pitiful voice:
"Cig, I guess we'd better say our little prayers right now, 'cause if we
get to sleep we'll forget all about it. So you begin, 'n' while yer
chewin' the rag I'll watch the hay."
He wanted me to pray, and actually thought that that was the only thing
that would save us. He always was a religious fellow in great
emergencies, and his scheme did not much surprise me; but as I knew of
no prayer fitted for such an occasion, I told him so, and added that
even if I did know one I should prefer to leave it unsaid, considering
the circumstances.
"We had no business letting the brakey lock us in here, and you know it,
too. So we'll have to get out the best way we can."
This bravery was a little faked, but I thought it best to keep as cool
as possible, for Fatty was continually fuming and scolding. And every
few minutes he would feel around in the hay, and then say, most
forlornly:
"Cig, them pokers is gettin' nearer. Prepare to die."
Once I thought he was joking, and told him to stop if he thought he was
scaring me.
"I ain't tryin' to scare you," he whined; "I'm simply tellin' you the
truth."
This was certainly alarming, and I almost confessed my fear. But I
managed to control myself, and persevered in my artificial boldness.
"Well, Fatty, let's die game, anyhow. If the horns come up here we can
kick at them, and perhaps the steers will be frightened. Can't tell, you
know."
"No, that won't work," he replied hopelessly, and he measured the hay
once more. This time his hand struck the thin and widely separated
slats, the only barriers between us and the steers. We both knew that if
the horns ever came through them, we would be done for.
"We're gone, Cig," Fatty continued; "no doubt of it. But, jus' the
samey, I'm goin' to pound my ear, anyhow. I'd rather die asleep than
awake. So, so long, Cig; if you croak first, I'll pray for you."
Then, much to my surprise and indignation, he curled into a big ball and
"pounded his ear." I remained awake for a while longer, listening to the
steers chewing away at the hay. But, in spite of the nearing danger, I
became sleepy, too, and was soon lying beside Fatty. In the morning,
about half-past five, we awoke simultaneously. I felt around in the box,
and the hay seemed almost gone.
"I wish that I'd died in the night," said Fatty, angrily. "Now I've got
to go when I'm awake."
The train began to slow up--perhaps we were to be saved, after all. It
came to a full stop, and we could hear footsteps. Some one was walking
along the path near the track.
"Shall I holler?" asked Fatty.
"Perhaps it's a policeman," I returned, "and that means thirty days in
the Bridewell. Wouldn't you rather die?"
"But p'r'aps 't ain't!" And he called through one of the cracks, "Hobo!
Hobo!"
Luckily it was a hobo.
"Come up here," cried Fatty, "'n' unjail us, for heavin's sake. We're
locked in the hay-boxes; climb on top 'n' loose the cover."
We heard him quickly obeying the call. He climbed up the ladder,
loosened the latch, and seemed to wonder at our eagerness to leave such
a nest of comfort. Fatty was helped out immediately, although we were
still six miles from "Chi"; but I made him wait while I looked to see
just what danger we had escaped. There is so much compensating
consolation in a view of perils safely passed. There was still a fair
amount of hay in the box. I rooted down to the slats for a last look at
our tormentors, and there, right before me, stood those awful beasts,
wild and fresh from the fields of the Lone Star State. There were nearly
twenty of them, I should say, but not a single one had a horn!
Fatty sneaked off to the watering-tank, and I waved adieu to him from
the top of the car. His face wore the grimmest of grins, and his last
words were, "If you ever tell this joke at the hang-out, Cig--" And I
never have.
IV
A PULQUE DREAM
The freight had just pulled out of Querétaro, and Barcas and I were
lying on the floor of the car near one of the side doors, commenting on
the landscape. We were on our way to the city of Mexico, and it was my
first visit. Barcas had been there before, three times, he said, and as
the train drew nearer the town he fell to telling me of what I should
see and how I should act. I was still quite a tenderfoot in Hoboland,
and needed Barcas's instruction.
He had just finished a very comprehensive explanation of the Spanish
language and its uncalled-for differences, as he thought, from his
mother-tongue, and was beginning to describe certain hang-outs that he
was sure I would like, when the train stopped again for a moment at a
little station. Some half-breed Indians were standing on the platform,
sharing the contents of a green bottle. It was being passed around for
another "draw" when Barcas happened to notice it.
"See that, Cig?" he said, tapping me quickly on the shoulder. "That's
pulky [pulque]. I mus' tell you 'bout that, too."
The train started just then, and he waited until it was well under way.
It was rolling along at a lively pace, and the brakes were rattling as
they only can over a Mexican railroad. Barcas had to use the very top of
his voice, but he chattered on, just the same.
"Yes, Cig, that's the most important thing this side the line. Course
the langwich's important, too, 'n' y'u got to learn it, but y'u mus'
understan' pulky first. If I'd understood it when I was down here in
'78, I'd never got into trouble, at all. Shorty 'n' Slim was with me,
'n' a lot o' other blokes that I don't rek'lect. But we was sixteen
altogether. I'd never been here before, couldn't even say _adios_, so I
thought I'd jus' look roun' a bit. An' for nigh on to a month we had a
rip-snortin' time--drunk ev'ry day, 'n' so much to chew that I actually
had to let my belt out a couple o' notches. An' we learned the langwich,
too; by gosh! I could say ev'rythin' I wanted to. Course I didn't wanter
say very much, I was so jagged, but I said enough, anyhow--see?
"Well, this went on for pretty nigh a month, as I said, 'n' we was
sloppin' up ev'ry day--but not on whisky. We went on the principle, do
in Rome as the Dagoes does; so we drunk what them Indians was drinkin',
pulky--mighty fine drink, too. Ain't had such dreams in a tenner as I
had then. It jus' makes you feel 'appy all over, 'n' I use' to dream the
whole twenty-four hours. Once I thought I was the pres'dent o' the New
York Central--hope to die 'f I didn't. An' my pal he woke me up one
night 'bout twelve o'clock 'n' told me that he was the Emp'rer o' the
North Pole. An' the rest of 'em was jus' about as bad. We all thought we
was kings 'n' queens 'n' royal flushes. Even tried to play poker with
oursel's, 'n' I was the jack-pot for a while.
"Well, one afternoon we was specially stuck on ourse's, 'n' went
paradin' roun' the hang-out as if we was the high-monkey-monks of
ev'rythin'. An' pretty soon a bloke called Curly soogested that we go
over 'n' steal some more pulky at a Mexy's shanty clos't by. We was jus'
drunk 'nough to do it, 'n' piled over there 'n' drunk ev'ry drop we
could find. An' when we was through there wasn't en'thin' too good for
us. We all thought we was royal families, an' a bloke called Red thought
he was the chief of all. He was a big fella, 'n' that prob'ly swelled
his head--see? Well, Red swaggered about for a while, 'n' then all of a
sudden he swung his arms up Indian fashion, 'n says, 'Blokes, let's take
the town.' He meant the city o' Mexico, the place we're goin' to see.
Well, somehow or other it jus' struck us as a grand idee, 'n' we whooped
'n' hollered 'n' swore we'd foller 'im. Pretty soon we started. I was so
jagged I could hardly keep on me pins, but that didn't matter; I was
goin' to help take the city or break my neck.
"It took us nearly four hours to reach the town, though it was only a
mile away. We'd go a few steps, y'u know, 'n' then sprawl all over
oursel's. I have to laugh now when I think of it. An' once we locked
arms, thinkin' we could go it more steady-like. 'Fore we'd taken ten
steps we tumbled ka-plunk, jus' like dominoes when y'u set 'em up in a
row 'n' then knock the firs' one down. Well, that's the way we went, 'n'
y'u should 'a' seen us when we struck the town. We looked 's if we'd
drilled two thousand miles, 'n' was blowin' 'n' a-puffin' like an injin
in a snow-bank. So o' course we had to rest a bit, 'n' while we was
a-doin' it Red gave us instructions.
"'Now, blokes,' says he, 'you want to do yer best. 'Member yer all
'Mericans, 'n' that yer fightin' Mexies. If we lick 'em it'll go up in
history, dead sure. An' I'll bet a sinker it'll beat that Bally Klavvy
bizness if we do it well. So put in yer best licks, 'n' keep yer eyes on
me.' Then he told us who was of'sers 'n' who wasn't. I was nothin' but
a sojer, a private, but he made my pal, the Emp'rer o' the North Pole,
he made him firs' leftenant, so I didn't mind much s' long 's he was
somethin'.
"Well, 'bout half-pas' seven in the evenin' we was ready 'n' still
pretty jagged, too. But Red said we oughter begin, so we started single
file for the insides o' the town. The only weapons we had was a few ole
razors 'n' our fists, but we was so bughouse we cal'lated they oughter
do the biz. Red said the Mexies was cowards, anyhow, 'n' that we could
do 'em easy enough; but he told a big whoppin' lie, 'n' we foun' it out,
too, 'fore we'd been scrappin' twenty minnits. The firs' street we
struck where there was many people we begun fightin', 'n' for a few
minnits we did well. We knocked down ev'rybody we saw, 'n' was so stuck
on oursel's that Red said, 'Now, let's go to the prison 'n' free the
priz'ners.' That fired us,--a big scheme,--'n' we piped off for the
jail. But we hadn't gone more 'n two blocks when we was all sewed up.
Seemed 's if ev'ry jay in the town was against us, 'n' I couldn't see
en'thin' but heads 'n' heads. Looked 's if the whole world was
there--see? Red wouldn't give in, though, 'n' knocked a policeman into a
cocked hat. That started the rest of us. We slashed right 'n' left with
our razors, 'n' I put my fist into more Mexies' faces than y'u can
figger up. It reminded me o' the time I got into that scrap with the
bulls [policemen] in Chi [Chicago]. An' all the while Red was gettin'
fiercer.
"'Come on, blokes,' I heard him hollerin'; 'we'll make history 'fore
we're done. Come on; knock 'em down, 'n' keep yer eyes on me.' Then he
waded into that crowd for all he was worth, 'n' he did it well, too.
But they was too many for us; as soon as one would tumble down another
would step into his shoes, 'n' o' course that beat us.
"Well, in a few minnits there was only five of us left, 'n' Red saw 't
wa'n't' no use to keep on, so he bellered out, 'Make a break, anyhow,
'n' perhaps we'll give 'em the slip.' You should 'a' seen 'im then! He
started right plump for the crowd, wavin' his knife 'n' swearin' like
the devil. How he ever got through I can't tell, but he did, 'n' they
ain't caught 'im yet. The rest of us was so played out that we had to
s'render uncondish'nully on the spot. We thought, o' course, that they'd
treat us like priz'ners o' war, else we'd kept on scrappin' till we
croaked. But them hoosiers couldn't see the thing in that way, 'n'
actually wanted to lynch us. But some cool-headed bloke got 'em out o'
doin' it, 'n' made 'em take us to the jail, where we stayed jus' one
year. You see, the judge gave us ten months apiece, 'n' we had to wait
two months for trial.
"That's the way we captured the city o' Mexico, 'n' lemme tell y'u, Cig,
if you 'n' pulky fall in love down here, don't you try any funny work,
'cause it's jus' like a woman, pulky is. It tempts you 'n' then leaves
you in the soup."
He had no time for further comment, for the engineer was already blowing
his whistle, and the lights in the yards could be seen. But Barcas did
not postpone action long. At the first joint we visited he illustrated
the effects of pulque in a manner even more vivid than his story. The
next morning I had to make a heavy draft on my small exchequer to free
him from limbo.
V
A HOBO PRECEDENT
The trouble began in this way: Ohio Slim had made up his mind to reform
and go home. He was lying in jail in western Pennsylvania at the time,
in company with Chicago Bud and several other cronies. Bud was his chum,
and Slim told him of his decision. This was his first mistake. When a
tramp wants to reform he should say nothing about it to anybody, but
scamper from the road as fast as his legs will carry him. Slim knew this
perfectly well, but he was so tickled to find that he had nerve enough
to make the resolution that he was obliged to tell his pal. Bud did not
exactly see the point of it all, but he patted him on the back just the
same and wished him good luck. Then Slim made friends with the Galway
(the Catholic priest) who visited the jail on Sundays, and asked him to
write a letter to his parents, explaining his yearning for home and
stating that he needed five dollars to get there respectably. The good
man did all this, and in due time the money came. Slim cautiously asked
the Galway to keep it for him until he was free.
The day of release arrived at last, and the men marched out of their
cells pale but hopeful. Slim, of course, looked up the Galway
immediately. He got his money, and then returned to the park where the
men were waiting to bid him good-by. Just before separating from them,
he called Bud aside and had a few last words with him.
"I'd like to give you more, Bud," he said, as he handed him a fifty-cent
piece, "but I've only got enough for my ticket and a dinner on the
way--understand, don't cher?"
Bud did not want to take the money, but Slim pressed it upon him, and
then they parted, Slim starting for the railway-station, and Bud, with a
few pals, for a saloon. They never expected to meet again.
But the best-laid plans of mice and men go wrong just as easily in
Hoboland as anywhere else. Poor Slim simply could not get to the
station. He stopped at every saloon on the way, and by the time the
train was ready to leave, his money was half gone and he was don't-care
drunk. I got a glimpse of him in the afternoon as he stood, or rather
staggered, in front of a billiard-hall. He was singing some verses of
the song "Gwine Home." His voice was all in his nose, and he wheezed out
the words like a tired-out barrel-organ. But he was clever enough not to
be too uproarious, and later in the afternoon laid himself away in a
brick-yard. The next morning he was sober.
Meanwhile Bud and a pal, called "Rochester Curly," had also got drunk.
They invested the fifty cents in whisky well called "rot-gut," and it
unhinged their brains. At night they were so bad that when a little
policeman tried to arrest them they both took it as an insult, and drew
their razors. The officer called for assistance, and after a severe
tussle, in which Bud had his head badly bruised, they were landed at the
police station. The next morning the magistrate gave them ninety days
apiece.
How Bud ever learned of Slim's conduct remains a mystery to this day.
The Galway did not tell him, I did not, the other men had left town, and
neither he nor Curly saw Slim in the streets, but he got wind of it
just the same. Possibly a city tramp told him. "If I ever meet that
fella again," he said to some friends who visited him in the jail the
following day, "I'll break his head into sixty-seven pieces. Wy, I
wouldn't have treated a dog that way. I don't care if he did want to
reform; he had no right to change his mind without divvyin' that boodle.
Fifty cents! H'm! He wanted all the good booze himself, that's what was
botherin' him. But he'll suffer fer it, take my tip fer that. He knew
well enough that Curly an' me would drink rot-gut if we couldn't get
anythin' else, 'n' he was jus' mean enough to let us do it. Oh, I'll
teach him such a lesson when I find him that that thing won't happen
again in this country. If he'd been square, Curly 'n' me wouldn't be
where we is now."
Everybody knew that Bud was a man of his word, but fancied, none the
less, that his wrath was more the result of his bruises than of any
deep-seated hatred of his old comrade. Slim had in the meantime looked
up the Galway again and confessed his behavior. He was so sincerely
penitent that the good man bought him a ticket out of his own pocket,
and sent him home. He stayed there for just three months. Some days he
did very well, hardly swore, and then, without the slightest notice, he
would break through all restraints and go on a terrible tear. He had
been too long on the road; he could not conquer the wild habits that he
had formed; they had become an everlasting part of him; and, one day,
when his people thought he was doing better than ever, he stole away and
wandered back to his old haunts. They never saw him again.
This, I believe, is a straightforward account of the quarrel, and both
Bud's friends and Slim's tell the same story. It is what happened after
this that divides them into parties. I did not see the fight myself, but
I have heard it described so often that I believe I can do it justice.
It took place one cold autumn night, nearly two years after the quarrel,
in a barn not far from Newark, New Jersey. Some twenty hoboes had
gathered there for the night, and Bud was among them. His friends say
that he was in a most peaceable mood and with no thought of Slim in his
mind, but they do admit that he had been looking for him ever since the
separation. It was almost time to blow out the candle, and several of
the men had already selected their nooks in the hay. Suddenly the door
squeaked on its rusty hinges, and three newcomers walked in. The tallest
one was Slim. He recognized Bud immediately, walked up to him as to an
old pal, and said, "Well, Bud, old socks, how are you? S'pose you didn't
expect to see me again? I couldn't make it go, Bud; liquor wouldn't
leave me alone. But shake, anyhow," and he held out his hand.
It was certainly a friendly greeting, but Bud returned it with a blow in
the face which knocked Slim off his feet. He was so stunned that all he
could do was to lie there and exclaim against the surprise Bud had been
keeping for him. "W'y, Bud, have you gone bughouse? Don't cher know that
I'm Slim? What cher knockin' me about that way for?"
"Get up out o' that, you long-legged devil, you!" cried Bud, in a sudden
rage. "Mean to tell me that you's forgotten how you did me 'n' Curly
with yer rotten fifty cents? Well, you'll 'member it 'fore you get out
o' here. Stand up till I put cher face in fer you!"
Slim was not a coward, and got up and squared for the row. Then Bud
decided that he preferred to fight with razors, and drew one from under
his shirt-bosom. This was serious, and the crowd gathered around and
asked for explanations. Both men gave their separate accounts of the
trouble. All agreed that Slim had been greedy, even he himself, and he
offered to beg Bud's pardon; but the majority claimed that the offense
could not be settled that way, and the fight must consequently go on.
Nevertheless, several tried to stop it, and argued earnestly with both
men. Slim was willing enough not to quarrel further, but Bud would hear
of nothing but satisfaction.
"I said I'd do that fella," he cried to those trying to pacify him, "and
I will. Jus' let me alone; if you don't, you'll get the worst of it."
It was no use to argue with him while in such a mood, and he threw off
his coat. Slim did likewise, and a friend lent him a razor. A Canadian
was chosen for referee.
"Is this thing for a finish?" he asked, as he examined their razors.
"'T is 'f I can make it so," said Bud, doggedly.
"And you, Slim?" queried the Canadian, further.
"Well," Slim replied, in his slow and measured way, "I guess I'll do my
share; but before the show begins I jus' want to ask you a question,
Bud. Ain't got any objections, have you?"
"No; but be spry about it," snarled Bud.
"Well, now, Bud, d' you 'member the time when I took thirty days fer you
down in Alabama so that you could go off 'n' cure yer diseases? 'Member
how we worked it, don't cher--how I walked in to see you to let you walk
out in my togs? Guess y' ain't forgotten that, have you?"
"What's that got to do with this circus?" Bud sneeringly returned.
Slim looked at him steadily, and his friends say that Bud winced; but
that was all it amounted to, for in a minute the referee was calling
them to action.
"Get ready," he commanded, handing them their razors.
They pushed the blades back against the handles and held them tightly
with their fingers, leaving the edges bare.
"Y' all right?" asked the Canadian.
"I am," Bud answered.
"Here, too," drawled Slim.
"Then drive away," the referee shouted, stepping back at the same time
out of harm's reach; and the crowd followed his example.
Both men were trained "cutters," and it is said that there has not been
another such exhibition of skill of this sort in Hoboland in the last
ten years. There were three rounds. The first was merely preliminary.
Each studied the tactics of the other and noted his weak points. It is
reported that Slim was not in the best of form, and that even the
referee, on seeing him parry, advised him to demand a fight with fists;
but it was too late. He had warmed to the work, and, handicapped or not,
he intended to see it through. Slash, slash, slash, went the razors, but
all that one heard was the tiptoeing backward and forward of the
fighters, as they charged or defended. A half-minute rest, and the third
round began. Both Bud and Slim were badly cut, and their faces showed
it, but Slim's pals claim that Bud was getting the worst of it. They say
that he was misjudging his reach more and more, and that a wound over
his right eye damaged his sight. This may be true; at any rate, one of
Bud's cronies, who was holding the candle, suddenly dropped it. Whether
Bud sprang quickly for Slim's neck or was lively enough to make a pass
at him while he was unguarded, I cannot say, but when the candle was
lighted again Slim lay on the floor, mortally wounded. He died that same
night in a Newark hospital.
Bud carries to-day a useless right arm and a blind eye. He is the
proprietor of an outcasts' saloon in St. Louis, and sometimes when in
his cups he brags of the deed done in the barn. But no one has ever
heard him tell that incident of the story which, if not accident as
well, made a dark deed forever darker.
PART IV
THE TRAMPS JARGON
PART IV--THE TRAMP'S JARGON
Almost the first thing that one remarks on getting acquainted with
tramps is their peculiar language. In every country where they live they
have dialects of their own choosing and making, and the stranger who
goes among them must learn to speak these before he can associate with
them on terms of intimacy. Indeed, the "tenderfoot" in tramp life, the
beginner, is recognized by his ignorance of the "lingo." The way he
carries himself, shakes hands, and begs are also signs by which the
"professional" determines the newcomer's standing in the brotherhood;
but they are not so unmistakable as his use of the tramp dialect, and it
is seldom necessary to talk with him for more than a few minutes to
discover how long he has been on the road.
On starting out on my first trip among the hoboes, I thought that I had
provided myself with a sufficient number of words and phrases to
converse with them more or less as one of their own kind; but I soon
discovered how little I knew of their language. My stock of slang
consisted of expressions taken from dictionaries and acquired in
association with gamins of the street, and I was naïve enough to think
that it would suffice for companionship with the regular tramps. It is
true that the hoboes make use of a great deal of slang that is popular
in the streets and not unknown to "respectable" people, but for social
intercourse they rely mainly on their own jargon. In Germany, where the
police collect tramp and criminal slang into dictionaries, in order that
they may be able to understand the conversations of the
_Chausséegrabentapezirer_ and _Gauner_, it is less difficult for one to
pick up the local tramp lingo; but in the United States there is no
dictionary sufficiently up to date to give the beginner much assistance.
Martin Luther was one of the first in Germany to take an interest in
collecting the vagabond's "cant" phrases. He published in Latin a small
volume, called "The Book of Vagabonds," which includes all the tramp
slang he could pick up; and ever since the publication of this
interesting little work, which is now very rare, German philologists
and policemen have printed, from time to time, supplementary
dictionaries and glossaries.
In all Continental countries the Hebrew and Gipsy languages have been
levied upon by the tramps for contributions to their dialects, and even
in England the tramp jargon contains a number of words which have been
imported from Germany, Bohemia, Russia, and France. In this country, on
the other hand, the tramps have relied largely on their own ingenuity
for cant phrases, and they often claim that expressions thus invented
are much more forcible and succinct than any that they might have
borrowed from foreign languages. They think that a good word is as much
the result of inspiration as is a successful begging trick; and they
believe, furthermore, that America is entitled to a cant language of its
own.
It is easy to see how this dialect originated. It came into existence
primarily as a means of talking in public without being understood by
others than those intimately connected with the life. It is also true
that some of the words have sprung from those necessities of expression
which ignorance and lack of education could not supply. In the United
States, as a general rule, thanks to reformatories and prison libraries
the majority of tramps are fairly well read, and can speak English with
considerable correctness; but it often happens that they have thoughts
and feelings which their faulty vocabularies cannot make clear, and they
are obliged to invent their own words and phrases.
Take the word "bughouse," for example. As it is now used it means
actually crazy, and when first used it signified a state of mind
bordering on insanity; but it was not invented for purposes of secrecy.
Old Boston Mary was the originator of it. Sitting in her little shanty
one day, and talking with some tramps seated about her, she exclaimed
suddenly: "Blokes, I'm bughouse." Asked what she meant, she said: "I'm
losin' me brain." It hit off exactly her poor, failing condition, and
the word went like a flash all over America. To-day it is the most
popular word in the lingo for the ordinary word "insane." "Crippled
under the hat" is also heard, but "bughouse" supplants this expression
on all occasions when men talk to their fellows, and not to the public.
It is most interesting to ferret out the origin of these words. Many of
them are so old that no one remembers exactly how they came into
popularity, and even about words more or less modern there are different
explanations; but I have succeeded in a number of cases in getting
fairly trustworthy stories.
In Chicago I met, one day, the man who, according to report, was the
first to use the tramp word for a Catholic priest, "Galway." He was
nearly eighty years old when I saw him, but remembered very distinctly
how he came by it.
"I was batterin'," he said, "one moon [night] on the Dope [Baltimore and
Ohio Railroad], an' a stiff 'e says: 'Blokey, squeal at that house over
there--it's a priest; he'll scoff ye.' I goes over 'n' toots the ringer
[bell]. The baldy [old man] 'e comes himself, 'n' asted what I wanted.
'I'm starvin', father,' I yapped, 'n' begun to flicker. 'Go 'way, you
lazy man,' 'e said; 'I've fed ten like you since noon.' I was horstile.
I dunno how the word come to me, but I yapped it in his phiz: 'Y' ole
Galway, you, yer an ole hypocrite'; 'n' then I mooched. Lots o' words
comes to me that way when I'm horstile."
"Punk" is another interesting word. Some say that it comes from the
French word _pain_, and immigrated to the United States from Canada,
where the hoboes had heard their Canadian _confrères_ use it; and this
may be the case. Certainly it is as near the French pronunciation as the
average vagabond can come. But a more natural explanation is that punk
being dry, and bread, particularly that given to tramps, being also
often dry, the resemblance of the two impressed itself on some sensitive
tramp's mind. The disgust with which beggars frequently speak the word
helps to substantiate this theory.
"Flicker," meaning to faint, comes from the flickering of a light,
"battering" (begging) from knocking at back doors, and "bull"
(policeman) from the plunging, bullying attitude of these officers when
dealing with rowdies.
A number of words used by tramps are also in vogue among criminals, who
are even more in need of a secret language than are vagabonds. It must
be remembered, however, that in America at least, and to some extent in
other countries as well, a great many tramps are merely discouraged
criminals, and it is not unnatural that they should cling to
expressions which they found valuable when they were more intimately
connected with criminal life. Even as tramps they are continually making
the acquaintance of criminals, and it is one of their main delights to
be seen in the company of notorious thieves and burglars; they enjoy
such companionship as much as certain "middle-class" people enjoy the
society of "aristocrats."
The word "elbow," meaning detective, is one of the slang terms common
among both hoboes and criminals. It comes from the detective's habit of
elbowing his way through a crowd, and it is the gloomiest word, as I
heard a hobo once say, that the outcast ever hears by way of warning. Be
he beggar or thief, a shiver invariably runs down his spinal column if a
pal whispers or shouts "Elbow" to him while he is "at work" in a public
thoroughfare. The word "finger," which is synonymous with "bull," has
very nearly, but not quite, the same effect, because the finger is in
uniform, whereas the elbow prowls about in citizen's clothes. "Finger"
comes from the policeman's supposed love of grabbing offenders. "They
like to finger us," a hobo said to me, one night, in a Western town
where we were both doing our best to dodge the local police force. "Some
people calls 'em the eye o' the law, but that ain't what they is;
they're the finger o' the law."
"Revolver," or "repeater," is both a tramp and a criminal term for the
professional offender, the man who is continually being brought up for
trial. "Lighthouse" is one of the most picturesque words in the lingo.
It means a man who knows every detective of a town by sight, and can
"tip them off" to visiting hoboes and criminals. As mariners at sea look
for the beacon light which is to guide them safely into harbor, so
tramps and criminals look for their "lighthouse." He is one of the most
valuable acquaintances in the outcast world, and more advice is taken
from him than from any other inhabitant. Such expressions as a "yellow
one" for a gold watch, a "white one" for a silver watch, a "leather" for
a pocket-book, and a "spark" for a diamond, explain themselves, and I
have heard them used by others than those in criminal life; but they are
distinctly lingo terms.
"Flagged" is a word which is not so clear, although it has been taken
from the railroader's parlance. It is used a great deal by pickpockets,
and means that they have allowed a certain person whom they intended to
victimize to pass on unmolested. It comes from the flagging of a train,
which can be either stopped or made to go on by the waving of a flag.
The person "flagged" seldom knows what has taken place, and every day in
city streets people are thus favored by gracious "dips," or pickpockets.
The dip's companion, the one who bumps up against the victim or
otherwise diverts his attention while the dip robs him, is called the
"stall."
"Just broken out" and "squared it" are phrases which very few would
understand on hearing them spoken by tramps and criminals in public. The
man who has "just broken out" is not, as I thought when I first heard
the words, one who has escaped from limbo, but rather one who has newly
joined the fraternity. The term is used in the sense in which it might
be applied to an epidemic. _Wanderlust_ (love of tramping, thieving,
drunkenness) is the disease with which the newcomer in outcast life is
supposed to be afflicted, and on allying himself with the brotherhood,
the malady is "officially" recognized as having appeared, or broken out.
"Squared it" I took to mean that a bargain or a quarrel had been
settled, but I was again mistaken. It signifies that a tramp or criminal
has reformed and become respectable. One who leaves the "road" for this
reason is said to have "squared it," because he has settled his account
with the brotherhood--he has finished with it.
The word "dead" is practically synonymous with "squared it." In using it
the tramp does not mean that the pal of whom he is speaking has departed
this life; "croaked" is the term for that. "Dead" means that he has left
the fraternity and is trying to live respectably. On one of my tramp
trips I was entertained at supper by a carpenter in Detroit, and during
the meal he confessed that he used to belong to my "push," the tramp
brotherhood.
"I've be'n dead now about ten years," he said, "I learned my trade in
the pen, 'n' when I got out I decided to square it. I was petered out."
On leaving his house he cautioned me not to say anything to the "'boes"
(hoboes) about his being my "meal-ticket." This is a tramp term for a
person who is "good" for a meal, and the carpenter did not care to have
this reputation.
When a man denounces to the police a beggar who has accosted him in the
street, the latter, in relating the experience at the "hang-out," says
that the "bloke beefed" on him (gave him away). In Cincinnati, one day,
I met an old tramp acquaintance who had been given away by a pal. He had
just come out of prison when I saw him, and looked so poorly, even for a
recently discharged convict, that I asked him for an explanation.
"Oh, it was a soaker [a sickening experience], Cig," he said. "Mike, my
pal, he beefed [turned state's evidence], 'n' the screws [prison
officers] they did me dirt from the start. Got the cooler [dark cell]
ev'ry time I did en'thin'. Had fifteen days there twice. It was that
killed me. But wait till I catch that gun Mike. It'll be his last beef
if I ever find him."
"Gun" means practically what "bloke," "stiff," and "plug" do--a fellow;
but there is a shade of difference. It comes from the verb "to gun," to
do "crooked work." Consequently a "gun" is more of a professional thief
than is the "bloke." "Mug," on the contrary, is the exact equivalent of
"bloke," but the verb "to mug" implies photography. In some cities
suspicious characters are arrested on general principles and immediately
photographed by the police authorities. Such towns are called "muggin'
joints," and the police authorities "muggin' fiends."
Some tramp words are popular for only a few years, and are then
supplanted by others which seem to make the thing in question more vivid
and "feelable." Not so very long ago, "timber" was the favorite word to
describe the clubbing given to tramps in certain "horstile" towns. A
hobo has recently written me that this word is gradually giving way to
"saps," because the sticks or clubs used in the fracas come from
saplings cut down for the purpose.
On account of this continual change it is difficult to keep up with the
growth of the language, and in my case it has been particularly so
because I am not regularly in the life. If one, however, is always in
the way of hearing the latest expressions, and can remember them, there
is not much else in the language that is hard. The main rule of the
grammar is that the sentence must be as short as possible, and the verb
omitted whenever convenient. As a general thing the hoboes say in two
words as much as ordinary people do in four, and prefer, not only for
purposes of secrecy, but also for general intercourse, if in a hurry, to
use their own lingo.
How many words this lingo contains it is impossible to say absolutely,
but it is my opinion that during the last twenty years at least three
thousand separate and distinct expressions have been in vogue, at one
time or another, among the tramps and criminals in the United States.
The tramp who wrote to me concerning the word "timber" added the
information that for practically everything with which the hobo comes in
contact he has a word of his own choosing, and if this is true, then my
estimate of the number of words that he has used during the last two
decades would seem to be too small; but I am inclined to think that my
correspondent gives the hobo's inventive powers more credit than is due
them. It is not to be denied that he has a talent for coining words, but
he has also a talent for letting other people do work which he is too
lazy to do, and my finding is that, although he has a full-fledged
lingo, he is continually supplementing it with well-known English words
which he is too lazy to supplant with words of his own manufacture.
When detectives and policemen surround him, and it is necessary to keep
them from understanding what is being discussed, he manages to say a
great deal without having recourse to English; but it is a strain on
both his temper and lingo to have to do this, and he gladly makes use of
our articles, conjunctions, and prepositions again when out of ear-shot
of the eavesdropping officers.
So far as I know he has not yet attempted to write anything exclusively
in his jargon which can be termed tramp literature; but he knows a
number of songs which are made up largely of tramp words, and his
stories at hang-outs are almost invariably told in the lingo, or, at any
rate, with so little English interspersed that a stranger would fail to
appreciate the most interesting points.
Nevertheless, it is one of the regrets of the hobo that his dialect is
losing much of its privacy. Ten years ago it was understood by a much
smaller number of people than at present, and ten years hence it will be
known to far more than it is now. There are hundreds of "stake-men" and
"gay-cats" on the road to-day where there were dozens a decade ago, and
they are continually going and coming between civilization and Hoboland.
The hobo dislikes them, and, when he can, refuses to associate with
them; but they pick up his jargon whether he will or no, and on leaving
the road temporarily in order to get a "stake," they tell the world at
large of what they have seen and heard. In this way the secrets of
Hoboland are becoming common property, and the hobo is being deprived of
a picturesque isolation which formerly few disturbed.
At present he likens himself to the Indian. "They can never kill us off
the way they have the Injuns," a hobo once said to me, "but they're
doin' us dirt in ev'ry other way they can. They're stealin' our lingo,
breakin' up our camps, timberin' us, 'n' generally hemmin' us in, 'n'
that's what they're doin' to the Injuns. But they can never croak us
all, anyhow. We're too strong for that, thank God!"
No, Hoboland can never be completely depopulated. It will change with
the years, as all things change, but it is impossible to wipe it off the
map. As long as there are lazy people, discouraged criminals, drunkards,
and boys possessed of _Wanderlust_, Hoboland will have its place in our
social geography, and a jargon more or less exclusively its own.
GLOSSARY
The following collection of tramp words and phrases is not intended to
be at all exhaustive. I have merely explained the slang used in the
text, and added certain other words which I thought might interest the
reader.
BALDY: an old man.
BALL: a dollar.
BATTER: to beg.
BEEFEr: one who "squeals" on, or gives away, a tramp or criminal.
BLANKET-STIFF: a Western tramp; he generally carries a blanket
with him on his travels.
BLIND-BAGGAGE: the front end of a baggage-car having no door.
BLOKE: a fellow; synonymous with "plug," "mug," and "stiff."
BLOWED-IN-THE-GLASS STIFF: a trustworthy "pal"; a professional.
'BO: a hobo.
BRAKEY: a brakeman.
BUGHOUSE: crazy.
BULL: a policeman.
BUNDLE: plunder from a robbery.
CHEW: to eat or "feed."
CHEW THE RAG: to talk.
CHI (pronounced "Shi"): Chicago.
CINCIE: Cincinnati.
CON: a conductor.
COOLER: a dark cell.
COP: a policeman. To be "copped" is to get arrested. A "fly-cop"
is a detective.
CRIB: a saloon or gambling-place; more or less synonymous with
"joint" and "hang-out."
CROAK: to die, or to kill.
CROCUS: a doctor.
CROOK: a professional criminal. "Crooked work" means thieving.
DEAD: reformed. A "dead" criminal is either discouraged or
reformed.
DICER: a hat.
DIP: a pickpocket.
DITCH, or BE DITCHED: to get into trouble, or to fail at what one
has undertaken. To be "ditched" when riding on trains means to be
put off, or to get locked into a car.
DOPE, THE: the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad.
DOSS: _noun_, sleep; _verb_, to sleep.
DOSS-HOUSE: a lodging-house.
DUMP: a lodging-house or restaurant; synonymous with "hang-out."
ELBOW: a detective.
FAWNY MAN: a peddler of bogus jewelry.
FENCE: a receiver of stolen goods.
FINGER: }
FLATTY: } a Policeman; synonymous with "bull."
FLAGGED: when a man is said by criminals or tramps to be
"flagged," it means that he is permitted to go unmolested.
FLICKER: _noun_, a faint; _verb_, to faint or pretend to faint.
GAG: any begging trick.
GALWAY: a Catholic priest.
GAY-CAT: an amateur tramp who works when his begging courage fails
him.
GHOST-STORY: any statement or report that is not true. When told
to young boys it means a "faked" story of tramp life.
GRAFT: a line of business; synonymous with "spiel."
GRAFTER: a pickpocket.
GUN: a fellow; more or less synonymous with "bloke," "stiff,"
"mug," and "plug."
GUY: a fellow.
HAND-OUT: a bundle of food handed out to a beggar at the back
door.
HANG-OUT: the hobo's home.
HIT THE ROAD: to go tramping.
HOBO: a tramp. Derivation obscure. Farmer's "Americanisms" gives:
"HO-BOY, or HAUT-BOY: a New York night-scavenger."
HOISTER, or HYSTER: a shoplifter.
HOOSIER: a "farmer." Everybody who does not know the world as the
hobo knows it is to him a "farmer," "hoosier," or outsider.
HORN, THE: a triangular extension of the Chicago, Burlington and
Quincy Railroad, running from Red Oak, Iowa, southwest some twenty
miles, and then northwest to Pacific Junction on the main line.
HORSTILE: angry, unfriendly, hostile.
JIGGER: a sore, artificially made, to excite sympathy.
JIGGERED: "done," beaten. When used as an exclamation, as in "I'll
be jiggered," it means "I'll be damned," or words to that effect.
JOCKER: a tramp who travels with a boy and "jockers" him--trains
him as a beggar and protects him from persecution by others.
JOINT: practically, any place where tramps congregate, drink, and
feel at home.
KIP-HOUSE: a lodging-house.
KIP TOWN: a good lodging-house town.
LEATHER: a pocket-book. "To reef a leather" means that the
pickpocket pulls out the lining of a pocket containing the
"leather"; this is frequently the best way of capturing a
pocket-book.
LIGHTHOUSE: one who knows every detective by sight, and can "tip
him off" to his comrades.
MAIN GUY: the leader.
MARK: a person or house "good" for food, clothes, or money.
MEAL-TICKET: a person "good" for a meal.
MONIKEY: the tramp's nickname, as "New Orleans Blackie,"
"Mississippi Red," etc.
MOOCH: to beg; also, to "light out," "clear out."
MOOCHER: a beggar. This word is the generic term for tramps in
England.
MUG: _noun_, a fellow; _verb_, to photograph.
MUSH-FAKIR: an umbrella-mender. The umbrellas which he collects
are frequently not returned.
OFFICE: to "give the office" is to give a signal to a confederate.
It is usually done by raising the hat.
ON THE HOG: on the tramp; also, "busted," "dead broke."
P. A.: Pennsylvania.
PAPER: stocks and bonds.
PEN: a penitentiary
PENNSYLVANIA SALVE: apple-butter.
PENNYWEIGHTERS: jewelry thieves.
PETER: a safe thief. "Knock-out drops" are also "peter."
PHILLIE: Philadelphia.
PLUG: a fellow; synonymous with "bloke" and "stiff."
POKE-OUT: a lunch; synonymous with "hand-out."
POUND THE EAR: to sleep.
PRUSHUN: a tramp boy. An "ex-prushun" is one who has served his
apprenticeship as a "kid" and is "looking for revenge," _i. e._,
for a lad that he can "snare" and "jocker," as he himself was
"snared" and "jockered."
PUNK AND PLASTER: bread and butter.
PUSH: a gang.
Q.: the Chicago, Burlington and Quincy Railroad, popularly known
as the C. B. & Q.
QUEER, THE: counterfeit money.
REPEATER, or REVOLVER: an old-timer; a professional criminal and a
"blowed-in-the-glass" tramp.
RINGER: a bell.
RUBE: a "hoosier," or "farmer."
SAPS: a clubbing with weapons made from saplings; synonymous with
"timber." (See below.)
SCOFF: _noun_, food, "nourishment"; _verb_, to "feed," to "gorge."
SCRAPPER: a victim of either tramps or criminals who "puts up a
fight."
SCREW: a prison turnkey.
SET-DOWN: a square meal.
SETTLED: in prison.
SHACK: a brakeman.
SHATIN' ON ME UPPERS: to be "shatin'" on one's "uppers" is to be
"dead broke."
SHOVE: a gang.
SHOVER: a man who passes counterfeit money.
SIDE-DOOR PULLMAN: a box-car.
SINKER: a dollar; synonymous with "ball."
SLOPE: to run away.
SLOPPING-UP: a big drunk.
SNARE: to entice a boy into tramp life.
SNEAKS: flat or house thieves. A bank sneak is a bank thief.
SNIPE: cigar-butts--the favorite tobacco among hoboes.
SONG AND DANCE: a begging story or trick.
SPARK: a diamond.
SPIEL: something to peddle. Hoboes often carry needles, pins,
court-plaster, and the like. On meeting one another, they ask:
"What's your spiel?" ("What are you hawking?") (See "graft.")
SPIKED: upset, chagrined, disappointed, disgusted.
SQUEALER: one who gives away the gang.
STAKE-MAN: a fellow who holds a position only long enough to get a
"stake"--enough money to keep him in "booze" and tobacco while he
is on the road. The tramps call him a "gay-cat."
STALL: the pickpocket's companion.
STIFF: a fellow; synonymous with "bloke" and "plug."
SUCKER: a victim of both tramps and criminals.
THROW THE FEET: to beg, "hustle," or do anything that involves
much action.
TIMBER: a clubbing at the hands of the toughs of a town unfriendly
to tramps. (See "Saps.")
TOMATO-CAN VAG: the outcast of Hoboland; a tramp of the lowest
order, who drains the dregs of a beer-barrel into an empty
tomato-can and drinks them; he generally lives on the refuse that
he finds in scavenger barrels.
TOOT THE RINGER: ring the bell.
TURF: the road, or low life in general.
TURF IT: to be on the road.
YAP: _noun_, a farmer or "hoosier"; _verb_, to say or to tell.
YORK: New York city.
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