Well, little book, my entries are almost finished, for the business of building a new niche in the world with nothing but our bare hands will leave scant time for keeping a diary.

Dan had several days’ work in Ogden. Then we took a passenger to the first stop west as usual and there boarded a freight. We had not gone far when a trainman thrust his head into the car in which we were riding, and failing to see me huddled in a corner, accosted Dan.

“Hello, Jack. What are you riding on?”

“A union card,” replied Dan, following the accepted formula, and pulling the card from his pocket for inspection.

“And what else?” queried the brakeman.

“A dollar,” said Dan.

“Not enough, Jacko. It’s two dollars or nothing on this division. Cough up.”

So Dan gave him the two dollars and the train moved out.

On the edge of the Great Salt Lake the freight stopped again and another brakeman leaped into the car. He gaped in amazement at sight of me, then turned to Dan, “You’ll have to come through, old sport. This kind of baggage is worth a five spot. Come across now, or you’ll have to swim the lake.”

“Here, Dan,” I broke in sharply, as he hesitated. “Don’t you give those petty grafters another penny. Let’s get out.”

The trainman turned on us threateningly, but one good look sufficed, so we were left undisturbed beside the track. We had heard more than once of trainmen who not only took money from hoboes, but also relieved them of Ingersoll, knife, or any little trinket they happened to have about them, but this was our first experience with the breed.

With our bundles for pillows we slept through the night, and awakened at dawn when another freight stopped for a last drink before crossing the lake. We piled into a gondola just as the train gathered speed and felt that we would at least cross the lake in safety. We had not gone a mile when a trainman leaped in beside us.

“What are you riding on, friends?” he inquired.

“A union card,” said Dan.

“And what else?”

“Not another blamed thing,” Dan answered determinedly.

“Well, that don’t listen very good to me,” the fellow growled. “Where did you come from and where are you going?”

While we gave him a sketch of our experiences and reasons for riding freights, he drew a stub of a pencil from his pocket and began scrawling on the back of a time table.

“Loan me your knife a minute, old man,” he said to Dan.

Dan passed over the knife, a very fine one that I had given him the first Christmas after our marriage, and the brakeman sharpened his pencil.

“Well, so long,” said he, turning on his heel, and starting to slip Dan’s knife into his pocket.

I seized his arm like a flash and wrested the knife from his hand before he could recover from the unexpected assault.

“No, you don’t. Oh, no you don’t,” I hissed furiously. “That’s my knife and I propose to keep it.”

“Why, you little hell-cat, you.” He burst into a laugh. “I didn’t mean to steal your knife. Gee, she’s some scrapper,” turning to Dan. “Wouldn’t mind having a pal like that myself.”

With another laugh he made his way to the rear of the train.

A half hour had passed when we were amazed to see him coming over the top with a coffee pot in one hand and a pan in the other.

“Thought maybe you might be hungry,” he said with an embarrassed laugh, as he set the pan of boiled meat and doughnuts on the bottom of the car. As he bolted toward the head of the train, we attacked the food with ravenous appetites.

We were so engaged when a man leaped from the boxcar behind, landing in the gondola with a clatter. I looked up into the amazed face of the conductor.

“Good Lord!” he ejaculated. “Well, good Lord, so this is what old Tight-wad was up to. What have you done to him anyhow? Hypnotised him?”

“What are you talking about?” asked Dan.

“Why, that front brakeman of mine. He’s the meanest cuss on this division, bar none. He’ll hold up a ’bo and pry the gold out of his teeth. I noticed him skirmishing around in the caboose a while back, and he acted so blamed mysterious that I had to come up front and see what in blazes he was up to. Well, I’ll be jim swiggled if ever I expected to see old Tight-wad pulling any charitable stunts.”

The conductor proceeded to ply us with the usual questions, which we answered to his entire satisfaction.

“There’s an empty refrigerator car up ahead,” he declared, “that is billed straight through to Sacto. She’s locked all right, but the ventilator in one of the ice chests is sealed open, and you can slide in there and lie snug till you land in Sacramento.”

Swallowing the last drops of coffee, we followed him over the tops to the fruit car. Sure enough, the little door that covered the hatch at the end of the car stood open, the support bound with the lead seal, which must never be broken except by the proper officials.

Gathering my skirts closely about my ankles, I slid into the opening feet first, and catching the edges with my hands, swung inside the ice chest and let go. Dan followed, and we found ourselves in peculiar surroundings. The floor of the cubby-hole was formed of scantlings laid on their edges, with wide interstices for drainage. There was scarcely room to move and the only light entered the little opening high above our heads. As I gazed upward, I felt caught in a trap. We curled down on the grating and resigned ourselves to fate.

As the sun climbed the sky the heat increased, and it was then that we noticed that our canteen was empty. Nobody came near. We dared not show ourselves. So the day passed in great discomfort. Night fell and we slept fitfully. Morning came and again the sun blazed down on the desert wastes and the tortures of thirst became intense.

We had been twenty-four hours without food or water when Dan decided to risk a reconnoitre. Taking the canteen, he swung himself up to the hatch and thrust out his head and shoulders. A brakeman came on the run. After considerable parley he took the canteen and promised to fetch us water at the first stop. But the afternoon wore away and he failed to appear. We were almost insane from thirst and heat when at last he lowered the dripping canteen into our prison.

In Winnemucca the car was shunted back and forth for an hour, but at nightfall we were off on the long climb to the summit. I climbed hand over hand to the hatchway, and after a cautious survey of the surroundings, drew myself out and perched on the roof of the car. The Overland Limited shot past, the roof covered with the crouching forms of hoboes, thick as barnacles on an old pier. The desolate expanse of desert seemed full of mystery, as the long train, dotted here and there with lanterns, crawled like a gigantic snake up the steep grade. Far ahead two engines coughed and laboured, the black smoke rolling in great billows from their stacks. As I realised that we were nearing the boundary of California a great contentment filled my soul. Thus I revelled in thoughts of home, while the cool night wind fanned my face and the Big Dipper swung across the northern sky and the speeding wheels clanked a cheerful refrain.

Early next morning the brakeman made us a visit and said we would be in Sparks before noon, where we must make another change.

Just outside the city limits we dropped off, and as guests of the trainmen were soon eating our first restaurant meal for months. About two o’clock we wandered to the outskirts of town, for it was useless to attempt to catch a freight in daylight. We came to an irrigating ditch lined with a tall growth of weeds, and slipping off our footgear, were soon paddling about like a couple of kids in the swift running water. Late in the day we cooked and ate a meal, took a farewell wash in the stream and returned to the railroad yard. Word had gone forth not to molest us, so we boarded the night freight without difficulty. The only available place was a cattle car loaded high with lumber. The end door was unlocked and there was quite a space between the piles of boards and the roof of the car. I settled myself in a corner with back against the siding, and Dan lay at my feet.

It was pitch dark when the train clanked through the streets of Reno. As we drew slowly out of town, dim forms appeared, and hoboes began piling into the car through both doors. In the darkness I could sense the presence of a large number of men. Two lads curled down at my right, their voices proclaiming their youthfulness. On the left two hoboes lay so close that I could have touched them. They had come from a long ride on a limited passenger and were completely exhausted. A group of men in the far end of the car began smoking, and as each match flared, some face would stand out in bold relief. They talked with perfect comradeship, and though they were totally unaware of the presence of a woman, there was little to complain of in their conversation. In fact, I can truthfully say that I heard more profane language in one year’s attendance at Medical College than on this entire trip.

At the first stop out of Reno still more men came aboard. A trainman came to the far door with a lantern, but one look sufficed and he returned no more. At Truckee the car was switched to a siding.

“Beat it, boys, here come the bulls!” shouted a hobo.

Like dry peas out of a pod, the hoboes scattered out of that car and fled in all directions as officers flung open the door at our side and emptied their revolvers into the interior. We remained motionless as the bullets thudded into the wood, and in a few minutes looked out to see the detectives chasing the fleeing hoboes across the yards.

“Now is our chance,” whispered Dan. “Make for the round-house yonder.”

We dived within the yawning portal and crouched within the engine pit. The place seemed empty and we sat in silence for a time. What to do we did not know. It was impossible to remain where we were for long; discovery meant a trip to jail and a month on the chain-gang for Dan. The town lies in a mountain fastness with snowsheds protecting the tracks, so that foot travel was out of the question, and our money was almost gone. While we studied the problem, a long freight came through without stopping. We ran out to the main track and the first thing that caught my eye was the familiar old refrigerator car with the open hatch in which we had already ridden so many miles.

“Quick, quick!” I cried. “We must catch that train.”

The engine had cleared the yard and was gathering headway with each turn of the wheels. Racing madly beside the track, I made a desperate lunge and caught a hand rod. My arms seemed torn from their sockets as my body was snapped into a horizontal position by the speeding train. A moment I clung, unable to move, then with a fierce scramble, I found my footing and clambered to the top of the car. Dan had landed on the car behind and together we started for the head of the train.

A brakeman appeared on the top of a boxcar. At sight of a woman coolly parading the roof of the freight, his jaw dropped and he started so violently as to make me fear for his safety. We stopped on a flat car and gave him a brief explanation, then hurried forward and swung ourselves into the familiar ice chest, for we were nearing the snowsheds.

The trainman soon joined us. He told a long story about some division official who was death on hoboes, and who made a practice of travelling up and down the line and pouncing on the train crews at unexpected places in hope of catching them in some infraction of the rules, which would enable him to indulge in his love of discipline. This martinet took a special delight in harrying the men, and would suspend an employÉ for sixty days on the smallest pretext, or deprive a man of his credits for the slightest infraction of some unimportant rule.

“He’s a Company pet, who was born with the big head and then bitten by the efficiency bug,” our companion concluded, “and if he should catch a woman on this freight it would be as much as all our jobs are worth.”

At that moment a man thrust his head into the manhole and called the brakeman out. He ascended quickly and his place was taken by the other, who proved to be the conductor. Dan started to speak, but was interrupted.

“Let the woman talk. I’ll get the truth from her.”

So I began the old, old story, and after a bit secured permission to ride as close to Sacramento as we dared. We were well outside the snowsheds when the conductor left us, and I settled down with the thought that the worst was over.

As the train pulled out of a station the light was cut off abruptly and a young man in a business suit bounced into the ice chest. As he landed, I looked up and caught sight of the horrified face of the brakeman leaning over the manhole.

“Who put you in here? How much did you pay that brakeman to let you ride?” he demanded fiercely.

“Why, we haven’t paid anybody—we haven’t seen any brakeman. We just got in when the train slowed up back there a ways; and we took good care not to see any brakeman or let any brakeman see us,” I answered innocently.

“But what are you doing here, and where are you going?”

“Oh, we came up from Sacramento for a little camping trip. My husband thought he could get a little work in the mountains, but he couldn’t find any, and we spent most of our money, and then started to walk home. This old freight came crawling along, and there wasn’t anybody on the far side of the track, so just for a lark we slipped in here.”

“So, you’re sure your husband didn’t pay the brakeman for the chance, are you?”

“You bet I am. Do you suppose anybody would pay good money for riding in this old hole? Besides, we haven’t any money. I couldn’t see anything wrong about riding, exactly. But, of course, we didn’t want the trainmen to see us. I was afraid they might not like it, and I’m dead sure nobody but you knows we’re here.”

The brakeman’s face appeared for an instant in the manhole above, then disappeared from view.

“You’re not going to put us off, way out here, are you?” I asked pleadingly. “It’s awful hard to walk clear down to Sacramento this hot weather, and carry these heavy bundles. It didn’t cost the railroad company anything for us to ride here. We ain’t doing any harm.”

The young man’s face softened a trifle and he launched into a long dissertation on the evils of jumping trains, the hobo menace, and kindred topics, to all of which I listened with wide eyes and bated breath. The train drew into a station and out again, while he was thus absorbed, and he made no move to put us off. I was drawing him on with deft questions and flattering attention when the brakeman’s head appeared once more.

“What in blazes is all this?” he bawled. “Hey, you bums, come out of there.”

Our kind instructor cast a startled look aloft. “Why, hello, Condon,” he called ingratiatingly. “You are on the job, I see. But these people don’t happen to be bums. Everything is all right. I’ll assume the responsibility, so just trot along and leave us alone.”

He resumed his pompous attitude and took up the delightful task of enlightening me on the importance of his position, which he declared was extremely difficult to fill. I gathered that the destinies of the entire railroad system rested on his narrow shoulders; that he was the original efficiency expert; and that all other employÉs of the Company, from train boy to superintendent, were a lot of mutts, if not worse, and were it not for his constant supervision and stern discipline, the division would just naturally go to the bow-wows. The miles slipped by as I drank in this information with greedy ears. His chest expanded like a pouter pigeon and his hat band seemed to stretch visibly.

The three of us were standing in one end of the restricted space when once more the daylight was cut off and the conductor slid down beside us. Completely ignoring our existence he turned a cold and hostile eye upon our companion.

“Sir,” he began stiffly, “I have been informed by a member of my crew that a high official of this division has taken it upon himself not alone to disregard the strict rules of this company regarding the carrying of passengers on freight trains, but has arrogated to himself the control and management of those directly responsible to me. Such a situation is unprecedented, sir, and I hereby make formal protest against its continuance.”

While he was speaking I saw the shadow of a man pass the opening overhead.

“But, my dear man,” stammered the “high official,” wholly taken aback. “How can you make such statements? I had absolutely no intention—no such intentions at all. How can you make such a charge?”

“The facts, sir, speak for themselves. My brakeman discovers his superior closeted in the ice chest of a refrigerator car with a young woman and an unknown man. When he endeavours to exercise that authority with which he is vested by the rules of this company and requests the said young woman and unknown man to leave the train at once, you, my dear sir, impose the force of your superior station, and taking all responsibility upon yourself order him to ‘trot along.’ I claim that such conduct destroys efficiency and is fatal to discipline.”

Our young entertainer seemed at a loss for a reply; then he plunged into a long explanation of our presence and his intentions regarding us. The conductor listened with an air of undiminished coldness.

“Very well, sir,” he said shortly, at the close of the harangue. “Your conduct is, of course, highly irregular, but I shall make no report of it—at least not at present,” fixing the unfortunate “high official” with a piercing glance. “As to your er—guests, I shall leave the matter of their disposition entirely in your hands, since you have assumed the responsibility.”

The conductor swung himself out of the ice box while the young man turned his harassed gaze upon us.

“You better get off at Auburn,” he said weakly. “Climb out as soon as the train stops, so nobody will see you.”

As he clambered slowly out, the general impression was that of a man about three sizes smaller than the one who had entered.

We left the car the instant the train stopped at Auburn, but as we hastened away we were hailed with loud shouts by the train crew, who followed us on the run, headed by the brakeman. We stopped behind a row of boxcars as they joined us. With whoops and howls they slapped one another on the back, danced about, doubled up and fairly rolled on the ground in convulsions of laughter.

“Say, didn’t our old man hand that fellow some chunks of language? Say now; didn’t he?” gasped the brakeman when he could speak.

“He passed it out like a regular dictionary. Just the same kind of dope that Little Tom-tit has been feeding us on so long,” sputtered the fireman, who it seems had left the engine on the way down to join the gleeful circle about the manhole while the circus was going on within.

“Well, I guess I punctured his tire, all right,” vouchsafed the conductor. “Guess he’ll go a little easy on efficiency and discipline with this crew for a while.”

“I wouldn’t have missed that performance for five hundred dollars,” broke in the rear brakeman. “It was the richest thing I ever heard.”

“You should have heard Miss Innocence here stringing him along when he first came aboard. Her eyes kept a-glowing bigger and bigger, and his chest kept a-swelling and a-swelling, till I thought I’d bust. Oh, he was a wonderful man, all right, all right.”

“Well, boys,” remarked the conductor, whipping off his cap. “You all admit you enjoyed a good show, that would have had a very different ending if it hadn’t been for the quick wit of this gritty lady. Chip in now, and pay for your reserved seats.”

Money rattled into the cap and despite our protestations the conductor forced it into Dan’s hands. With quip and jest the men bade us good-bye, and we passed over to the main street in search of a restaurant. Our hunger appeased, we marched boldly to the station and took a passenger train to Sacramento, where we made connection with the river boat for San Francisco.

So now I sit on the deck of the steamer and watch the green and fertile country glide past. From time to time a signal flutters on the bank, the boat swings over and the crew rapidly loads great boxes of plums, luscious peaches, early pears, and crates of seedless grapes. Here comes a man with a truckload of magnificent Burbank plums. I once read of the little plum with the enormous pit, from which the California wizard evolved this beautiful fruit. He did not attempt to change the nature of the plum to that of some transcendental fruit. He simply modified the environment so that the inherent qualities of the plum might develop. Would that the environment of the little children of the slums and sweat shops, to whom the meanest cull that lies in yonder orchard would be a gracious treat, might be so modified as to give their essentially beautiful, natural qualities an opportunity for healthy, normal growth.

I give a sigh of contentment and happiness as I realise that the hazardous journey is ended. And now I realise another fact. For weeks I have been free from colds or cough; my digestion is superior to that of an ostrich; a ten-mile jaunt with twenty pounds of baggage on my back would be mere child’s play. A more healthy human specimen than myself it would be hard to find, so I feel free to dismiss the spectre of tuberculosis along with the other horrors of the slums.

But physical benefit is not the greatest gain. A change has taken place in my psychology. My belief in the inherent kindliness and unselfishness of the human heart has been strengthened. In cases of cruelty I recognise an outside influence or pressure that warps natural instincts. Toward the trainmen especially I am deeply grateful. When one realises the risks they ran to aid a couple of outcasts, and the kindness and consideration so often manifested, a wonderful appreciation of their sterling manhood is born. Never again will I think it necessary to change human nature before we can improve social conditions. I am conscious of a deeper human sympathy; a wider vision; a greater understanding of the problems of the under dog and a closer sense of fellowship with him. I feel that I am learning the divine lesson of human unity, which is rooted in the Fatherhood of God and manifests itself as the Brotherhood of Man.