Beggars of Life by Jim Tully Page B

me the grub, and I beat it to the haystack. He gave me three magazines too. Two of them was farmer papers, but I read everything in ’em, how to raise hogs an’ chickens an’ cows. That night the old boy came again, and gave me the grub an’ the buck, an’ I beat it about ten o’clock when the hobo went over to flop. I made twenty miles by mornin’, but got picked up in Chi, an’ they took me back anyhow, but that farmer didn’t get the fifteen bucks for givin’ me up.”
    The heavy farmer rose at the end of Bill’s story and stood looking out of the window with his hands in his overalls pockets.
    â€œYou serve long time?” he finally gulped at Bill.
    â€œAround five years,” answered Bill.
    I noticed a weary look came into Bill’s face as he answered with half-shut eyes. The woman busied herself making sandwiches at this moment.
    â€œDid you learn nothin’?” asked the farmer.
    â€œI learned more how to be a crook than anything else. A lot of things you wouldn’t believe if I told you. There wasn’t a kind guy in the whole joint. Lots of crooks learn the game in Reform Schools, believe me.”
    In a few minutes grateful goodbyes were said to the kindhearted couple, and with sandwiches wrapped in paper, we went happily down the road.

CHAPTER IX
A MIX-UP
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    CHAPTER IX
A MIX-UP
    No breeze blew on the prairie. Not a cloud was in the sky. Insects droned lazily along the road, and grasshoppers remained in one place long moments at a time. An immense butterfly with brown and white dotted wings flew along the track, and made an attempt to light on me.
    â€œYou can tell it’s goin’ to be a scorcher,” I said to Bill. “Nothing has any pep early in the mornin’ on a hot day.”
    â€œWe walked for some miles until we came to a freight train on a sidetrack, near a little town. It was not over ten cars in length, and the heavy engine puffed slowly like a tired horse breathing at the end of a long furrow. A few whirls of smoke came from its stack and curled in the air like little lost clouds hurrying back to the sky. The train crew lounged lazily along the track and gave us no sign of greeting.
    Some men worked in a yellow field, and the noise of a binder echoed through the still air. It travelled to the far end of the field, and its clicking noise subsided like the last weak strokes of a hammer on a steel rail. The music of a church bell rolled over the fields, and down the track, and on forever into silence.
    Suddenly a faint rumbling was heard in the still country, like the rolling echo of thunder in a far off place. It grew more and more distinct, and then a louder and mightier rumbling was heard. The shrieking of an engine whistle split the air, and the ground vibrated. Some quails, startled, flew from a fence corner.
    A cloud of dust whirled along the track and the mail train became a faint speck as it thundered toward Chicago.
    â€œShe’s sure ramblin’ hell bent for election,” declared Bill. “I wish I was on her. She’ll be in Chi in no time.”
    The freight train moved slowly off the side track. “We can’t keep out of sight, as the train’s too short and the country’s too flat. All we kin do is take a chance on the shacks and con bein’ regular guys,” said Bill.
    In a few moments, we were aboard the train, and in another few moments, we were put off. We stood where a road crossed the tracks, and as the caboose rolled by we put our hands to our noses, while the conductor stood upon the rear platform and shook his fist at us.
    We circled through the town, and forgot the train and its hostile crew. “Gee, it seems like a year since last night. I wonder how that dick feels. You notice they ain’t hardly any bums travellin’ along here. That’s always a bad sign. Tough country—they get the word, and steer shy. Of course a lot of them are up in