King Coal | Page 6

was not a foot-ball field, but it seemed to Hal that the net
impress of the two was very much the same. He congratulated himself
that his profession was not that of a union organiser.
At dawn he dragged himself up, and continued his journey, weak from
cold and unaccustomed lack of food. In the course of the day he
reached a power-station near the foot of the canyon. He did not have
the price of a meal, and was afraid to beg; but in one of the group of
buildings by the roadside was a store, and he entered and inquired
concerning prunes, which were twenty-five cents a pound. The price
was high, but so was the altitude, and as Hal found in the course of
time, they explained the one by the other--not explaining, however,
why the altitude of the price was always greater than the altitude of the
store. Over the counter he saw a sign: "We buy scrip at ten per cent
discount." He had heard rumours of a state law forbidding payment of
wages in "scrip"; but he asked no questions, and carried off his very
light pound of prunes, and sat down by the roadside and munched
them.
Just beyond the power-house, down on the railroad track, stood a little
cabin with a garden behind it. He made his way there, and found a
one-legged old watchman. He asked permission to spend the night on
the floor of the cabin; and seeing the old fellow look at his black eye,
he explained, "I tried to get a job at the mine, and they thought I was a
union organiser."
"Well," said the man, "I don't want no union organisers round here."

"But I'm not one," pleaded Hal.
"How do I know what you are? Maybe you're a company spy."
"All I want is a dry place to sleep," said Hal. "Surely it won't be any
harm for you to give me that."
"I'm not so sure," the other answered. "However, you can spread your
blanket in the corner. But don't you talk no union business to me."
Hal had no desire to talk. He rolled himself in his blanket and slept like
a man untroubled by either love or curiosity. In the morning the old
fellow gave him a slice of corn bread and some young onions out of his
garden, which had a more delicious taste than any breakfast that had
ever been served him. When Hal thanked his host in parting, the latter
remarked: "All right, young fellow, there's one thing you can do to pay
me, and that is, say nothing about it. When a man has grey hair on his
head and only one leg, he might as well be drowned in the creek as lose
his job."
Hal promised, and went his way. His bruises pained him less, and he
was able to walk. There were ranch-houses in sight--it was like coming
back suddenly to America!

SECTION 4.
Hal had now before him a week's adventures as a hobo: a genuine hobo,
with no ten dollar bill inside his belt to take the reality out of his
experiences. He took stock of his worldly goods and wondered if he
still looked like a dude. He recalled that he had a smile which had
fascinated the ladies; would it work in combination with a black eye?
Having no other means of support, he tried it on susceptible looking
housewives, and found it so successful that he was tempted to doubt the
wisdom of honest labour. He sang the Harrigan song no more, but
instead the words of a hobo-song he had once heard:
"Oh, what's the use of workin' when there's women in the land?"

The second day he made the acquaintance of two other gentlemen of
the road, who sat by the railroad-track toasting some bacon over a fire.
They welcomed him, and after they had heard his story, adopted him
into the fraternity and instructed him in its ways of life. Pretty soon he
made the acquaintance of one who had been a miner, and was able to
give him the information he needed before climbing another canyon.
"Dutch Mike" was the name this person bore, for reasons he did not
explain. He was a black-eyed and dangerous-looking rascal, and when
the subject of mines and mining was broached, he opened up the
flood-gates of an amazing reservoir of profanity. He was through with
that game--Hal or any other God-damned fool might have his job for
the asking. It was only because there were so many natural-born
God-damned fools in the world that the game could be kept going.
"Dutch Mike" went on to relate dreadful tales of mine-life, and to
summon before him the ghosts of one pit-boss