The Road | Page 8

clothing for my long journey.
Let me put it on record right here that Ottawa, with one exception, is
the hardest town in the United States and Canada to beg clothes in; the
one exception is Washington, D.C. The latter fair city is the limit. I
spent two weeks there trying to beg a pair of shoes, and then had to go
on to Jersey City before I got them.
But to return to Ottawa. At eight sharp in the morning I started out after
clothes. I worked energetically all day. I swear I walked forty miles. I
interviewed the housewives of a thousand homes. I did not even knock
off work for dinner. And at six in the afternoon, after ten hours of
unremitting and depressing toil, I was still shy one shirt, while the pair
of trousers I had managed to acquire was tight and, moreover, was
showing all the signs of an early disintegration.
At six I quit work and headed for the railroad yards, expecting to pick
up something to cat on the way. But my hard luck was still with me. I
was refused food at house after house. Then I got a "hand-out." My
spirits soared, for it was the largest hand-out I had ever seen in a long
and varied experience. It was a parcel wrapped in newspapers and as
big as a mature suit-case. I hurried to a vacant lot and opened it. First, I
saw cake, then more cake, all kinds and makes of cake, and then some.
It was all cake. No bread and butter with thick firm slices of meat
between -- but cake; and I who of all things abhorred cake most! In
another age and clime they sat down by the waters of Babylon and wept.
And in a vacant lot in Canada's proud capital, I, too, sat down and
wept... over a mountain of cake. As one looks upon the face of his dead
son, so looked I upon that multitudinous pastry. I suppose I was an
ungrateful tramp, for I refused to partake of the bounteousness of the

house that had had a party the night before. Evidently the guests hadn't
liked cake either.
That cake marked the crisis in my fortunes. Than it nothing could be
worse; therefore things must begin to mend. And they did. At the very
next house I was given a "set-down." Now a "set-down" is the height of
bliss. One is taken inside, very often is given a chance to wash, and is
then "set-down" at a table. Tramps love to throw their legs under a
table. The house was large and comfortable, in the midst of spacious
grounds and fine trees, and sat well back from the street. They had just
finished eating, and I was taken right into the dining room -- in itself a
most unusual happening, for the tramp who is lucky enough to win a
set-down usually receives it in the kitchen. A grizzled and gracious
Englishman, his matronly wife, and a beautiful young Frenchwoman
talked with me while I ate.
I wonder if that beautiful young Frenchwoman would remember, at this
late day, the laugh I gave her when I uttered the barbaric phrase,
"two-bits." You see, I was trying delicately to hit them for a "light
piece." That was how the sum of money came to be mentioned.
"What?" she said. "Two-bits, said I. Her mouth was twitching as she
again said, "What?" "Two-bits, said I. Whereat she burst into laughter.
"Won't you repeat it?" she said, when she had regained control of
herself. "Two-bits," said I. And once more she rippled into
uncontrollable silvery laughter. "I beg your pardon," said she; "but
what... what was it you said ?" "Two-bits," said I; "is there anything
wrong about it?" "Not that I know of," she gurgled between gasps; "but
what does it mean?" I explained, but I do not remember now whether or
not I got that two-bits out of her; but I have often wondered since as to
which of us was the provincial.
When I arrived at the depot, I found, much to my disgust, a bunch of at
least twenty tramps that were waiting to ride out the blind baggages of
the overland. Now two or three tramps on the blind baggage are all
right. They are inconspicuous. But a score! That meant trouble. No
train-crew would ever let all of us ride.
I may as well explain here what a blind baggage is. Some mail-cars are

built without doors in the ends; hence, such a car is "blind." The
mail-cars that possess end doors, have those doors always locked.
Suppose, after the train has started, that a tramp gets on to the platform
of one of these blind cars. There