Chapter II: Part 2

The scant meal finished, we settled down to talk. I was amazed at the mentality displayed by the smallest fellow, a member of the I. W. W. He seemed conversant with all the questions of the day, and expressed in excellent language clear cut opinions on industrial subjects that were both novel and startling. They were all workers, but jobs were scarce where they came from, so they were going west in the hope of bettering their condition. The fact that thousands were at that moment travelling in the opposite direction, impelled by self-same conditions, failed to deter them.

One was a big, husky chap with rugged, honest features and the true brown eyes of a Collie. His story interested me greatly.

Born among collieries, he was driven to work as a breaker boy at a very early age by the wretched poverty of his parents. After several years of deadening toil at a time when he should have been in school, he drifted away to join the great army of migratory workers. He worked on a threshing machine while the harvest was in progress, and at its close what little money he had been able to save was consumed while searching for another job. Perhaps he got work with pick and shovel in some construction gang, but the contractor’s system of low wages, high board bills, charges for physician’s care—which most do not receive—and the like, kept him destitute. He called at an employment office, where he paid two dollars for a job, was worked just long enough to pay for transportation, board and monthly fees, then discharged without wages, his employer and the agent dividing up the original fee. From coast to coast he wandered, sweating in the dust and heat of summer through long hours of racking labor, in order to escape starvation in the idle months of winter.

His eyes grew dark and wistful as he shyly confessed his one love affair. He had secured employment in a little lumber mill and made such a good impression on the boss, who was also the owner, that he was taken to board in his own home. Here the poor fellow got his first idea of what home life might mean. He fell in love with the daughter of the house, who seemed to reciprocate, but before they could enter into any formal engagement the lumber trust put the mill out of business, ruining the owner, who was forced to leave that part of the country.

Try as he would, the young man could secure no steady employment and marriage without such foundation was out of the question.

“I saw enough of getting married on nothing when I was a boy,” he concluded. “Wages are set for single men, I reckon. And after a bit a fellow can’t earn a living for his family, so the wife and kiddies have to rustle out and work. Easy enough for them to get a job,” he added bitterly. “Many a time I’ve seen kids doing work that I’d been glad to get. But they can beat a man all out at working cheap. They got to work cheap or starve. I may be a good-for-nothing bundle stiff, but I’ve never got so low as to live off the work of little children.”

“Our good business men are not so finicky,” broke in the I. W. W. “A big profit looks good to them. If it comes from the coined sweat and blood of women and children, so much the better. Yes, women are cheaper than men, and kids are cheaper than women. After a bit they’ll get machines that are cheaper than kids, and then the brats can rot in the slums for all they care.”

“Why not let the people in general own the machines and run them for use instead of for profit? Then the men could do the work, the women could stay at home and the children go to school.” Thus spoke the quiet member of the trio.

“Shut up, you crazy socialist!” exclaimed the I. W. W. “You fellows won’t do anything but vote. You leave it to us. We’re the boys who’ll fix the machines, all right, all right. Yes, and the plutes, too.”

I remembered the many I. W. W. signs and notices that were posted along the way; the groups of men beneath the water tanks who listened eagerly to the harangues of such as he. Some even had told me that they had given up liquor because it blunted their faculties at a time when brains were needed in the workers’ fight against the capitalists. I seemed to hear a muttering as of a gathering storm; perhaps in the days preceding the French Revolution a similar murmuring rose.

There are so many like my dark-eyed acquaintance. He lost touch with his sweetheart, lost hope, lost ambition and now drifts aimlessly about the country in search of a bare subsistence.

It is he and the millions of his class who quarry the stone and hew the timber for our cities; they build the roadbed and lay the tracks for swiftly turning Pullman wheels; they mine the coal that warms our dwellings; they harvest the wheat that nourishes our bodies; without their labour industry would cease.

Yet life to them holds out no hope, no promise; their meagre earnings forbid the thought of marriage; their only home is some saloon; their final rest the potter’s field.

About ten o’clock a trainman poked his head inside the door.

“Hey, clear out, you fellows. This is no place for you when we enter the yard. Better beat it.”

The hoboes bade us adieu and sprang from the car. The brakeman leaped in beside us.

“We finish our run at the next stop,” he said. “The engineer will slow down at the outskirts of town and you jump off and hike out. You’ll find the main road over to the north.”

We thanked him warmly for his kindness and made ready to follow his advice. Soon the train slowed to a mere crawl. Dan leaped down and ran alongside, I swung out the wheel, which he seized, and in an instant I was standing beside him.

Waving farewell to the train crew, who had all turned out to see us off, we struck out for the main road. The straggling outskirts of a good-sized town lay before us.

“Tell you what,” I remarked after we had traversed some distance. “Suppose we stop in the residence section and look for work. I’ll offer to do washing or cleaning by the day, and you can cut the lawn, wash the automobile or something.”

Dan replied with a snort of righteous indignation. “Ever since you were bit by the crazy bug and started out to be a lady hobo you have lost all your natural pride, Ethel. It was bad enough for me, a high-class electrical engineer with a paid-up union card in my pocket, to stoop to the job of a common labourer as I did last week for your sake. Now I’ll be damned if I become a dirty roustabout and have some old hen ordering me around while I sweep off the front porch.”

“Oh, all right,” I answered cheerily. “But the interesting hour of high noon approacheth. Will you please be so kind as to furnish me with exact information regarding your financial standing? I am pained to confess myself the victim of a too familiar craving which calls aloud for attention.”

Dan thrust his hand into his pocket and withdrew a solitary ten cent piece, nor did a prolonged search of numerous pockets yield further riches.

“’Tis sad,” I sighed, “but a still voice tells me that that bit of silver will prove strangely inadequate to the demands of nature. However, no doubt you can dine off your natural pride, served up on your paid-up union card, while I eat a dime’s worth of doughnuts or something.”

We approached a rather pretentious place as I spoke. A large brass sign announced “J. Stanchley Loane, M.D., Physician and Surgeon.” I paused to study the white house with the red-roofed garage in the rear.

“This looks like a good place to make a start. Think I’ll just go in and call on my fellow practitioner and see what happens.”

Dan stepped in front of me. “Now see here, Ethel!” he began angrily. “Don’t go to pulling off foolish stunts. You are my wife and I absolutely forbid you to go about like an Irish washerwoman and——”

“Now see here, Dan!” I mimicked, breaking in upon his authoritative harangue, “I am your wife, ’tis true, but sad to say, the fact does not prevent me from growing hungry. ’Tis also true that I am only a graduate physician with a high-class appetite. I have no paid-up union card to stand between me and possible employment with its promise of a square meal. Moreover, I have never felt myself to be so wonderfully superior to the Irish washerwomen who earn an honest living by honest labour. At any rate, I shall not attempt to hold myself above them unless I can prove by my conduct that I have that right. Just now I fail to see how either you or I can do better than by marching up to that back door and asking for work like the genuine bundle stiffs that we are. Of course if you desire to remain here on the curb, upholding your dignity while I ask for employment, you are entirely at liberty to do so. As for me, I’m going in right now.”

As I turned up the concrete driveway Dan leaned the wheel against the fence and followed. I rapped at the door of the screen porch. The inner door was opened and a heavy-set man with bristling, reddish hair stepped out.

“Good morning, Doctor Loane,” I began. “My husband and I are cycling to California, and being short of funds are looking for employment. My husband is an excellent mechanic and will be glad to go over your car for you. I can cook, wash, scrub or do any kind of housework.”

The doctor looked us up and down with an insolent stare.

“So you can cook, can you? Suppose you come in and show what you can do. I’m alone in the house to-day. We have a devilish time with servants. Our last maid—a pretty little fool—got on her high horse and quit us yesterday, and the old harridan of a cook followed suit. My wife’s gone to town to get another bunch.”

“Sit down on the porch, you,” he ordered Dan, “and you step in here. There is the pantry and the ice chest. Throw together some sort of lunch and call me when it’s ready.” He waved his hand with a lordly air and disappeared into the front of the house.

A short inspection enabled me to determine on a suitable menu, and soon a very fair lunch was spread on the dining table.

“Humph! You are quite a clever piece of goods,” the doctor volunteered, as I summoned him to the meal. “Go and feed your man now, and later we’ll find something more for you to do.”

The meal concluded, Dr. Loane took Dan to the garage, while I whisked the dishes away and tidied the kitchen. The doctor entered as I finished my task.

“There is some work to be attended to in my private office, and you are just the one to do it for me,” he grinned ingratiatingly.

I felt my face growing hot as I realised what he meant.

“What work do you want me to do?” I asked, rising to my feet.

He advanced with outstretched arms, a bestial demon looking out of his red-brown eyes. I backed behind the table, fury and dread causing my heart to beat tumultuously.

Just then a short ring came at the side entrance. Dr. Loane drew back with a muttered curse. We stood motionless for a moment. The bell rang again, insistently.

“You, you keep quiet now. Remember what you are,” he hissed, and strode to the door.

I lost no time in dashing to the garage, where I found Dan tinkering with the car.

“Come, Dan, quick! Let’s get out of here,” I cried.

“What’s up, Ethel?” He came out wiping his hands on a piece of waste.

“Never mind an explanation. I’ll tell you later.” I spoke imperiously. “Get the wheel now and don’t stop to talk.”

We started in the direction of the business section of the city.

“I think we had better take the wheel over by the railroad yard, Dan, and see if you can’t arrange for us to take a freight out of here. I’m a trifle nervous about that old beast of a doctor. He impressed me as the kind of man to make us trouble if possible, have us arrested or something.”

At the station I waited for Dan to see what arrangements he could make. In a few moments he returned to the waiting-room door with a troubled countenance.

“A freight is going to pull out in about an hour, but I haven’t been able to make any impression on the crew. You know, the rules are pretty strict against carrying passengers on freight trains and the boys are afraid of their jobs. I think we’d better give up the idea and ride out on the bike. I cached it down at the end of the yard.”

“I think I’d better talk to the trainmen, Dan,” I replied seriously. “I’d like to get away as soon as possible. I am afraid the doctor may make trouble for us.”

We walked up the track to where a freight engine was puffing back and forth placing cars in a long train, like a fussy old woman stringing beads. A lean-jawed man in blue denim with a conductor’s cap pulled over his eyes turned at our approach.

“Good evening, Conductor,” I began, looking him full in the face. “We have no money and we must get out of this town immediately. I should like to put our bicycle, which is down at the end of the yard, in some empty car that you are going to take out to-night, and get a lift for fifteen or twenty miles.”

His keen grey eyes bored into mine. “What’s the trouble that you got to get out of town? Been holding up somebody?” he queried gruffly.

“My husband and I rode into town this morning and started to hunt work as usual. We stopped at a doctor’s house over on the north side, Doctor Stanchley Loane’s, and he gave us work for the day. His wife was out, my husband was cleaning the auto in the garage, and while I was at work in his private office, he attacked me. I gave him the slip and got away. Now, if we ride the wheel out of town, I’m afraid he’ll make trouble for us. He expects us to go that way.”

“The old son-of-a——” the conductor stopped abruptly. “He’s a bad egg all right. We all know that, but I scarcely thought he’d dare go so far. Of course, your being a sort of hobo——” He stopped again. “Reckon he didn’t take a very close look at those shoulders of yours, or he wouldn’t have tried to get fresh. Well, we’ll see what can be done. Where did you say your wheel is?”

Dan described its location.

“All right. You go there and be ready. We’ll shunt an empty down that way and when the coast seems clear, you pile aboard and lie low. It’s a risky business, but it’s all in a lifetime.” He turned away and began signalling the engineer.

Dan and I scuttled down the track. When we had the wheel in hand, ready for loading, he turned to me.

“Did that old devil actually try to lay hands on you? Why didn’t you tell me when you came out to the garage? I’d like to go back and crack his nut for him.”

“I’m glad enough to get out of the nasty scrape without any skull-cracking. You must remember that we are looked upon as hoboes, and hoboes have no rights. I do wish the men would hurry with that car.”

As though in answer to my thought, a box car rolled gently down the track and came to a stop not ten feet from where we waited.

“Good shot,” said Dan as we slid back the side door, which was ajar.

A long look around and I scrambled in, while Dan hoisted up the wheel and quickly followed. The bottom of the car was packed solid with radiators, which were piled almost to the top in the rear end, each tier held in place by heavy braces. We stacked the tandem in a convenient corner and crouched in silence on the crates.

Soon there came a clinking rumble, there was a slight jar, and our car moved up the line to take its place in the outgoing train.

An hour or more passed while the train roared on. Dan sat by the door, while I, lulled by the clank of wheels and the panting breath of the engine that was whirling us homeward, leaned against the radiator braces in the centre of the car and lost myself in dreams.

Came a shriek of the whistle, a grinding crash, and the floor of the car seemed to buckle under me while something dealt me a terrific blow between the shoulders, lifting me clear into the air and flinging me headlong against the front timbers.

Consciousness struggled back from the void of nothingness and I heard Dan’s agonised voice in my ear.

“My God, Ethel, speak to me. Are you hurt? Oh, she doesn’t answer! She can’t be dead! Ethel! Ethel!”

As he dragged my limp body toward the door a flaming torture seared my lungs, my mouth filled with a hot, brackish fluid. “Wait,” I gasped, half strangled. “Let me rest a moment. I’ll be all right in a minute.” He must not know my plight. I turned my head away as his groping fingers caressed my hair, thankful for the thick darkness as I freed my mouth of blood.

“Oh, thank God! Thank God!” he was whispering softly as he tried to lift me in his arms.

“Let me lie flat for a little while, dear. Then I’ll get up. Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m O.K. It wasn’t a regular wreck. We must have run into something. The shock threw the radiators about. The air seemed full of them, but I got off scot free. You and the tandem and the radiators were all in a scramble. I thought I should never get you out. You’re sure you are not hurt?”

“I feel rather shaken, but I believe there is nothing serious the matter. I had a rap that put me out for a few minutes, that’s all.”

“What happened?” called Dan to the conductor who approached with a lantern as I finished scrubbing the blood from my face.

“A drunken bum stalled his team on the crossing. The engine rounded the curve and was within a hundred feet before Sam saw the wagon. The good-for-nothing sot was off in front of the horses, else he would be in kingdom come. How did you come out? Did it shake you up much when Sam set the emergencies?”

“My wife had a pretty thorough pounding. The blamed radiators broke loose and piled up in the front of the car. Guess we’d better try another Pullman or clear out altogether. What do you want to do, Ethel?”

“Oh, let’s ride as far as we can. Even a freight train covers ground so quickly compared to our slow old wheel.”

“All right, but we’d better hunt another carriage.”

The conductor stood hesitating. “This radiator car is billed straight through to Frisco,” he informed us. “I picked her out for that reason. There ain’t many cars left open like she is. Don’t know how it comes she ain’t sealed shut. But if you have real good luck, you might be able to skate right through to Frisco in a week or ten days. It’ll be a pretty rough trip, but if you want to get to Cal in a hurry, it’ll beat pumping a bike.”

“Oh, Dan, we must try it. I’d ride the bumpers or the cowcatcher to get home in a week,” I cried, forgetting my pain in such a joyful prospect.

“It seems a trifle risky to trust those radiators again, but you’re the doctor, so here goes.”

As Dan settled down beside me the conductor slipped a bill into his hand and ducked away. The engineer signalled that he was ready to be off. When the train took the next siding to permit repairs on the engine, Dan secured a lantern and we straightened our tangled possessions and made ourselves as comfortable as possible for the night.

I was glad when Dan slept, for I feared he would notice my restless seeking for some posture in which I could forget my aches and pains in sleep. But my hopes were in vain, for mind and body conspired to hold my nerves at a tension. The events of the day, which seemed of a month’s duration, formed a kaleidoscopic jumble in my brain.

Morning dawned at last and I lay prone on the radiator crates, while Dan busied himself with the tandem, which had also suffered in the mêlée of the evening before.

It was nearly dark when we pulled into the railroad yard at Des Moines. Our car was switched off the main track, and Dan immediately got out to purchase provisions for the western trip. Trembling at every noise, I awaited his return, and it was not long till he was back with an armful of bundles and a kettle of water. Another train was being made up and soon our car was shunted into place. The engineer had given the signal for the crew to assemble and my breath had begun to come easier, when the door was jerked open and a man thrust in his head.

“Hey, yous! Come out of that,” he snarled. “Here, Tim, I’ve found a couple of boes. Come on out now,” as we made no move. “If you don’t, you’ll wish you had in about two seconds.”

Slowly Dan clambered out. I followed.

“What to hell have we here? Blamed if it ain’t a woman!” the detective cried.

Tim, meanwhile, advanced with a lantern, and having given us a close inspection, leaped into the car.

“What in blazes is this?” he exclaimed, catching sight of the wheel.

Dan explained shortly.

“Well, yank her out of here. This car moves in about two minutes.”

Dan sprang inside and lowered the wheel to me. Tim threw our bundles to the ground. “Toot, toot,” whistled the engine. The train pulled out.

As the familiar car moved away, my heart seemed breaking. All my hopes of reaching California in a few days crashed to the ground; thoughts of the fierce railroad detectives, the waiting jail, the courtroom in the morning, surged over me. I burst into tears.

“What ya goin’ t’ do wid ’em, Joe? Run ’em in?” queried Tim.

“Naw, don’t believe I will. Come, now,” turning to us. “Beat it out o’ here and don’t let me catch yous fooling around this yard any more. Go on. Beat it quick.”

Glad enough to escape, we stumbled up the track through the darkness.

“Aw now, aw now,” said a hoarse voice at my elbow. “It’s pretty fierce luck, all right. But never you mind, lady, we’ll get you out of here all right. Just come right along to our shack and we’ll fix you up fine.”

In a few minutes we came to a tiny one-room shanty, formed from an old car, which was fitted up with a stove, bunks, a table and chairs. My kindly guide set out soap, clean towels and a fine, big basin of hot water. What luxury! I plunged my grimy hands into the grateful depths and laved my blackened, tear-stained face.

When Dan had made a refreshing toilet, we sat down to the first real meal in two days. Our friends, the car inspectors, watched us eat with much satisfaction while discussing the best method of getting us safely out of Des Moines. Picking up his switchman’s lantern, one stepped out and soon returned with the report that an empty car would go out in a freight that left about two o’clock.

The men conducted us by a circuitous way to a cattle car, the bottom of which was covered with a thick layer of clean straw. The detectives had already examined and passed this car, so under the protection of the car inspectors, it was quite safe to climb aboard. Our wheel was hoisted in and laid flat in a corner, and after an attempt to express our gratitude—really too deep for words—we ourselves lay down and were well covered with straw. I fell asleep immediately.

The rays of a lantern, which was thrust within a few inches of my face, aroused me. The train was grinding to a stop, and as I blinked stupidly in the sudden light, I heard voices deep in argument.

“I tell you, they’re no spotters. She has an honest face.”

And another voice answered, “Well, let ’em ride to the next station and ask ’em a few questions.”

The lantern flashed the signal, and once more we were under way.

The “brakie” settled himself in the straw. Dan produced his union card, our marriage license and other papers to prove our identity; the wheel was uncovered for inspection, and a few questions confirmed the brakeman in his opinion of our honesty. At the next stop the conductor joined us and agreed to move us into a closed car before daylight.

So to-day we rest in comfort and despite the ache of bruised and stiffened shoulders I am happy in the thought that to-morrow’s dawn will see us close to Council Bluffs.

EIGHT

_June 3rd_,
SOMEWHERE IN NEBRASKA.

EIGHT

_June 3rd. Somewhere in Nebraska._

At last I know the joys of domestic service. The pleasures of the “hired girl” and all the privileges and emoluments pertaining to her high estate have been mine.

Our good friends, the train crew, who carried us out of Des Moines, dropped us off at the first little station east of Council Bluffs early in the morning of May 15th. We determined to cycle into town, get breakfast and look for work. We were making good time and had entered the suburbs when, as we spun around a corner and approached a large red house, surrounded by a tall hedge, a series of brain-piercing shrieks rent the air. My control of the wheel was none too steady that morning and the shock was too much for frayed nerves and stiffened muscles. The tandem took the bit in its teeth and in a jiffy had buried its nose in the thick branches at the base of the hedge. I landed on my feet, and through a break in the shrubbery saw the cause of the commotion.

In an angle of the enclosure a red hen was flapping and squawking, her brood of downy chickens dashing hither and thither, pursued by a large mongrel dog. Within a high wire fence, evidently the chicken yard, a moon-faced woman stood like a marionette, her fat hands shooting into the air with a rhythmic precision which synchronised perfectly with the dropping of her lower jaw which opened widely with each vocal effort.

As I stared, the dog captured a tiny chick and tossed it high in air. I dashed forward and seized the brute by the scruff of the neck and dragged it, growling and struggling, to the break in the hedge where Dan came to my assistance and sent the animal howling down the road.

I turned back to the frightened brood and was joined by the female calliope. Together we gathered the cowering mites from their places of concealment among the grass and weeds and at last saw the mother safe in the coop, her decimated family huddled about her.

“You know chickens, oh, you know,” the lady puffed. “These are prize birds—all, all prize stock—I paid an outrageous price for them—Tamas said it was very shortsighted to do so—but you know chickens.”

“I couldn’t stand idly by while that hateful dog mangled the little things,” I interrupted.

“Of course not, with prize stock like these. You know, oh, you know.”

Dan approached with the tandem, the front tire of which was sadly flattened.

“Got a puncture when you rammed the hedge. Guess we’ll have to camp here till I can patch the inner tube. Maybe you can buy a few eggs and cook breakfast. I’m nearly starved.”

“Not these eggs. Not these eggs. These are all prize stock, every one a prize winner.” The arms of the moon-faced madam made an upward sweep. I clapped my hands over my ears instinctively. But a compassionate Fate in the shape of a young girl intervened.

“Breakfast’s ready, Ma’am,” she sang out. “Mr. MacBride says he will be right in.”

A tremendous struggle was mirrored in my lady’s open countenance. She looked at the “prize chickens,” turned toward the house, shot a covert glance at Dan, gazed anxiously at the chickens again. It was a solemn moment. But fear and hospitality triumphed.

“Maybe you better come in. I don’t know what Tamas will say. But the dog would have killed more—all prize stock—so shortsighted of me....”

Thus rambling on, she led the way into the house, while the maid stared unbelievingly. It came my turn for wonderment when I caught sight of the breakfast table. It was loaded with great bowls of oatmeal, cream, sausage, eggs, potatoes, and a heaping plate of graham or oatmeal gems. An odour of hot cakes spoke of more food to follow.

“You must wait till Tamas has finished. Just sit down here. I hear him coming now.”

Our hostess turned in much agitation as a long, cadaverous individual entered the door. He halted and fixed us with a hostile glare.

“Now, Tamas, now—this lady saved my prize doggins from a chick—oh, dickens from a chog—oh, oh, what am I saying!”

Dan uttered a strangled snort. The mingled horror and wrath on Tamas’ face was indescribable. His unfortunate wife once more essayed an explanation.

“He—he was going to suck the eggs. But I told him they were all—all prize eggs. Then I thought it best to bring them in here.”

“Probably under the circumstances it was the safest thing to do, ah. So you go about the country begging, do you?” He turned to Dan. “I am surprised, surprised and pained. Your wife—I presume she is your wife?—appears quite intelligent, ah.” He dragged out each word as from the depths of ultimate wisdom.

“Well, I’ll admit that my wife does show gleams of intelligence at times,” Dan responded gravely.

“Those thoroughbred fowls are provoking, most provoking, ah.” Mr. MacBride turned to his palpitating wife. “You see, my dear, how very shortsighted it was of you to bargain for them while I was in Omaha. Such a waste and loss—no profit. I shall be compelled to foreclose on old lady Martin’s poultry farm next week, which will give us some of the finest fowls in this county,—and at absolutely no expense for feed and care, no bother, no annoyance. All profit, clear profit, mark you that.”

He licked his lips physically and metaphorically as he seated himself at the table and attacked a bowl of oatmeal and cream. His performance reminded me of a dredger I once saw at work in the Sacramento Valley. The spoon work was wonderful—his only rival in endless chain effect being a Chinaman with chopsticks.

The girl removed the empty bowl and replaced it with a plate heaped with sausage, eggs and fried potatoes, which Mr. MacBride fell upon with undiminished zeal, his wife meanwhile plying us with questions.

“You, I take it, are presumably working people—that is, you will no doubt accept employment if such is presented to you,” he began after a prolonged period of uninterrupted labour. “Now, there is one grave failing to which the working classes of America abandon themselves, ah. They eat too much.”

With consummate skill he flipped into his thin-lipped, rapacious mouth an enormous forkful of sausages and potatoes, which he swallowed at a single gulp.

“I have read scientific articles, articles written by experts, which prove with mathematical accuracy that a workingman can live comfortably on nine cents a day, ah.”

“Tamas knows, oh, he knows,” chirped his wife delightedly.

“But the average workingman’s outlay is far, far beyond reason. This whole nation is suffering from extravagance and overfeeding, ah.”

“But thousands of people, in the cities especially, eat scarcely enough to sustain life,” I ventured.

“Slums, bah, slums, human dregs unworthy of an intelligent man’s consideration. Of course, they live in poverty. Why not? It is all their own fault,—lack of thrift, extravagance and laziness.” He paused to drain a cup of tea.

“But there is never any real poverty in the country districts. Now this community, for instance, is prosperous, most prosperous. I never get less than 8 per cent. on my loans.”

“That certainly does speak well for the community and yourself,” I conceded.

“I flatter myself that I am a good business man, an excellent example of the pure American type, conservative, patriotic, a solid all-round citizen. But our low, ignorant foreigners must be educated. I have endeavoured to collect a fund among our leading merchants to secure a teacher to inculcate an idea of thrift. Such work should really be done by the government. Thrift, ah—the lack of thrift is the curse of this nation. Just imagine the business gain if our extravagant working class could be brought to live on nine cents a day.”

“But I don’t understand,” I murmured, eyeing him with interest. “If your patrons ate less, they might save money, and then they would not borrow money of you at 8 per cent. interest, and the prosperity of this community would suffer.”

“Not at all, not at all.” He leaned forward with a first suggestion of animation. “With the price of land as it is, the cost of farm implements, the high taxes on improvements and the irregularity of crops, it is simply impossible for a man of small capital to escape a mortgage. Now the point is this. With the present high cost of living, the farmer pays even a moderate interest of 8 per cent. say, with extreme difficulty. But with proper instruction in thrift, I have no doubt rates could be raised to 12 per cent. and still not prove prohibitive.” He paused to butter a muffin.

“I hold land that I purchased for a song years ago. I hold it unimproved as the advance in land values, as the small farmers come in, amply repays me. But some of it I subdivided and sold at fat prices. Why, one of those farms has been foreclosed on five times in the last fifteen years. Each owner has added improvements, of course, but not what they should have done. If I could have had a series of really ambitious men on it, I now would own one of the finest farms in this section. But my farmers don’t seem to understand thrift.”

He sighed heavily as the maid set out the remains of the meal for our consumption. Dan, no doubt deeming imitation the sincerest flattery, seemed bent on equalling his host’s remarkable performance as trencherman. Mr. MacBride eyed each mouthful with scowling anguish, while with each succeeding minute his wife’s agitation increased.

“Really, my good man, your appetite is excessive, positively abnormal. I had thought of permitting you to work a few days for your board and lodging, but that is manifestly impossible. It would never do. Moderation, my good man, moderation should be the keynote in all things.”

We passed from the MacBride domicile in comparative quiet.

Dan soon had the puncture repaired and the wheel ready for the road. We mounted and presently were gliding through the streets of Council Bluffs.

A few hours’ inquiry convinced Dan of his inability to get work at his trade, but he heard that there was a chance of employment on a truck farm east of town, so we rode out to locate the place.

After some argument, we were engaged, I to do the housework, Dan to work in the fields. The farmer first offered a dollar a day between us, but we finally secured a dollar and a half a day and board. We were immediately put to work tying bunches of radishes, onions and other vegetables for market.

About ten in the evening, as we went to the bare room assigned us, the woman handed me an alarm clock set for four A. M. with orders to serve breakfast promptly at five so the men could be at work by five-thirty.

Nightmare days followed. Always up at four in the morning, I was kept constantly at work until after I had cooked the nine o’clock supper for two men who made the late trip to town each evening.

The house was a large one. There were four children, the man and his wife, an old aunt and five hired men besides Dan and myself to cook for. The laundry had remained undone since the last girl left, and present opportunities were not to be overlooked. Such heaps of soiled clothing I never saw before. Then, when cooking, cleaning, washing and ironing were done, if perchance there was half an hour to spare, I was set at the never-ending task of tying vegetables. On Sunday the mistress of the house wanted to know whether I could darn stockings, as I ought to be able to do a good deal of mending on that day. To cap it all, the couple quarrelled constantly, nagged the children and one another and railed at the poor old aunt by the hour. When not so engaged, the woman would snoop through our scanty belongings, ask me all manner of personal questions and follow me about with talk of the good home she was giving me and how few people there were who would take tramps and hoboes right into their own comfortable houses and care for them. Poor Dan was driven like a slave from dawn till dark and after, so at the end of a week, we concluded to take to the road once more.

When Dan informed the man of our intentions and asked for our money, such a storm of invective was loosed as is seldom heard. We were lazy, good-for-nothing bums who were too shiftless to do honest work, but wanted to live off thrifty, economical people who had some ambition in life. The woman declared that I was an ungrateful dog—only she did not say dog, but referred to the female of the species—that I had imposed on her hospitality for a whole week, but she supposed that was all one could expect for trying to do a good turn to dirty sewer rats. The man then burst into shocking profanity, which Dan cut short by suggesting the imminence of a stiff punch on the jaw.

As we were riding away from the “good home,” I recalled experiences related by servant girls with whom I had come in contact in the practice of my profession. I remembered the little maid who was on duty habitually sixteen hours a day in the mansion of a San Francisco millionaire. She became violently insane and was sent to the Napa State Hospital. I thought of the great number of household workers to be found in such institutions, and of the terrifying increase in insanity. Then my thoughts turned to those who go astray and others who lead lives of shame, and the large percentage that are recruited from the ranks of servant girls. My mind dwelt on the attitude of friends who counted the “good home” given a girl a large part of her reward for service rendered.

A good home. What is it? Food and shelter? Yes. But it is something more. Personal comfort, the exercise of individual taste in the choice of one’s intimate surroundings, the joy of ownership, the privilege of entertaining one’s friends, a sense of privacy, a certain liberty of habits—all these, added to that greatest of all great gifts, love, and the presence of the loved ones, make a true home.

We were approaching the Missouri River when black clouds heaped themselves across the horizon, and soon blasts of wind and rain forced us to seek the shelter of a rude shack on the river bank. A bent, white-bearded man opened the door and invited us in with all the warmth and grace of real southern hospitality. There was scant room for the wheel beneath the tiny porch, and the two rooms were already over-crowded.

A feeble old lady, swathed in shawls, sat in a rough box chair at the window. A young girl with a baby but a few days old on her arm lay on the bed, while a woman, evidently the daughter of the old couple, fussed about her. A tall, incredibly lanky girl was kept busy placing pots and pans to catch the drippings from the roof, which leaked in a dozen places.

In ten minutes we were chatting as freely as lifelong friends. The old man was a Confederate veteran, who had been wrecked financially and physically by the Civil War. He and his invalid wife had moved by degrees from Kentucky across Illinois and Iowa to their present location. One child only had survived the many privations. She had married young and been left a widow with two little girls. The eldest of these, the pale girl in the bed, had married a youth of eighteen when little more than a child. The baby which formed the fourth generation in this home of poverty awakened with a feeble wail. The mother showed me the wriggling red mite with an air of pride, but suddenly she turned her head away and burst into tears.

“Oh, Tony, Tony,” she moaned, “how can they keep you away from your own beautiful baby boy?”

“Her Tony’s in the jail,” the old man volunteered with slow bitterness. “In the jail because he couldn’t see his wife and unborn baby starve. We had bad luck last winter. I’m an old man. My right hand never has been worth anything since the War.” He extended his withered arm, drawn and distorted by an old wound. “I’ve done all I could, but work is scarce for such as me.”

“Folks won’t give Grandpap a job. They call him an old Copperhead.” The younger girl spoke for the first time.

“I fought for the South. I love her. Should my great-grandchild be starved for that?”

“The children had typhoid fever, Tony and Sadie and Stella.” The quiet, brown-eyed widow took up the story. “Tony took sick at the camp—he’d only been there a few weeks—and came home the last of October ready to die. Sadie took it next. She was carrying little Tony and it went hard with her. Then Stella came down. I thought we would lose them all. We had no money for anything. It was weeks and weeks before Tony got better and then he wasn’t strong. I took in washing when the worst was over, and Pap did all he could. Tony, he’s an orphan and Italian besides,—a Dago they call him.” Her voice trailed off despondently.

“Tony is as good an American as ever lived,” Sadie spoke up fiercely, “a sight better than the scrubs around here. Supposing his folks was Italian. What difference does that make?”

“Tony got work teaming,” the old man spoke again. “We had no food in the house, the weather was cold, Sadie was weak from the fever and crying with hunger all the time. He got to taking things from the cars and bringing them home. One time he brought a case of canned soup. How the girls did go for it. It was their salvation.

“Then one night it was snowing hard. Tony came in all tuckered out—he never was one of these husky boys—and he was sitting over the stove, with Sadie trying to cheer him up. All of a sudden the door flew open with a bang and in walks a couple of men—didn’t knock or nothing, just walked in—and put the handcuffs on him and dragged him away. I’ll never forget his black eyes, looking so big in his white face as he stared back at Sadie who had fallen in a faint.”

“And now he’s in jail, my Tony. He never knew what it was to have a single soul to love him till he met me. Just an orphan and a bound boy. He was always so good to me, working hard for a home and children. And now he can’t see his own son. Oh, Tony, Tony!” She flung herself about in agony.

“Hush, honey, hush. Think of little Tony. You’ll poison the milk if you take on that away.”

The frail mother quieted her grief and clasped her baby in an ecstasy of mother-love. “I must take good care of you, mother’s little angel. Daddy will come back to his own little baby boy some day.”

The rain had stopped, so we said good-bye to the unfortunate family and resumed our journey.

“There is no real poverty in the country districts, is there now?” I remarked as we pushed the wheel along the sloppy road.

“Oh, Tamas knows—he knows,” returned Dan grimly.

The old Confederate had told us of another truck farm not far distant where we could probably find employment, so we located a convenient clump of willows and made camp for the night.

Early next morning we applied for work at the farm and were set to the task of weeding onions, ten hours’ work for a dollar a day and board. Slowly the hours dragged past. The noon hour found me far too weary to eat, so I flung myself face down under a tree, while Dan sought the cook house with the other hands.

Once more I began work on the interminable rows. The sun beat down with intense heat, my back seemed literally broken. As I weeded in a daze, a peculiar illusion took possession of my mind. I saw a cosy room in San Francisco, caught a whiff of cooling, bracing fog, fresh from the Pacific, heard the unctuous tones of a well-groomed, fat-jowled, long-haired gentleman who was declaiming to a group of adoring females lengthy verses of his own composition on the “Joy of Labour.” Oh, grave and paunchy poet, would that thou wert here to busy thy soft white hands with gummy weeds and thistles and reap a harvest of joy and onions in my stead!

About three o’clock something happened. I found myself lying under the tree at the side of the field, with Dan pouring water over my face.

“What’s the matter, Dan?” I demanded, bewildered by my new and strange sensations.

“Oh, nothing much. You pitched forward on your head about half an hour ago and I thought you would never come to. You mark my words now. This ends it. You don’t do any more weed pulling or washing or scrubbing on this trip. If I can’t earn the living I’ll beg or steal.”

“It was my back, dear. I haven’t recovered from the thump I got that night in the radiator car. As soon as that spot gets well, I’ll be able to do any kind of work.”

“You may be able, but you won’t do it. I’ll see to that after this. You lie here and meditate on what I’ve been telling you while I finish this infernal day’s work. We’ll beat it into Omaha in the morning and I’ll look for a white man’s job.” With a farewell pat he returned to the weeding, leaving me to fall asleep in utter exhaustion.

We trundled over the long bridge across the Missouri River and passed through Omaha early the following morning. In a grove of trees on the western outskirts of the city, Dan pitched camp and made me as comfortable as possible, then mounted the wheel and rode into Omaha to search for work.

I was stretched full length on the ground, enjoying the rustle of the wind in the tree tops and the murmur of a tiny brook, when my attention was attracted by the sound of footsteps and a moment later a dainty child in a blue pinafore appeared at the edge of the little hollow. I smiled a welcome and she came closer and leaned against a near-by tree.

“Are you having a picnic all by yourself?” she asked, fingering her apron.

“Yes, a kind of picnic. I’m all by myself because my husband has gone to Omaha. You come over here and sit down by me and then I won’t be lonesome any more.”

She approached and snuggled by my side. We introduced ourselves and soon were deep in an interchange of confidences. She located various birds’ nests for me, described the latest family of kittens, discussed the number of eggs laid by her white pullet and many other matters of interest. Then I noticed that she seemed uneasy, examining our luggage with searching glances. Finally, eight-year-old flesh and blood could endure no more.

“Is the picnic in that bundle?” she asked wistfully. “When are you going to eat it?”

“There isn’t very much in that bundle. All I have is bread and butter, but I’ll get you some of that,” I replied, sitting up.

Her face fell, then brightened. “I know what I’ll do,” she cried, springing to her feet and clapping her hands joyously. “I’ll run home and ask mother to put me up some cookies—and some jam—and some hard-boiled eggs—and maybe some animal crackers, horses, you know, and cows and things—oh, I’ll get lots and lots of good things to eat, and then I’ll come back and we’ll have the very nicest picnic ever you saw in all your life.” She danced away with fairy-like grace, leaving me to picture her mother’s expression when informed of the woman who was holding a picnic all by herself on nothing but bread and butter.

Some fifteen minutes passed. Then I heard a gay “hoo-hoo,” and down the hillside came my girlie, skipping up and down and hastening the footsteps of a woman whom I knew at first glance to be her mother.

“This is Ethel, mother,” she cried as I rose to my feet. Then turning to me, “Now you can’t be lonesome any more, ’cause mother’s come her own self.”

There are persons to whom no introduction is necessary; we recognise them at once as old friends. Thus it was with Mrs. Patton and myself. She was soon in possession of my story and invited me to her home to rest and spend as many days as circumstances would permit. I pinned a note for Dan on the tree trunk, gathered our belongings, and set off for the house. Hazel piloted us over the ridge, through orchards and across fields until we came to a long, low farmhouse, cuddling between two hills and almost hidden by masses of vines and trees.

Mrs. Patton was a trained nurse and at once set to work to demonstrate her capabilities. She heated water, gave me a prolonged hot bath, followed by a thorough spine-stretching and massage, tucked me into bed, fed me a bountiful lunch, and then left me to dream away the afternoon in blissful comfort.

I awakened about six o’clock, wonderfully relieved and refreshed and found that my hostess had sent her son to watch for Dan at the cross roads and guide him to the house.

At dinner we were introduced to Mr. Patton and John, who were greatly interested in the story of our adventures. I told them of the old Confederate soldier, of Sadie grieving for her Tony in the jail, and they were horrified to learn that such misery existed so close at hand.

“Of course, I’ve been aware that there were all kinds of suffering and wretchedness in the slums of large cities,” Mr. Patton sighed, “but I thought there was no real poverty in the country districts.”

Dan shot me a covert glance.

“You’ll get the poor man out of jail, so he can see his little baby, won’t you, father dear?” Hazel inquired eagerly.

“Well, well. I’ll see what can be done. It’s a shame that such conditions should exist in a country as rich as this.”

When we had repaired to the living room, Mrs. Patton suggested music, and upon my delighted acquiescence, John set the Victrola to playing. Then for the first time I recognised one cause of my persistent heart-hunger. My soul was starving for music. Thrills of ecstasy agitated me almost to tears as the passionate strains of Tschaikowsky’s “Melodie” flooded the room with pulsating harmonies. Raff’s “Cavatina” seemed the divine expression of universal longing for home and love—_heimweh_ incarnate.