“It fetched him.  He gave one whoop, the car shot down, and I was on the drag.  You see, Anak, it’s a habit I can’t shake off of leaving vivid memories behind.  No one ever forgets me.

“I had not got to the corner when I heard a familiar voice at my shoulder: 

“‘Hello, Cinders!  Which way?’

“It was Chi Slim, who had been with me once when I was thrown off a freight in Jacksonville.  ’Couldn’t see ’em fer cinders,’ he described it, and the monica stuck by me....  Monica?  From monos.  The tramp nickname.

“‘Bound south,’ I answered.  ‘And how’s Slim?’

“‘Bum.  Bulls is horstile.’

“‘Where’s the push?’

“‘At the hang-out.  I’ll put you wise.’

“‘Who’s the main guy?’

“‘Me, and don’t yer ferget it.’”

The lingo was rippling from Leith’s lips, but perforce I stopped him.  “Pray translate.  Remember, I am a foreigner.”

“Certainly,” he answered cheerfully.  “Slim is in poor luck.  Bull means policeman.  He tells me the bulls are hostile.  I ask where the push is, the gang he travels with.  By putting me wise he will direct me to where the gang is hanging out.  The main guy is the leader.  Slim claims that distinction.

“Slim and I hiked out to a neck of woods just beyond town, and there was the push, a score of husky hobos, charmingly located on the bank of a little purling stream.

“‘Come on, you mugs!’ Slim addressed them.  ’Throw yer feet!  Here’s Cinders, an’ we must do ’em proud.’

“All of which signifies that the hobos had better strike out and do some lively begging in order to get the wherewithal to celebrate my return to the fold after a year’s separation.  But I flashed my dough and Slim sent several of the younger men off to buy the booze.  Take my word for it, Anak, it was a blow-out memorable in Trampdom to this day.  It’s amazing the quantity of booze thirty plunks will buy, and it is equally amazing the quantity of booze outside of which twenty stiffs will get.  Beer and cheap wine made up the card, with alcohol thrown in for the blowd-in-the-glass stiffs.  It was great—­an orgy under the sky, a contest of beaker-men, a study in primitive beastliness.  To me there is something fascinating in a drunken man, and were I a college president I should institute P.G. psychology courses in practical drunkenness.  It would beat the books and compete with the laboratory.

“All of which is neither here nor there, for after sixteen hours of it, early next morning, the whole push was copped by an overwhelming array of constables and carted off to jail.  After breakfast, about ten o’clock, we were lined upstairs into court, limp and spiritless, the twenty of us.  And there, under his purple panoply, nose crooked like a Napoleonic eagle and eyes glittering and beady, sat Sol Glenhart.

“‘John Ambrose!’ the clerk called out, and Chi Slim, with the ease of long practice, stood up.