* * * * *

Tramps often travel in pairs.  I picked up a “buddy” ... a short, thick-set man of young middle age, of Scandinavian descent ... so blond that his eyebrows were white in contrast with his face, which was ruddy with work in the sun.  He, like me, was a “gaycat” or tramp who is not above occasional work (as the word meant then—­now it means a cheap, no-account grafter).  He had recently been working picking oranges ... previous to that, he had been employed in a Washington lumber camp.

* * * * *

Together we drifted along the seacoast south to San Diego ... then back again to Santa Barbara ... for no reason but just to drift.  Then we sauntered over to San Bernardino—­“San Berdu,” as the tramps call it....

* * * * *

It struck chilly, one night.  So chilly that we went into the freightyard to put up in an empty box-car till the sun of next day rose to warm the world.

We found a car.  There were many other men already there, which was good; the animal heat of their bodies made the interior warmer.

The interior of the car sounded like a Scotch bagpipe a-drone ... what with snoring, breaking of wind in various ways, groaning, and muttering thickly in dreams ... the air was sickeningly thick and fetid.  But to open a side door meant to let in the cold.

Softly my buddy and I drew off our shoes, putting them under our heads to serve as pillows, and also to keep them from being stolen. (Often a tramp comes along with a deft enough touch to untie a man’s shoes from his feet without waking him.  I’ve heard of its being done.) We wrapped our feet in newspapers, then.  Our coats we removed, to wrap them about us ... one keeps warmer that way than by just wearing the coat....

* * * * *

The door on each side crashed back!

“Here’s another nest full of ’em!”

“Come on out, boys!”

“What’s the matter?” I queried.

“‘stoo cold out here.  We have a nice, warm calaboose waitin’ fer ye!”

Grunting and grumbling, we dropped to the cinders, one after the other.  A posse of deputies and citizens, had, for some dark reason, rounded us up.

One or two made a break for it, and escaped, followed by a random shot. 
After that, no one else cared to be chased after by a bullet.

They conducted us to what they had termed “the calaboose,” a big, ramshackle, one-roomed barn-like structure.  Piled in so thick that we almost had to stand up, there were so many of us—­we were held there till next morning.

But we were served, then, a good breakfast, at the town’s expense.  The owner of the restaurant was a queer little, grey-faced, stringy fellow.  He fed us all the buckwheat cakes and sausages we could hold, and won every hobo’s heart, by giving all the coffee we could drink ... we held our cups with our hands about them, grateful for the warmth.