by Jack London
“Never again what?” I managed to articulate.
Speech strove for utterance in the Swede’s throat; then faint and distant, in a thin whisper from the very bottom of his frozen soul, came the words:—
“Never again a hobo.”
He paused, and, as he went on again, his voice gathered strength and huskiness as it affirmed his will.
“Never again a hobo. I’m going to get a job. You’d better do the same. Nights like this make rheumatism.”
He wrung my hand.
“Goodbye, Bo,” said he.
“Goodbye, Bo,” said I.
The next we were swallowed up from each other by the mist. It was our final passing. But here’s to you, Mr. Swede, wherever you are. I hope you got that job.
Chapter 7
Road-Kids and Gay-Cats
Every once in a while, in newspapers, magazines, and biographical dictionaries, I run upon sketches of my life, wherein, delicately phrased, I learn that it was in order to study sociology that I became a tramp. This is very nice and thoughtful of the biographers, but it is inaccurate. I became a tramp—well, because of the life that was in me, of the wanderlust in my blood that would not let me rest. Sociology was merely incidental; it came afterward, in the same manner that a wet skin follows a ducking. I went on “The Road” because I couldn’t keep away from it; because I hadn’t the price of the railroad fare in my jeans; because I was so made that I couldn’t work all my life on “one same shift”; because—well, just because it was easier to than not to.
It happened in my own town, in Oakland, when I was sixteen. At that time I had attained a dizzy reputation in my chosen circle of adventurers, by whom I was known as the Prince of the Oyster Pirates. It is true, those immediately outside my circle, such as honest bay-sailors, longshoremen, yachtsmen, and the legal owners of the oysters, called me “tough,” “hoodlum,” “smoudge,” “thief,” “robber,” and various other not nice things—all of which was complimentary and but served to increase the dizziness of the high place in which I sat. At that time I had not read “Paradise Lost,” and later, when I read Milton’s “Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven,” I was fully convinced that great minds run in the same channels.
It was at this time that the fortuitous concatenation of events sent me upon my first adventure on The Road. It happened that there was nothing doing in oysters just then; that at Benicia, forty miles away, I had some blankets I wanted to get; and that at Port Costa, several miles from Benicia, a stolen boat lay at anchor in charge of the constable. Now this boat was owned by a friend of mine, by name Dinny McCrea. It had been stolen and left at Port Costa by Whiskey Bob, another friend of mine. (Poor Whiskey Bob! Only last winter his body was picked up on the beach shot full of holes by nobody knows whom.) I had come down from “up river” some time before, and reported to Dinny McCrea the whereabouts of his boat; and Dinny McCrea had promptly offered ten dollars to me if I should bring it down to Oakland to him.
Time was heavy on my hands. I sat on the dock and talked it over with Nickey the Greek, another idle oyster pirate. “Let’s go,” said I, and Nickey was willing. He was “broke.” I possessed fifty cents and a small skiff. The former I invested and loaded into the latter in the form of crackers, canned corned beef, and a ten-cent bottle of French mustard. (We were keen on French mustard in those days.) Then, late in the afternoon, we hoisted our small sprit-sail and started. We sailed all night, and next morning, on the first of a glorious flood tide, a fair wind behind us, we came booming up the Carquinez Straits to Port Costa. There lay the stolen boat, not twenty-five feet from the wharf. We ran alongside and doused our little spritsail. I sent Nickey forward to lift the anchor, while I began casting off the gaskets.
A man ran out on the wharf and hailed us. It was the constable. It suddenly came to me that I had neglected to get a written authorization from Dinny McCrea to take possession of his boat. Also, I knew that constable wanted to charge at least twenty-five dollars in fees for capturing the boat from Whiskey Bob and subsequently taking care of it. And my last fifty cents had been blown in for corned beef and French mustard, and the reward was only ten dollars anyway. I shot a glance forward to Nickey. He had the anchor up-and-down and was straining at it. “Break her out,” I whispered to him, and turned and shouted back to the constable. The result was that he and I were talking at the same time, our spoken thoughts colliding in mid-air and making gibberish.
The constable grew more imperative, and perforce I had to listen. Nickey was heaving on the anchor till I thought he’d burst a blood vessel. When the constable got done with his threats and warnings, I asked him who he was. The time he lost in telling me enabled Nickey to break out the anchor. I was doing some quick calculating. At the feet of the constable a ladder ran down the dock to the water, and to the ladder was moored a skiff. The oars were in it. But it was padlocked. I gambled everything on that padlock. I felt the breeze on my cheek, saw the surge of the tide, looked at the remaining gaskets that confined the sail, ran my eyes up the halyards to the blocks and knew that all was clear, and then threw off all dissimulation.
“In with her!” I shouted to Nickey, and sprang to the gaskets, casting them loose and thanking my stars that Whiskey Bob had tied them in square-knots instead of “grannies.”
The constable had slid down the ladder and was fumbling with a key at the padlock. The anchor came aboard and the last gasket was loosed at the same instant that the constable freed the skiff and jumped to the oars.
“Peak-halyards!” I commanded my crew, at the same time swinging on to the throat-halyards. Up came the sail on the run. I belayed and ran aft to the tiller.
“Stretch her!” I shouted to Nickey at the peak. The constable was just reaching for our stern. A puff of wind caught us, and we shot away. It was great. If I’d had a black flag, I know I’d have run it up in triumph. The constable stood up in the skiff, and paled the glory of the day with the vividness of his language. Also, he wailed for a gun. You see, that was another gamble we had taken.
Anyway, we weren’t stealing the boat. It wasn’t the constable’s. We were merely stealing his fees, which was his particular form of graft. And we weren’t stealing the fees for ourselves, either; we were stealing them for my friend, Dinny McCrea.
Benicia was made in a few minutes, and a few minutes later my blankets were aboard. I shifted the boat down to the far end of Steamboat Wharf, from which point of vantage we could see anybody coming after us. There was no telling. Maybe the Port Costa constable would telephone to the Benicia constable. Nickey and I held a council of war. We lay on deck in the warm sun, the fresh breeze on our cheeks, the flood tide rippling and swirling past. It was impossible to start back to Oakland till afternoon, when the ebb would begin to run. But we figured that the constable would have an eye out on the Carquinez Straits when the ebb started, and that nothing remained for us but to wait for the following ebb, at two o’clock next morning, when we could slip by Cerberus in the darkness.
So we lay on deck, smoked cigarettes, and were glad that we were alive. I spat over the side and gauged the speed of the current.
“With this wind, we could run this flood clear to Rio Vista,” I said.
“And it’s fruit-time on the river,” said Nickey.
“And low water on the river,” said I. “It’s the best time of the year to make Sacramento.”
We sat up and looked at each other. The glorious west wind was pouring over us like wine. We both spat over the side and gauged the current. Now I contend that it was all the fault of that flood tide and fair wind. They appealed to our sailor instinct. If it had not been for them, the whole chain of events that was to put me upon The Road would have broken down.
We said no word, but cast off our moorings and hoisted sail. Our adventures up the Sacramento River are no part of this narrative. We subsequently made the city of Sacramento and tied up at a wharf. The water was fine, and we spent most of our time in swimming. On the sandbar above
the railroad bridge we fell in with a bunch of boys likewise in swimming. Between swims we lay on the bank and talked. They talked differently from the fellows I had been used to herding with. It was a new vernacular. They were road-kids, and with every word they uttered the lure of The Road laid hold of me more imperiously.
“When I was down in Alabama,” one kid would begin; or, another, “Coming up on the C. & A. from K.C.”; whereat, a third kid, “On the C. & A. there ain’t no steps to the ‘blinds.’” And I would lie silently in the sand and listen. “It was at a little town in Ohio on the Lake Shore and Michigan Southern,” a kid would start; and another, “Ever ride the Cannonball on the Wabash?”; and yet another, “Nope, but I’ve been on the White Mail out of Chicago.” “Talk about railroadin’—wait till you hit the Pennsylvania, four tracks, no water tanks, take water on the fly, that’s goin’ some.” “The Northern Pacific’s a bad road now.” “Salinas is on the ‘hog,’ the ‘bulls’ is ‘horstile.’” “I got ‘pinched’ at El Paso, along with Moke Kid.” “Talkin’ of ‘poke-outs,’ wait till you hit the French country out of Montreal—not a word of English—you say, ‘Mongee, Madame, mongee, no spika da French,’ an’ rub your stomach an’ look hungry, an’ she gives you a slice of sow-belly an’ a chunk of dry ‘punk.’”
And I continued to lie in the sand and listen. These wanderers made my oyster-piracy look like thirty cents. A new world was calling to me in every word that was spoken—a world of rods and gunnels, blind baggages and “side-door Pullmans,” “bulls” and “shacks,” “floppings” and “chewin’s,” “pinches” and “getaways,” “strong arms” and “bindle-stiffs,” “punks” and “profesh.” And it all spelled Adventure. Very well; I would tackle this new world. I “lined” myself up alongside those road-kids. I was just as strong as any of them, just as quick, just as nervy, and my brain was just as good.
After the swim, as evening came on, they dressed and went up town. I went along. The kids began “battering” the “main-stem” for “light pieces,” or, in other words, begging for money on the main street. I had never begged in my life, and this was the hardest thing for me to stomach when I first went on The Road. I had absurd notions about begging. My philosophy, up to that time, was that it was finer to steal than to beg; and that robbery was finer still because the risk and the penalty were proportionately greater. As an oyster pirate I had already earned convictions at the hands of justice, which, if I had tried to serve them, would have required a thousand years in state’s prison. To rob was manly; to beg was sordid and despicable. But I developed in the days to come all right, all right, till I came to look upon begging as a joyous prank, a game of wits, a nerve-exerciser.
That first night, however, I couldn’t rise to it; and the result was that when the kids were ready to go to a restaurant and eat, I wasn’t. I was broke. Meeny Kid, I think it was, gave me the price, and we all ate together. But while I ate, I meditated. The receiver, it was said, was as bad as the thief; Meeny Kid had done the begging, and I was profiting by it. I decided that the receiver was a whole lot worse than the thief, and that it shouldn’t happen again. And it didn’t. I turned out next day and threw my feet as well as the next one.
Nickey the Greek’s ambition didn’t run to The Road. He was not a success at throwing his feet, and he stowed away one night on a barge and went down river to San Francisco. I met him, only a week ago, at a pugilistic carnival. He has progressed. He sat in a place of honor at the ringside. He is now a manager of prize-fighters and proud of it. In fact, in a small way, in local sportdom, he is quite a shining light.
“No kid is a road-kid until he has gone over ‘the hill’”—such was the law of The Road I heard expounded in Sacramento. All right, I’d go over the hill and matriculate. “The hill,” by the way, was the Sierra Nevadas. The whole gang was going over the hill on a jaunt, and of course I’d go along. It was French Kid’s first adventure on The Road. He had just run away from his people in San Francisco. It was up to him and me to deliver the goods. In passing, I may remark that my old title of “Prince” had vanished. I had received my “monica.” I was now “Sailor Kid,” later to be known as “‘Frisco Kid,” when I had put the Rockies between me and my native state.
At 10:20 PM the Central Pacific overland pulled out of the depot at Sacramento for the East—that particular item of timetable is indelibly engraved on my memory. There were about a dozen in our gang, and we strung out in the darkness ahead of the train ready to take her out. All the local road-kids that we knew came down to see us off—also, to “ditch” us if they could. That was their idea of a joke, and there were only about forty of them to carry it out. Their ringleader was a crackerjack road-kid named Bob. Sacramento was his home town, but he’d hit The Road pretty well everywhere over the whole country. He took French Kid and me aside and gave us advice something like this: “We’re goin’ to try an’ ditch your bunch, see? Youse two are weak. The rest of the push can take care of itself. So, as soon as youse two nail a blind, deck her. An’ stay on the decks till youse pass Roseville Junction, at which burg the constables are horstile, sloughin’ in everybody on sight.”
The engine whistled and the overland pulled out. There were three blinds on her—room for all of us. The dozen of us who were trying to make her out would have preferred to slip aboard quietly; but our forty friends crowded on with the most amazing and shameless publicity and advertisement. Following Bob’s advice, I immediately “decked her,” that is, climbed up on top of the roof of one of the mail-cars. There I lay down, my heart jumping a few extra beats, and listened to the fun. The whole train crew was forward, and the ditching went on fast and furious. After the train had run half a mile, it stopped, and the crew came forward again and ditched the survivors. I, alone, had made the train out.
Back at the depot, about him two or three of the push that had witnessed the accident, lay French Kid with both legs off. French Kid had slipped or stumbled—that was all, and the wheels had done the rest. Such was my initiation to The Road. It was two years afterward when I next saw French Kid and examined his “stumps.” This was an act of courtesy. “Cripples” always like to have their stumps examined. One of the entertaining sights on The Road is to witness the meeting of two cripples. Their common disability is a fruitful source of conversation; and they tell how it happened, describe what they know of the amputation, pass critical judgment on their own and each other’s surgeons, and wind up by withdrawing to one side, taking off bandages and wrappings, and comparing stumps.
But it was not until several days later, over in Nevada, when the push caught up with me, that I learned of French Kid’s accident. The push itself arrived in bad condition. It had gone through a trainwreck in the snow sheds; Happy Joe was on crutches with two mashed legs, and the rest were nursing skins and bruises.
In the meantime, I lay on the roof of the mail-car, trying to remember whether Roseville Junction, against which burg Bob had warned me, was the first stop or the second stop. To make sure, I delayed descending to the platform of the blind until after the second stop. And then I didn’t descend. I was new to the game, and I felt safer where I was. But I never told the push that I held down the decks the whole night, clear across the Sierras, through snow sheds and tunnels, and down to Truckee on the other side, where I arrived at seven in the morning. Such a thing was disgraceful, and I’d have been a common laughing-stock. This is the first time I have confessed the truth about that first ride over the hill. As for the push, it decided that I was all right, and when I came back over the hill to Sacramento, I was a full-fledged road-kid.
Yet I had much to learn. Bob was my mentor, and he was all right. I remember one evening (it was fair time in Sacramento, and we were knocking about and having a good time) when I lost my hat in a fight. There was I bare-headed in the street, and it was Bob to the rescue. He took me to one side from the push and told me what to do. I was a bit timid of his advice. I had just come out of jail, where I had been three days, and I knew that
if the police “pinched” me again, I’d get good and “soaked.” On the other hand, I couldn’t show the white feather. I’d been over the hill, I was running full-fledged with the push, and it was up to me to deliver the goods. So I accepted Bob’s advice, and he came along with me to see that I did it up brown.
We took our position on K Street, on the corner, I think, of Fifth. It was early in the evening and the street was crowded. Bob studied the headgear of every Chinaman that passed. I used to wonder how the road-kids all managed to wear “five-dollar Stetson stiff-rims,” and now I knew. They got them, the way I was going to get mine, from the Chinese. I was nervous—there were so many people about; but Bob was cool as an iceberg. Several times, when I started forward toward a Chinaman, all nerved and keyed up, Bob dragged me back. He wanted me to get a good hat, and one that fitted. Now a hat came by that was the right size but not new; and, after a dozen impossible hats, along would come one that was new but not the right size. And when one did come by that was new and the right size, the rim was too large or not large enough. My, Bob was finicky. I was so wrought up that I’d have snatched any kind of a head-covering.
And then, suddenly, around the corner at my back, came the bare-headed Chinaman. With him were a couple more Chinamen, and at their heels were half a dozen men and boys. I sprinted to the next corner, crossed the street, and rounded the following corner. I decided that I had surely played him out, and I dropped into a walk again. But around the corner at my heels came that persistent Mongolian. It was the old story of the hare and the tortoise. He could not run so fast as I, but he stayed with it, plodding along at a shambling and deceptive trot, and wasting much good breath in noisy imprecations. He called all Sacramento to witness the dishonor that had been done him, and a goodly portion of Sacramento heard and flocked at his heels. And I ran on like the hare, and ever that persistent Mongolian, with the increasing rabble, overhauled me. But finally, when a policeman had joined his following, I let out all my links. I twisted and turned, and I swear I ran at least twenty blocks on the straight away. And I never saw that Chinaman again. The hat was a dandy, a brand-new Stetson, just out of the shop, and it was the envy of the whole push. Furthermore, it was the symbol that I had delivered the goods. I wore it for over a year.