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"Well, we've had some experience in the past with hoboes; think they could be a batch of Weary Willies, Paul?" remarked Tom Betts. "I'm not ready to say off-hand that they're not," replied the other, slowly; "but it hardly seems likely. In the first place, every one of them seemed to be wearing sound shoes. Did you ever know four tramps to do that?"

The huskier of the two hoboes, a bushy, bearded fellow, rolled his eyes and said, "I wonder?" But the other, who was old and spare, with a sharp nose and watery eyes, sighed. "Some has one affliction, some another," he said. Mrs. Kronborg reflected. "Well," she said at last, "you can't get liquor here, anyway.

Tomato-cans used to be able to talk in those days and the hoboes were very good to them always used to drink out of them and carry them to save them from walking. This can had a picture of its big red face on the outside. 'Give us a lift? said the can. 'Where to? said the old hobo. 'Back to California, where I came from, said the can.

Irresponsible teachers and professors constitute the worst of this whole gang, and I am ashamed to say that several of them are on the faculty of our great State University! The U. is my own Alma Mater, and I am proud to be known as an alumni, but there are certain instructors there who seem to think we ought to turn the conduct of the nation over to hoboes and roustabouts.

Feeling that he was at their home at an inopportune time, he went away and started out to find Amos and if possible persuade him to quit drinking. Not finding him at his office he took a nearer route and entered the Bucket of Blood by the back door. He passed two or three hoboes sitting on beer kegs on the outside. "Say, old timer, can't I dig into ye for two bits?" asked one.

"And on such a night," added Tom Reade. "Oh, we're pretty bad," said the boss tramp, huskily, "but we didn't do anything like that." "At first," Dick went on, "I thought you hoboes had done the deed. That was why I asked my friend to let you come in. I wanted to keep you here until we could find someone who would take care of you."

When hoboes pass the word along, concerning a town, that "the bulls is horstile," avoid that town, or, if you must, go through softly. There are some towns that one must always go through softly. Such a town was Cheyenne, on the Union Pacific. Jeff Carr could size up the "front" of a hobo on the instant. He never entered into discussion.

You never traveled more than two hundred miles away from Hoboken the capital city of hoboes. Have you ever hit the sage-brush trail, hiked the milk-and-honey route from Ogden through the Mormon country, decked the Overland Express, beaten the blind baggage on the Millionaires' Flier? Hey?" The sullen vagrant blinked stupidly.

There wasn't room for two thousand hoboes to ride. So the mobs and the hoboes had a talkfest, fraternized, sang songs, and parted, the mobs going back on their captured train to Omaha, the hoboes pulling out next morning on a hundred-and-forty-mile march to Des Moines. It was not until Kelly's Army crossed the Missouri that it began to walk, and after that it never rode again.

Often and often have I met hoboes earnestly inquiring if I had seen anywhere such and such a "stiff" or his monica. And more than once I have been able to give the monica of recent date, the water-tank, and the direction in which he was then bound. And promptly the hobo to whom I gave the information lit out after his pal.