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Then the usual talk began. The hobos cursed the country, its people, the railroad, work and the lack of it, the administration, and themselves. Waco did not agree with everything they said, but he wished to tramp with them until something better offered. So he fell in with their humor, but made the mistake of cursing the trainmen's union.

"We'll all chip in. But I don't mind going after them." "The trouble is can we trust you not to eat them all on the way back?" Bob laughed. "Anybody that doesn't think so can go for his own doughnuts," replied Jimmy. "Kick in there, you hobos, and I'll be on my way. I'm getting hungrier every minute."

They mounted a flight of dirty stairs and came into the office, where a number of poverty-stricken men were sitting about, reading papers, smoking, and talking. Some of the men looked like hobos, and all wore on their faces the stamp of blighted lives. A single glance made it plain that drink had caused the downfall of nearly all of them.

I'm talkin' about makin' piles o' money, and I'm gettin' my breakfast off o' you, ain't I? If I really was the heavy hitter I'm advertisin' myself to be I wouldn't condescend to take you on, would I? That's what you been thinkin', ain't it? "Take those hobos up in the lodgin' house, for instance. Curiosity's eatin' their hearts out in regard to me.

"But I must say that Alonzo didn't seem to mutter any, from all I could hear. Pathetic, the way that little man will believe right up to the bitter end. He said that for a hobo Wilfred wrote very good poetry, better than most hobos could write, he thought, and that Henrietta always knew what she was doing.

I tell you when a man has been steadily dropping, in his own estimation, as well as the social scale; when he has just about lost his pride, his self-respect, his realization of right and wrong; when he sees nothing ahead worth fighting for; when he seeks happiness in drink, and makes companions out of crooks and hobos, that is when it amounts to something to have a real woman like you come into his life, and hear her speak of trust and friendship.

"Looks as if you'd made good time, but the track's pretty rough for breaking records on," he remarked. "That's so," Foster answered breathlessly. "I wanted to get here before you pulled out, because I'm going on with you." "No, sir; it's clean against the rules. You can't get a free ride now on a C.P. freight" "The rules apply to hobos. I've got a first-class ticket to Montreal."

Tom glanced down at his ancient regalia of worn leather chaps, spurs, and the old forty-one that sagged from his right hip, and grinned. "Guns is coming into style again out our way," he replied. "All the best families wears 'em. There's so many of these here durn hobos and railway men and Irish and other low characters " "Th' nerve of yez!" snorted Mr. Quilty.

High Chin's eyes narrowed. "Was he ridin' that horse?" And he pointed to the black. Lorry admitted that he had found the horse tied in the brush near the Notch. High Chin swung round. "You fork your bronc and get busy. There's eighty head and over strayin' in here, and the old man ain't payin' you to entertain hobos. I'll herd this hombre to camp."

The tall one echoed an equally casual chorus. "They don't teach no sort of manners to them down-East hobos, neither." De Launay stared impassively at the road in front of them. "You'd think some of them'd sense it that a gent has got a right to be private when he wants to be." "It's a of a town, nohow." "People even run around smellin' of liquor which is plumb illegal, Sucatash."