Come and have some breakfast
"Come and have some breakfast," she said in a low voice, "it's all ready and the coffee's hot."
There was no help for it, and I humbly assented to take a cup of coffee. The hot, steaming coffee was of the best quality, and four times did my beautiful young waitress see that my cup was filled.
Sometimes I think that coffee saved my life.
Upon leaving Mrs. Sprague's I walked down town from the fair grounds, a distance of about three miles.
The first man I asked for a job was F. P. Holland, the rich editor of theTexas Farm and Ranch.
He said he had no work at present.
Before leaving, I told him I was sick, cold and hungry, and had nowhere to sleep that night.
I asked him to loan me $1.00 until I could get on my feet and pay him back. He loaned me 25 cents, which I was glad to be able to pay back in a few days.
Leaving the rich man and his luxury, I took a long tramp back to the fair grounds, where someone said I could get a job.
Secretary Sidney Smith was in charge of the work, and after hearing my story, kindly furnished me a place to sleep and eat, and gave me a job helping to repair the fair grounds.
"I don't really need any more labor," he said, "but I believe in helping a man when he's down."
He secured me a place to board at No. 270 South Carroll Ave., with one of the foremen, Mr. R. Downey.
That night I was surprised to learn that the young lady, who had waited on me so nicely at the store, was Mr. Downey's daughter.
While at Mrs. Downey's I was taken down with a high fever, and for the first time since leaving home I had a hard spell of asthma. This only increased my desire to get to Arizona or New Mexico.
Good cotton choppers around Dallas are paid $1.75 per day and board.
About two weeks later I left the city.
After paying for my board and buying a few articles of clothing, I had but $3.00.
I left Dallas one Sunday evening on a street car for Fort Worth. The distance is about 22 miles.
That same afternoon an employment bureau run by Glenn & Co. shipped me for $1.00 from Fort Worth over the Fort Worth and Denver Road to Iowa Park, Tex., to do railroad construction work.
I was trying to reach El Paso, which is only 600 miles over the Texas Pacific Road from Fort Worth, but while in Fort Worth I was told it was almost as much as a man's life was worth to try to beat the T. P. road between these points, on account of the extreme cruelty of the brakemen, so I decided to go around the longest way, which would take me through New Mexico.
On the way to Iowa Park, I fell in with a young man from Chicago, who had also shipped out.
That night we deserted the train at a small station just before reaching Iowa Park.
We were now nearly two hundred miles from Fort Worth and had ridden the entire distance for $1.00.
I have forgotten the young man's name, but will call him White. He said he had left his home in Chicago to settle somewhere in the West and make his fortune.
We decided to travel along together awhile.
About daylight we caught a freight train.
A long smokestack of some kind was loaded on a flat-car.
Into the smutty stack we crawled, he entering one end and I the other, and crawled until our heads met in the middle.
When we came together White was trembling all over.
"I've done everything since leaving home but hobo," said he.
He reminded me of my own experience through South Carolina and Georgia.
We made a lot of noise getting into the stack, and had not more than become comfortable when a brakeman's lantern was thrust into one end.
"Hello! Hello! in the pipe there," he shouted.
We crawled out and asked him to let us go, but it was "no go."
"Give me a dollar apiece, or off you go at the next stop," said the brakeman, and he kept hisword. We were put down at a little town sixteen miles from Vernon, Texas.
We immediately set out to walk to Vernon, and had proceeded along the track about ten miles when a large farm wagon containing seven or eight farmers overtook us.
They were going to Vernon and offered us a ride.
At this time of the year the farmers are walking up and down the streets of Vernon offering as high as $2.00 per day and board for men to work in the harvest fields. In fact, at no time of the year a farm laborer in this part of Texas is not paid less than $30.00 per month and board.
I had never heard of farm hands getting such high wages, and suggested to White that we work in Vernon long enough to pay our way to Arizona or New Mexico, but like all young fellows who stay in the West awhile, he had caught the fever of roving and rambling from one green pasture to another—content no where—and put up a strong kick.
He wanted to work in Vernon but a few days only.
"You're from the East, and you know nothing about good wages," he said. "Why this is nothing to what we can make in Roswell, New Mexico, gathering apples."
I had heard of the wonderful apple orchards around Roswell, and then, too, the climate wouldbe better for me. I decided White was right, and that we would not stay long in Vernon.
Late that afternoon a ranchman took us out in his buggy to a ranch about five miles from town.
He had offered us $2.00 per day and board to shock wheat.
Neither of us had ever shocked any wheat, but he said we could soon learn.
Judging from my companion's conversation since I had met him, I had a suspicion he was a better pool player than he was wheat shocker, but the wealthy ranch owners of Texas at this season of the year, when their thousands of acres of land are lying in unshocked wheat, are glad enough to get a man, even if he is a slow worker and from the city.
Some time after dark we came upon a small, one-room hut. Near the hut was a large, covered wagon.
"Here's where you sleep," said the ranchman. "Just go right in and make your bed out of wheat."
Everything was very still in the hut, considering the fact that the one room contained some ten or a dozen men; but the men who had labored long and hard under the hot Texas sun that day were now scattered here and there about the hut floor, wrapped in a deep, sweet sleep. (Each of these men was from a different city or State, as I afterwards learned.)
There was plenty of wheat strewn about thefloor for us to lie upon, and soon two other weary, footsore travelers, lulled by the soft breeze blowing in the window, had fallen easy victims to the soothing caresses of Morpheus.
It was about 4 a. m. that we were roused out of bed by a man announcing that breakfast was ready.
For once I didn't care to eat.
"Come and get it, or I'll throw it out—Come and get it or I'll throw it out," yelled a loud voice from the vicinity of the wagon.
"What's he going to throw out?" I asked the fellow who had disturbed my sleep.
"It's the cook calling the men to breakfast," said he, "and you'd better hurry if you want any."
"Where is a place to wash?" I asked.
"Over there at the end of the wagon," said the man.
I reached the spot and found some seven or eight men washing from one small tin vessel about half full of soapy water.
Water is a scarce article on the prairies and but little of the precious fluid is used for washing purposes.
I washed the corners of my eyes, but there was no towel, comb nor brush to be had, and I made my way to the breakfast table.
The table was one long plank, supported at either end by a barrel.
The plates, saucers and knives were all made of tin.
The grub was well cooked and of good variety. The table was soon cleared and it was now to the wheat fields.
On the third day at noon both White and myself had gotten enough of the harvest fields and, receiving our pay, set out on foot for Vernon.
That night we caught a passenger train and beat it one hundred miles to Childress, Tex., where we were put off.
But not to stay long. An emigrant, who was moving his household effects to the Indian Territory, allowed us to get in the car where his furniture was and carried us over two hundred miles to Dalhart, Tex., landing there late the next day.
I parted with White at Dalhart. He had changed his mind about going to Roswell, and now wanted to go to Denver, Colo.
Two hours after he had caught the Denver train I was safely hid in a coke car on an El Paso freight train.
I had no trouble in catching the train at Dalhart, for just as it pulled out a rough fight took place on the depot platform, both parties using firearms, which served momentarily to take attention from me. It's doubtful though whether I'd have been bothered in Dalhart anyway, for it is one of those rough little Western towns 'way up in the Texas Panhandle, in which "everything goes."
And, say, that was a funny fight, too. A big, rough-looking fellow, presumably a miner, had been cutting up too much fuss on the depot platform. The agent came out and asked him to be quiet, but instead of quieting him, he made matters worse. The big fellow began cursing everybody on the platform. A cop was called and in a moment there was a mix up. The cop pecked the fellow all over the head with his pistol, but the miner gamely came back at him with his own pistol, neither of them uttering a word. In a few minutes blood was streaming from both. The big fellow finally gave in and put up his gun.
"Come on now," said the cop, grabbing the man by the arm, and starting up the street.
I was wondering where the jail was, when to my surprise the cop released the man before they had gone a block.
The cop now came back to the depot, smiling.
"I got rid o' him," he said, but he was mistaken, for the other fellow, by this time, had also reached the depot.
Walking up close to the cop, he leered:
"Do you think I'm afraid of you?" and then another fight, even rougher than the other, began.
It was at this juncture, unobserved, I slipped into the coke car.
Within a short time after leaving Dalhart we crossed the State line into New Mexico.
Across the Line into New Mexico—Barren Sand Hills—Jack Rabbits—Prairie Dogs—A Glorious Sunset, etc.
The train had now entered a country that is simply indescribable for its bleak barrenness.
On every hand, as far as I could see, was nothing but barren sand hills, broken here and there by high mountain ridges.
In some places we would go forty or fifty miles without seeing a sign of human habitation, then suddenly we would come upon a small collection of adobe huts, that is, huts built of sun-dried, mud bricks.
These little houses have a flat roof, and some of them are no taller than a man's head. They are occupied by Mexicans and Indians.
A big rain would destroy all these dwellings; but rain is almost as scarce in this desolate, sun-baked region as snow is in the Torrid Zone.
When it does rain there and a man's clothes are wet, it takes but ten minutes for the air to dry him off again.
From where I was sitting in the door of the coke car thousands upon thousands of jack rabbits, cotton tails and prairie dogs could be seen dodging in and out among the rocks and cactus trees.
Once, just before dark came on, a solitary cowboy, wearing high boots and a big sombrero, mounted on a spirited young pony, dashed across the tracks ahead of the train and disappeared behind the low mountain ridges toward the sunset—and such a grand, beautiful sunset that was!—the sun slowly sinking behind the distant mountain peaks, and the whole heavens lit up with a perfect flood of golden beauty, was a scene, though I live to be a hundred years old, I shall never forget.
Nowhere else in all the world, I believe, are the sunsets so gloriously beautiful as in Arizona or New Mexico.
Lost in spell-bound admiration and silent reflection, I sat in the car door until long after dark.
The night air at home had always given me the asthma, but there was no asthma feeling about me now; instead I felt that it would be an impossibility to wheeze.
I inhaled great draughts of the dry, pure air, which seemed to penetrate to my very toes, and open every air cell in my body.
Surely for those whose lungs are affected this is God's country, I thought.
Then and there I registered a solemn vow that when my parents were no more, I should return to this country and pass the remainder of my days.
All of this part of New Mexico is devoted tosheep raising. White men are in demand as sheep herders, and are usually paid $30.00 per month and board.
That night I slept in the coke car, and at sunup next morning we reached the first large town in all the 200-mile stretch from Dalhart—Santa Rosa—a town of 700 population.
No one discovered the poor, thirsty hobo in the coke car. (In this country three hours is a long time for a man to do without water.) Inside of an hour the train had changed crews, another engine had been coupled on, and the long 175-mile ride across the dreary waste to Alamogordo (the next division point) was begun.
During this long ride there was no change of scenery. I never went to the door without seeing thousands of jack rabbits and an occasional coyote. Once in a while a large tarantula (spider) as large as a man's hand could be seen scampering among the rocks for shelter.
Extreme thirst is caused by the alkali dust which floats in the air. Before the day was over my lips had become a fiery red and cracked open, and my tongue had swollen nearly twice its normal size.
Many a poor hobo has been put down in this country by a heartless brakeman, and left to die on the desert, of thirst, but, as yet no one on the train had seen me.
Once, as darkness was closing down, I heard abrakeman coming, and quickly crawled into the back end of the car, where it was very dark.
Slabs had been nailed across the open door within two feet of the top to prevent the coke from rolling out.
The brakeman climbed upon these slabs, and taking up a piece of coke, threw it into the dark end of the car, where I was hiding, with considerable force.
Though he could not see me, his aim was true, and the coke struck me a glancing blow upon the cheek, cutting a long gash, and starting the blood.
The pain was intense, and it was all I could do to keep from crying out, but the brakeman, unconscious of my hurt, hurled a piece of coke into the other end of the car, and upon hearing no one, sprang from the car door, and soon his footsteps could be heard going to some other part of the train.
Late that night we reached Alamogordo.
While here I wrote home to my folks.
Alamogordo is 4,000 feet above the sea level, and has one of the finest natural parks in the United States.
The town is also noted for the luscious fruit raised by the Mexican ranchers nearby.
My night's lodging was on a large pile of telegraph poles piled near the railroad.
No dew falls in that country and a good many of the people who live there would rather sleepon the ground during the summer months than on a good feather bed. A man can sleep on the ground there nine months in the year without taking a cold.
I left Alamogordo the next day on a passenger train as a "coal passenger," that is, I had to help the fireman shovel coal for my fare to El Paso.
About half of this trip lay in the foothills of the mountains, and then we reached the mountains proper.
Gradually the train rose foot by foot (the train was going very slowly now) until we had attained a height of over 5,000 feet above the level of the track.
The journey was now through the clouds, and in some places the fog was so thick I could not see the cars that were following behind us, but in a few moments the spiral winding tracks would carry us on the other side of the mountains, where the sun was shining brightly, and I could see far down the beautiful valleys to some distant mountain peak over seventy-five miles away.
It was the first time I had ever seen the mountains, and enraptured with their beauty, I forgot to throw coal down for the fireman.
The engineer, noticing my abstraction, called:
"Hey, come down here a minute."
I crawled into the cab.
"Where are you from?" he asked, good naturedly.
"I'm from North Carolina working my way to Tucson."
"I thought you were from the East," he said. "How far do you think it is to that mountain peak over there?"
"It looks to be about five miles," I answered.
"That's where this clear air fools you. Why that peak is over forty miles away," he laughed.
The rest of this trip I was treated exceptionally good. Both the fireman and engineer seemed to take a delight in pointing out to me things of interest.
Presently a very high mountain caught my eye.
"That's Mt. Shasta," said the fireman. "It's over two miles high, and snow lies up there about nine months in the year. There's a railroad built up there now," he continued, "and its an ideal summer resort."
About 8 or 9 p. m. we reached El Paso, Tex.
At one time, years ago, El Paso was one of the roughest border towns in the West, but the modern El Paso is altogether a different town.
The population now numbers over 50,000, of which 15 or 20 per cent are Mexicans.
Just across the Rio Grande River is the Mexican city, Ciudad Juarez. I spent nearly a day in this quaint looking city. In the center of the town is a large park. Seated on one of the beautiful rustic benches, placed close together along the shaded avenues of the park, you are quitefree from the hot, scorching sun beating down overhead. Just above your head a large frame work, extending over the entire park, has been constructed, and upon it a thick growth of vines and beautiful flowers are entwined in endless profusion.
Wherever I spent a small American coin, I was sure to receive nearly a handful of Mexican coins in change.
A toll bridge spans the river and connects the two cities.
An American collects the toll on the El Paso side and a Mexican on the Juarez side. It cost me two cents to cross each way.
While in El Paso I heard a great deal of talk about the high wages paid laborers in Bisbee, Ariz., and as it was only a few miles out of my way going to Tucson, I decided to stop over there a few days.
I shoveled coal on an El Paso and Southwestern freight train from El Paso to Douglas, a distance of 200 miles.
Douglas, Ariz., is a small place of about two thousand population, and is twenty-seven miles from Bisbee.
When we reached Douglas the engineer and the fireman invited me to take dinner with them.
The engineer offered to get me a place in the large railroad shops located there as apprentice boy at $2.50 per day, but I told him I would go on to Bisbee and try that town for a job first.
In this country a man willing to work can always find dozens of jobs waiting for him. Nearly everything is white labor, and its very seldom you are offered less than $3.50 to $4.50 per day for eight hours work.
The largest smelter plant in the world is located at Douglas. (Its the old plant removed from Bisbee.)
The ore train (heaviest tonnage train in the world) hauls the crude ore from the mines in Bisbee to the Douglas smelters.
I stayed over one night in Douglas, and the next morning at daylight caught the ore train with its long line of empty, iron-bound cars, bound for Bisbee.
At Osborne Junction a miner got into the car I was in. He was also going to Bisbee.
We left the cars on a side-track at Don Luis and started out to walk the remaining two miles to Bisbee, "The Greatest Mining Camp on Earth."
My first impression of Bisbee was certainly not a very favorable one.
The town is surrounded by high mountain ranges, making a sewerage system next to impossible. The waste matter of Bisbee is hauled away in wooden boxes with teams.
On account of this poor sewerage Bisbee suffers every summer with an epidemic of typhoid fever and smallpox. There is always the presence of a fearful stench upon the streets. All of the streets are very narrow, winding and short.
Most of the dwelling houses are built one above the other up the mountain sides, and are reached by narrow, winding paths.
Main street and Brewery Gulch are the two principal business streets.
On either of these streets, day or night, one always finds a large crowd of miners and gamblers—speaking of gambling, Bisbee is a typical Western town in this respect. There are over twenty public gambling halls there. Every saloon has its gambling hall, and in the rear a band of musicians. The doors are thrown wide open and the window shades are never drawn.
Strolling into one of these brilliantly lighted dens of iniquity, you'll find every known gambling device under the sun. "Dice throwing," "21," "Faro," "Roulette," "Poker"—they are all there, and many others.
The Indian, Chinaman, Mexican and American all play at the same table, and unless you are a good poker player you had better stay out of the game.
In these games the ante is seldom less than $1.00.
The people in the Far West talk but little while the game is going on. There is no wrangling or misunderstanding. The cards are dealt quickly and deftly, and without a word the betting begins. Sometimes the pot swells to a thousand dollars or more, but even then the same quiet among the players prevails.
The winner hardly smiles as he pockets his money, and the loser, if he goes broke, quietly gives up his seat and some other gentleman takes a hand.
On the 10th and 12th of every month the mines around Bisbee pay out to the employees the sum of $70,000, so it is no wonder the gambling halls do a good business.
There are no one cent pieces used in Bisbee, (not even in the post-office); nothing less than five cents.
Bartenders in Bisbee receive $6.00 for an eight-hour shift serving drinks.
There are no colored people in Bisbee.
Board and room can be obtained for $30.00 per month and up. Clothing cost but little more than in the East.
Get a Job in a Law Office—Dirty, Ragged Clothes Put Off—Smallpox Starts Me Off Again.
It was an afternoon in July that I strolled into Bennett & Williams' law office on Brewery Gulch and asked for a job.
A sign in the window read:
"Stenographer Wanted."
It was in response to this ad I had entered.
Right here a description of me might not be out of place.
My spring suit had been ruined, and long since discarded for a suit of overalls that I had purchased in Dallas. Hard knocks had rent them in several places, and they were full of train grease. My shoes were worn completely out. For a hat I was wearing a wide-brimmed sombrero, purchased from a Mexican merchant at Alamogordo. I was strapped again, but that was a thing I was getting used to.
Taken all in all, I'm sure I looked anything but a stenographer.
Williams was typewriting when I entered and asked for the job.
He refused to look at the various references I produced, saying they would have no weight with him, but glancing up at me, broke out into a broad smile.
"So you are a shorthand writer, eh! Well, come back to-morrow morning and I'll give you a trial," was the promise, but it was quite easy to see he thought I was more of a tramp than a shorthand writer.
Needless to say, though, I went back at the appointed time, and though I failed miserably in getting down the first letters he dictated, I was given the job.
"You'll soon get back in practice," he said, "and when you do, your salary will be $125.00 per month."
Three days later, as I began to improve, Williams bought me $17.00 worth of clothes and a nice dress suit case. I was also given a $5.00 meal ticket on the English Kitchen, and room rent was paid for me one month in advance at the LeGrand Hotel. Both my employers provided me with spending money from time to time, but the most of this money I saved.
I had been in Bisbee nearly three weeks when several cases of smallpox and typhoid fever broke out.
Two cases of smallpox broke out in the LeGrand Hotel.
Several people deserted the town post-haste, and among the number was myself.
I resigned my position as stenographer, and bidding my kindhearted employers and other friends good-bye, I purchased a ticket to Tucson.It took nearly all my money to buy this ticket, but I didn't like the idea of hoboing to the town I was to make my future home in.
I would, at least, have plenty of nice clothes when I got there, and if it came to a pinch about getting something to eat, I could sell some of my clothing.
The first thing that met me when I stepped from the train in Tucson was a sandstorm, filling my eyes, ears and nose full of fine dust and covering my clothes. (Sandstorms are of common occurrence in this section.)
It is a good deal warmer in Tucson at all times than at Bisbee, for Tucson is 2,000 feet lower. Tucson is on the Southern Pacific Railroad, and is but a few miles from the line of Old Mexico.
Climatic conditions render it a most desirable place to live, but owing to Mexican labor competition wages are not as good as at Bisbee. In Tucson the laboring man receives but $2.50 per day for eight hours. (This is just twice what is paid a laborer in North Carolina, South Carolina, or Virginia, however.)
Board is cheap in Tucson, $5.00 per week and up.
In the West Tucson is called the "lunger" town. The name comes from the large number of people who visit Tucson every winter from all parts of the United States for lung troubles.
It is never cold enough in Tucson to wear an overcoat.
There are more hotels and boarding-houses there than in any other city of its size on the globe.
One hotel has a large sign up which reads:
"Any Day that the Sun Fails to Shine Upon this Hotel, we will Give Our Guests Free Board."
It's very seldom they have to give away any of their free board.
"For God's Sake, Give Me a Drop of Water."
I stayed in Tucson one night, and while knocking about the streets the next day I met a young man down at the depot who introduced himself as J. C. Allen, from some town in the East, which I have forgotten.
Allen had landed in Tucson but a few days before with about the same intentions I had, but for some reason had taken a violent dislike to the town, and now wanted to go to Los Angeles.
I had caught the fever of traveling pretty hard myself now, and as Allen was a sociable sort of chap as well as a good talker, it didn't take him long to convince me that Tucson was a poor town for us to remain in. Then, as two young fellows will, we soon came to an understanding that we would stick by each other through thick and thin and work our way to Los Angeles, Cal.
Like most fellows who stay in the West long, Allen was a great bull-con man (hot air man).
He told me they were already picking oranges around Los Angeles, and paying pickers the highest kind of prices.
My own common sense ought to have told me that this wasn't true, and that Allen merely wanted me to go with him for company, but I hadn't been in the West long, and the poorest kind of bull-con dealer found in me an easy mark.
I readily became as anxious to reach Los Angeles as Allen himself.
"How do you propose going?" I asked.
"A Mexican railroad foreman is going to ship me to Gila City, Ariz., to-night to do construction work, and I'll try to get him to ship you too," he promised.
Late in the afternoon the Mexican in question showed up at the depot.
Allen took him aside and had a long talk with him, during which time the Mexican glanced at me several times. Finally he got up and went into the depot.
Allen now hurried over to me.
"—— the luck," he exclaimed, "what are you wearing that white collar for?" The Mexican has gone after me a pass, but he says you look too sporty.
"Hurry to your stopping place, quick! and get off them togs and I'll try him again."
I had put up within a block of the depot, and in a short time I had made the change and returned, bringing my dress suit case.
Allen had already received his pass and was anxiously waiting for me.
"Hide your dress suit case!" he whispered.
I had barely done so when the Mexican came out of the depot.
It was nearly dark now and there was a surging crowd of ladies and men on the depot yards waiting to meet the incoming train.
Allen pushed his way through the crowd and once more directed the Mexican's attention towards me.
The Mexican had no sooner glanced at me than he took out a pencil and wrote something on Allen's pass. A few moments later he left the depot and went hurrying up the street; and Allen approached me with a smile.
Upon his pass had been scrawled the two words, "And friend."
Shortly after, we were comfortably seated in a Southern Pacific passenger coach and bound far out upon the desert to Gila City, 180 miles away.
Allen had but thirty-five cents, while I was again stranded without a penny.
Just as day was breaking we were roused by the conductor and put down at Gila City.
Its an unusual thing for a passenger to get on or off at Gila City.
Some of the passengers straightened up in their seats and watched us with interest, as we slowly got our things together and left the car at this desolate spot, located almost in the very middle of the desert.
We were yet 300 miles from Los Angeles, though Yuma, the next town, was but twenty miles away.
Gila City contains one small store, about the size of a man's hand; two small dwellings, and a miniature depot. The population numbers but four or five people.
One thing is plentiful there, though—long-eared jack rabbits and cotton tails by the thousand. This section abounds with thousands of quail, too, and on warm days not a few rattlesnakes can be seen sunning in the desert.
The shanty cars of the construction company stood on the side-track, and as there was nothing else to do we went over to them.
The men were already up and the section foreman's wife was preparing breakfast.
We told the foreman that the Mexican had sent us down from Tucson, and were engaged by him at $1.50 per day and board.
Presently we were invited into one of the cars for breakfast.
The men seated around that table presented a picture seldom seen. Besides Allen and myself, there were three dark-skinned Mexicans, a half-breed Indian, the foreman, who was a Texan, and two ex-cowpunchers, besides an Irishman and a Chinaman.
As for the breakfast itself, I have never eaten better grub anywhere, and the cooking was splendid. Notwithstanding the motley crew around us, both Allen and myself made a hearty meal.
The teams were soon hitched, and after proceeding down the track about a mile the day's work commenced.
I was given a scraper team to drive, and Allen was put at pick and shovel work.
As soon as the sun rose it quickly got hot, and by 8 o'clock it began to sting through our clothes. At 10 o'clock the heat was so intense that all hands quit work and went back to the shade of the shanty cars.
Neither Allen nor myself had ever worked under such a hot sun before. Both of us came near fainting, and even when we reached the shanties, perspiration was still running from every pore.
All work was suspended until 4 p. m. (In this part of the world, owing to the intense heat, a day's work commences at 5 a. m. and lasts until 10 a. m. In the middle of the day you take a six hours' rest. Commencing work again at 4 o'clock in the afternoon you work until 7 p. m., making an eight-hour day.)
On the morning of the second day, Allen got pretty badly hurt. A big bowlder, becoming dislodged from above his head, rolled down the cliff where he was at work, and struck him a painful blow upon the back of his hand. Already overheated from exertion in the hot sun, his injured hand threw him into a hard chill, and he was forced to quit work.
Some of the Mexicans and others standing around began laughing as if they thought it a great joke.
The foreman, instead of sympathizing with him, joined in the laugh. (The entire gang had put us down as tenderfeet.)
There was no use getting mad, for these tough-looking chaps were too many for us, and we did the next best thing.
We gave up our job and walked back to the shanties.
At 10 o'clock the men came in for dinner, when we informed the foreman that we had thrown up our job and that he could settle with us.
"Settle nothing," said the big fellow, laughing. "You've not worked enough to pay your fare from Tucson yet. You can get your dinner here, and after that, meals are fifty cents apiece, if you dine in these cars."
We walked over to the little store with the intention of investing Allen's thirty-five cents in groceries for our dinner, but there was nothing doing.
The man's stock consisted mostly of pop and cigars, which articles he probably got from Los Angeles.
"How much for pop?" I asked.
"Fifteen cents a bottle," was the reply.
A barrel of ginger snaps stood in one corner of the store.
"How much a pound?" I asked, giving the cakes a wistful look.
"Twenty-five cents a pound," said the grocer.
We left the store without purchasing anything and made our way back to the cars, forced to accept the ill-given hospitality of the section foreman.
That afternoon a lucky thought came to me. We yet had plenty of clothing, and why not auction it off?
In my grip was a mouth harp that I had bought in Bisbee.
Allen, who was a good harmonica player, struck up several lively airs, and in a few minutes every man in the camp had gathered around us, including the foreman.
Some were popping and slapping their hands in applause, and others were dancing jigs in time to the music.
I gave Allen the signal to stop and, opening up both our grips, began auctioneering off small pieces of goods.
Every thing put up was sold to advantage, though the smaller articles brought the best prices.
The harmonica, which had cost me twenty-five cents, caused the liveliest bidding, and was finally knocked down to a cowboy for eighty cents.
The foreman secured a nice comb and brush at a bargain, and was so well pleased with the music he invited us to take supper with him, and to play the harmonica again for him and his wife.
About nine o'clock that night a freight train stopped in Gila City, which we boarded with our grips and easily beat to Yuma.
Yuma has a population of 7,000 Indians, Mexicans and Americans, and like Bisbee, gambling forms a part of the revenue of the saloons.
I gave Allen the signal to stop
I gave Allen the signal to stop, and opening up both our grips, began auctioneeringoff small articles of clothing.
Most of the houses in Yuma are built of wood or brick, though there are a good many adobe houses occupied by the poorer classes.
Some claim Yuma is fifty feet above the sea level; others say it is one hundred and fifty below the sea level. I don't know which of these statements is correct, but I do know that Yuma is by far the hottest town I was ever in. As early as half-past seven o'clock next morning the sun began to get uncomfortably hot, and by nine o'clock both Allen and myself were suffering from the heat.
We spent the biggest part of the day in the shade of the large Reservoir building opposite the depot, and but a few feet from the Colorado River.
That night a Mexican living in one of the adobe houses near the railroad yards supplied each of us with a large bottle of water for the long two hundred and eighty mile journey across the desert, but in dodging the brakemen while attempting to board a Los Angeles freight train, we became separated and it was the last I ever saw of my friend Allen.
I managed to hide in a car loaded with scrap iron.
Only once did I leave this car. We reached the first division point, Indio, Cal., about 3 o'clock in the morning.
My bottle of water had long since run dry, and I was once more beginning to suffer the acute pangs of desert thirst. With as little noise aspossible, I slipped from the car and into the pump house (which is about the only building of any kind that Indio contains). In fact, between Yuma and Indio, for a distance of one hundred and fifty miles, there isn't a single town—nothing but desert and cactus trees.
The man in the pump house filled my bottle from a hydrant, and taking a big drink from a large tin cup, which I also filled from the hydrant, I hurried through the darkness to the scrap iron car nearly a half mile down the track.
I was about crawling in, when a low groan from under the car attracted my attention.
Peering under the car, I was amazed to see a man on the rods.
"For God's sake give me a drop of water," he begged piteously.
I passed him the bottle of water, and invited him to drink half of it.
The poor fellow eagerly took a long pull at it, passing it back scarcely half full, with a grateful "Thank you."
"I could drink five bottles like that," he said, smacking his lips.
The train now started, preventing further conversation, and I quickly crawled back into the scrap iron car.
The next day about 11 a. m. we pulled into the yards at Los Angeles.
As soon as the train stopped in the yards I jumped out of the car and looked for the man on the rods, but he was gone.
Thrown Into Jail at Los Angeles.
Upon seeing no one near, I lifted my grip from the car door and started down town in search of a lodging place. I found a nice place at No. 128 E. First street, and the following day I got a job with the S. P. Railroad Company, trucking freight at 20 cents per hour.
Los Angeles is probably the greatest fruit market in the world. Oranges, grapes, peaches and apricots are among the principal fruits raised.
During the orange season you can buy oranges for ten cents per dozen. A careful estimate places the number of oranges grown in California every year at 900,000,000. All fruit is cheap. The finest kind of malaga grapes can be purchased on the streets of Los Angeles for 2½ cents per pound. You can live on fruit there over six months in the year.
The winters there are no ways as cold as in North Carolina.
The rainfall is scarcely ten inches a year, making it possible for the laboring man to work out doors every working day in the year.
Laborers get $1.75 to $2.50 per day, and are always in demand.
There are numerous restaurants in Los Angeles that set out a good, substantial meal for ten cents.
San Pedro is the port of entry for Los Angeles.
With the exception of Chicago, Los Angeles contains more employment bureaus than any other city in the United States.
While standing in one of these labor bureaus a few days later, I learned that a certain hotel in San Pedro wanted a hotel clerk. I gave up my job trucking freight and took the street car for San Pedro.
After having a short talk and showing my references to Jennings and White, proprietors of the Angelus Hotel, I was offered the place as clerk at $15.00 per month, board and room.
I accepted the position.
The little town of San Pedro bears the distinction of being one of the nine corners of the world.
The Pacific Ocean is in full view from the front entrance of the Angelus Hotel.
From this point it is only a two-hours run on the steamboat Cabrillo to the famous fishing grounds of Santa Catalina Island.
If you are a good fisherman with hook and line, two hours in these waters will supply you with from seventy-five to one hundred and fifty pounds of fish.
I had been clerking for Jennings & White about six weeks, when one day a man registered in the hotel from Searchlight, Nevada.
The man praised up Searchlight in glowing terms.
"Everything in Searchlight is on a boom," said he. "Wages are good, and it's the very place for a young man to make money."
I was not making anything and had already grown tired of the little, sleepy town of San Pedro.
The fever of travel was once more infused within me.
I would go to Searchlight, and if I found it like the man had said, I promised myself I would settle down there and stop traveling about.
To hold my position as clerk in the hotel I had been compelled to invest all of my small salary in clothing.
When I resigned the job I had saved just $2.00.
Mr. Jennings said I was doing a bad thing starting to Searchlight broke, and that he would give me a letter of reference to a Los Angeles street car Superintendent. I reproduce his letter in this book, though I never used it, for I was bent now upon going to Searchlight, and that afternoon took the car for Los Angeles.
I knocked about the streets of Los Angeles three or four days trying to get up courage to begin beating trains again.
During my six weeks of ease and contentment at the hotel I had grown almost as timid as when I first left home.
Hardly before I knew it I was stranded in Los Angeles without a penny.
My grip had been left in charge of Jennings & White, to be forwarded to me in case I reached Searchlight safely.
I told some kind-hearted gentleman on the street of my trouble, and he kindly advised me to apply to the Los Angeles Chief of Police.
"He'll get you a place to sleep to-night," said the man, giving me the street and number of the Chief's office.
I lost sight of the fact that I was again dressed for hoboing the railroad, and that the chief might be unfavorably impressed with my appearance.
I reached his office, which was located in a large stone building, just after nightfall.
He listened to my story a moment or so, but instead of furnishing me with an address and the wherewithal to obtain a night's sleep at some lodging house, he tapped a bell on the desk.
The next moment a blue coat entered the office.
I now began to grow suspicious, but it was too late.
"Take that man around for a night's lodging," said the Chief, and before I could gather my wits I was whisked from the Chief's presence into another department.
"Search the prisoner," commanded the pompous looking individual presiding in this office.
The cop searched my pockets and all my things were put in a large envelope, sealed and locked in a large iron safe.
I now found my tongue and began using itpretty loud. The disgrace of spending a night in jail seemed more than I could bear.
"Turn me loose, I don't want lodging. Please let me go," I cried.
But it was no go.
"Dry up there!" came the command. "If the Chief hears you, you may get thrown in a year for vagrancy."
I could have 'phoned to Jennings & White, and no doubt they could have gotten me out of the scrape, but I was ashamed for them to know of my predicament, and kept quiet.
A large book was thrust at me.
"Sign your name!" came the command.
Anyone looking over the Los Angeles records for 1906 will find the name "Robert Smith," signed for a night's lodging.
The city prison was in the back of the building, and a short time later I was locked behind the bars in an iron-bound cell containing twenty or more prisoners.
Within ten minutes every man of them had asked me what I had been "run in" for.
"You're liable to be kept in here several months for vagrancy," said the prisoners.
I'll not dwell upon the horrors of that night. I didn't sleep a wink throughout the long night, and was wideawake next morning at six o'clock when the prison warden approached the cage door and shouted:
"Robert Smith"—