V
Almost the first advice given me after I had managed to scramble into the set-down class came from an old vagabond known among his cronies as "Portland Shorty." He knew that I had been but a short time on the road, and that in many respects I had not met with the success which was necessary to entitle me to respect among men of his class, but nevertheless he was willing to give me a few pointers, which, by the way, all hoboes are glad to do, if they feel that the recipient will turn them to profit.
I met Shorty for the first time in Chicago, and while we were lounging on the grass in the Lake Front Park, the following conversation took place:
"Cigarette," he began,—for I had already received my tramp name,—"how long 'v' y'u been on the road?"
I replied: "About two months."
"Wall, how long d' y'u 'spect to stay there?"
"Oh, 's long 's I'm happy."
"Ez long ez yer happy, eh? Wall, then, I'm goin' to chew the rag wid y'u fer a little while. Now, 'f yer wants to be happy, here's a little advice fer y'u. In the first place, make up yer mind jes wha' cher goin' to be. Ef y'u 'spect to work fer yer living why, get off the road. Moochin' spiles workin' jes ez workin' spiles moochin'. The two don't go together nohow. So 'f yer goin' to be a bum fer life, never think o' work. Jes give yerself entirely to yer own speshul calling fer 'f y'u don't yer'll regret it. 'N the second place, y'u wan' to decide what kind o' beggar yer goin' to make. Ef yer a thief, 'n' playin' the beggar jes as a guy, why, then y'u knows yer bizness better 'n I do. But ef y'u ain't, 'n' are jes browsin' round lookin' fer a berth, then I wants to tell yer somethin'. There's diffrent kinds o' beggars; some gits there, 'n' some doesn't. Them what gits there I call arteests, 'n' them what doesn't I call bankrupts. Now, wha' cher goin' to be, arteest or bankrupt?"
I replied that I was still undecided, since I had not yet learned whether I could make a success on the road or not, but added that my inclination would be toward the "arteest" class.
"That's right," he began afresh. "Be an arteest or nothin'. Beggin' 's a great bizness 'f yer cut out fer it, 'cause y'u've got everythin' to win 'n' nothin' to lose. Not many callin's has them good points—see? Now, 'f yer goin' to be an arteest, y'u wants to make up yer mind to one thing, 'n' that is—hard work. Some people thinks that moochin' is easy, but lemme tell yer 't ain't. Batterin', when it's done well, is the difficultest job under the moon—take my tip fer that. Y'u got to work hard all yer life to make boodle, 'n' 'f y'u wan' to save it, y'u mus'n't booze. Drinkin' 's what spiles bums. If they c'u'd leave it alone they'd be somethin'. Now, Cig, that's good sound talk, 'n' you'd better hang on to it."
I did, and it helped me as much as anything else in getting in with the real hoboes. I have known them, now, for ten years, and feel abundantly qualified to describe their diet and dress.