By actual experience I soon found that immediate work was unobtainable. On the eve of my first night in the city I sat with a number of unfortunates on the projection of the foundation of the Salvation Army Hotel. Beside me was a stout young man of good manner and with a pleasant, open face. Turning to him in a casual way, I said, “Where can a fellow find work?”
“I don’t know, unless you get a job down on the railroad,” he replied. “I live in Indianapolis. I’m out here to work in the Kansas harvests, but I’m sorry I started so soon for I’m here about two weeks in advance of the work. It has been such a cold, late Spring.”
Just then a police officer came down the street—it is remarkable how unpleasant a drink or two will make a policeman,—and rapped us up with the ingratiating command to “Move on!”
After the officer had passed, I again took a seat, but the boy remarked, “You had better not sit down again. He may return any moment, and he’ll club you. He clubbed me yesterday and I haven’t gotten over it yet.”
So we got up and walked toward the Employment Office to investigate the work he had spoken of, and as we walked I noticed that my companion limped,—the result of the “clubbing” he had received from the policeman.
I could not help thinking of his needs and his situation. Seeking to draw him out, I asked as if I sought to have him treat, “Have you the price of a beer?”
“No,” he replied, “if I had I would buy something to eat.”
“Are you hungry?”
With a forced laugh he replied, “Yes, I spent my last dime last night for a meal. I held it in my hand so long it had grown rusty but I had to let it go at last.”
Putting my hand in my pocket and pulling out a silver dollar, I laughingly remarked, “Well, I’m not broke, but I will be when this little lump of sugar is gone. I’ll tell you, Jack, I’m a believer in combines, the kind of combine that a hundred cents make, and we’ll go shares on this one.”