“I’ve a good mind to give you in charge,” said I, suddenly realizing that I had the law on my side.
“If you don’t cash up,” barked the hobo, “I’ll call the cops and say you’ve grabbed my wad.”
“Call away,” I cried: “we’ll see who’ll be believed.”
But the hobo knew a better trick. In a familiar wheedling voice he began again:
“Come, young fellow, you’ll never miss one dollar and I’ll put you wise to a good many things here in Chicago. You had no business to pull out a wad like that, in a lonely place to tempt a hungry man....”
“I was going to help you,” I said hesitatingly. “I know,” replied my weird acquaintance, “but I prefer to help myself,” and he grinned. “Take me to a hash-house: I’m hungry and I’ll put you wise to many things; you’re a tenderfoot and show it.”
Clearly the hobo was the master of the situation and somehow or other his whole attitude stirred my curiosity.
“Where are we to go!” I asked. “I don’t know any restaurant near here except the Fremont House.”
“Hell,” cried the hobo, “only millionaires and fools go to hotels. I follow my nose for grub,” and he turned on his heel and led the way without another word down a side street and into a German dive set out with bare wooden tables and sanded floor.
Here he ordered hash and I, hot coffee and when I came to pay I was agreeably surprised to find that the bill was only forty cents and we could talk in our corner undisturbed as long as we liked.