The author wishes to acknowledge the courtesy of Harper’s Weekly, Outing and The Century Magazine in permitting him to republish from their pages certain chapters of this book.
A VAGABOND JOURNEY AROUND THE WORLD
CHAPTER I
PRELIMINARY RAMBLES
On the eighteenth day of June, 1904, I boarded the ferry that plies between Detroit and the Canadian shore, and, coasting the sloping beach of verdant Belle Isle, swung off on the first stage of my journey around the globe. At the landing stage a custom officer glanced through my bag, stared perplexedly from the kodak to my laborer’s garb, and with a shrug of his shoulders passed me on into the streets of the Canadian village.
A two-mile tramp brought me to the Walkerville cattle-barns, where thousands of gaunt calves are rounded up each autumn to come forth in the summer plump bulls and steers, ready for the markets of old England. From the long rows of low, brick buildings sounded now and then a deep bellow or the song or whistle of a stock feeder at his labor. I had arranged for my passage some days before, and, dropping my bag at the office, I joined the crew in the yard.
Months of well-fed inactivity had not tamed the spirits of the sleek animals that were set loose and driven one by one out of the various stables. The racing, bellowing cattle, urged slowly up the shute into the waiting cars by blaspheming stockmen, waving lancelike poles above their heads, gave to the scene the aspect of a riotous corrida de toros. The sun had set and darkness had fallen in the alleyways between the endless stables before the last bull was tied and the last car door locked. The shunting engine gave a warning whistle. We, who were to attend the stock en route raced to the office for our bundles, and, tossing them on top of the freight cars, climbed after them.
There were no formal leave-takings between the little stock-yard community on the shute platform and those who were “crossin’ the pond wi’ the bullocks.” The cars began to move amid such words of farewell as might have been exchanged with one setting out for the nearby village:
“So long, Jim, keep sober.”
“Don’t fergit me that tin o’ Wills’ Smokin’, Bob.”
“Give me best to Molly down on the Broomielaw, Jim,” with an overdrawn wink at that worthy standing stolidly on the last car.