The work on the Sardinian was, as we had anticipated, hard, the food unfit to eat, and the forecastle unfit to live in. But there were no “first trippers” among us and all had shipped with some knowledge of the treatment meted out to “cattle stiffs.”
On the tenth day out, the second of July, we came on deck to find, a few miles off to starboard, the sloping coast of Ireland, patches of growing and ripening grain giving the island the appearance of a huge, tilted checkerboard. Before night fell, we had left behind Paddy’s Mile-stone and the Mull o’ Kintyre, and it was near the mouth of the Clyde that we completed our last feeding.
A mighty uproar awakened us at dawn. Urged on by the bellows of Glasgow longshoremen, the cattle were slipping and sliding down the gangway into the wharf paddock. Unrestrained joy burst forth in the feeders’ quarters. Enmities were quickly forgotten, the few razors passed quickly from hand to hand, beards of two weeks’ growth disappeared as if by magic, bags were snatched open, the rags and tatters that had done duty as clothing on the voyage were poked in endless stream through the porthole into the already poisonous Clyde, and an hour later the “stiffs,” looking almost respectable, were scattering along the silent streets of Sunday-morning Glasgow.
Strange it seemed next morning to find business moving as usual, with no sounds of celebration, for it was the Fourth, “Independence” or “Rebellion” day, according to the nationality of the speaker. At noon we gathered on board the Sardinian to receive our “fi’ bob” and our discharges from the Board of Trade. These latter were good for the return trip on the same steamer, but few besides the bosses intended to avail themselves of the privilege. As for myself, I found another use for the document. One who is moving about Europe in the garb of a laborer must be ever ready to declare his station in life. The answer of the American tramp that he is “just a’ travelin’” will not pass muster across the water. To have called myself a carpenter or a teamster without corroborating testimonials would have been as foolish as to have told the truth. The discharge from the Sardinian, though issued to a cattle man, did not differ materially from that of an able seaman. My corduroy suit and cloth cap gave me the appearance of a Jack ashore. I decided to pose henceforth as a sailor.
A boss cattleman of the Walkerville barns who has crossed the Atlantic scores of times
Upon arrival in Montreal I put up at the “Stock Yards Hotel” and get a preliminary hair-cut in anticipation
Tucking my kodak into an inside coat pocket, I sold my bag for the price of a ticket on the night steamer to Belfast. A two days’ tramp along the highways of the Emerald Isle was a pleasant “limbering up” for more extended journeys to come. It might have been longer but for an incessant rain that drove me back to Scotland.
On the afternoon of my return to Glasgow I struck out along the right bank of the Clyde towards the Highlands. An overladen highway led through Dumbarton, a town of factories, that poured its waste products into the sluggish river of poison, and brought me at evening to Alexandria. A band was playing. I joined the recreating throng and stretched out on the village green. What a strange fellow is the Scotchman! In a few short hours he runs through the whole gamut of emotions, gloomy and despondent when things go wrong, romping and joking a moment after.