In the days of my sad experience at the Chinese
store, Vancouver was a much smaller town than it is now. There were few opportunities worth while, and I decided to leave. Moreover every Chinese store, laundry, and business house reminded me of that disastrous night. I was afraid of bumping into Chew Chee or the boss Chinaman that had given me the letter. I was sure they had heard about it, and didn’t want to face them. I was nearly broke again, and had to bestir myself.
The American side seemed the only place to go, and not having enough money to buy a ticket, I went down to the railroad yards to get a train. The blind baggage, or “stormy end” as the bums call it, was so crowded when the train pulled out that I saw they would all be thrown off at the first stop. I didn’t want to get underneath on the rods and ruin my clothes for a short jump of fifty miles to the junction, so I got on top of a coach. Something must have been wrong with the engine, for there was one continual shower of red-hot cinders falling on me that burned holes in my clothes, ruining them and blistering my skin.
At the first stop I got down, intending to go in a coach and steal a hat check, or crawl under a seat out of sight. Looking about I saw that the last coach was in darkness, and thinking it was a dead, empty car, I waited till it came along and boarded the front end, hoping to find the door unlocked. The door opened to my touch, but when I went inside I found myself in a luxuriously furnished private car instead of a dead coach.
There are only three degrees of tough luck—bad, worse, and worst. When you reach the worst you have
the satisfaction of knowing that if your luck changes it has to change for the better. I considered my Waterloo at the Chinese store the direst degree of bad luck. Not only had I lost a big bunch of money; I was hurt somewhere else.
At that time I thought it was my professional pride that suffered because of failure. Now I know I was hurt because the old Chinaman had shown himself so superior to me. If he had sent me to jail I would have done my time and forgotten him, but to this day thinking about him and writing about him make me feel uneasy. I wonder what I would have done had he made me promise to quit stealing?
But I was in this private car, feeling that my luck was due for a change, and with a chance to heal my wounded pride. The air inside the car was warm, live, vibrating. I sensed an occupant. Making my way along the aisle toward a stateroom at the far end, I looked about closely for an attendant but there was none in sight. The stateroom door was open, with a chair against it, probably for better ventilation. A heavily shaded lamp was burning, and by its soft light I saw the form of a big man rolled in the blankets on a broad berth. His back was toward the door, and nothing but a shock of coarse gray hair showed above the covers. A glance told me I was in the presence of power, wealth, affluence. I hadn’t enough money to pay for that man’s breakfast.
On a small table at the head of the sleeper’s berth there was a large silver pitcher, a glass, two books, a fat leather pocketbook, a thick bill fold, a pocket purse, and a heavy gold watch, with a small, black
ribbon guard. I took all the articles except the pitcher, glass, and books, and started for the door I entered, praying that the attendant wouldn’t appear. I saw nothing of him, and concluded he was somewhere forward, gossiping or shooting dice with the porters.