Being thinly dressed and facing the damp night winds at a fifty-mile an hour rate is certainly not an enviable position.
In a short time my body was so benumbed with cold I could scarcely move. Another thing, it would soon break day, and unless I could hide myself better, a discovery would follow and I would be put off.
There's an old saying, which I afterwards learned:
"To hobo the roads successfully, one has to give up all thought of life or death."
That continued hardship lessens a man's fears of death, I have certainly learned by personal experience.
With slow deliberation, I worked my way under the boiler of the engine, and among the machinery. At last I was stretched out full length under the boiler, with only one foot sticking out, which I must risk being seen. The boiler was rather warm, of course, and every moment I stayed under it it was becoming warmer. Perspiration started out in huge drops. In running from the extreme of cold I had met the extreme of heat. Only a few moments sufficed to thaw me out and then a warm, hot time began in earnest. My clothes, pressed almost against the boiler, would become so hot every few minutes I was forced to turn over upon my side and ride for a while; only to revert to the original position and torture again.
Things were getting unbearable.
I had heard of hobos riding under the cow-catcher.