"My friend, I am very hungry, and am broke—I have just ten cents, and am thousands of miles from home. Give me ten cents worth of supper, and please understand I want quantity and not quality."
The meal that good-hearted fellow spread out on the table caused me to blush with shame, but I was hungry, and shame was set in the background.
It was chicken fricassee, sausage, beef, etc., and more of each than I could eat, hungry as I was.
In a short time I left the restaurant.
It was already time for the Dallas freight to leave, and I went hurrying down the track through the darkness to where the train was making up.
I came upon two brakemen struggling in a vain endeavor to close a tight car door. (From this point throughout the West the brakemen are white men.) The men were cursing and swearing at a great rate at their failure to close the door, but with the united effort of all three of us, it was finally pushed to and sealed.
"I want to go to Dallas. You fellows care if I get on?"
"We'll take you for $1.00" said the brakemen.
I told them I didn't have the money. (In this part of the country a brakeman makes almost as much carrying hobos as his wages amount to. A dollar is the usual charge for a division, which is anywhere from one hundred to two hundred miles, but when a hobo attempts to go without paying, he is generally treated pretty rough, if not thrown from the train and killed.)
"Four bits, and we'll carry you," said one of the brakemen.