A man, prominent in Hobohemia as a soap-boxer, recites this experience out of a great number that he has had with railroad and other private police.
59. I was traveling in Indiana with a man by the name of Sullivan, known around the country as “Sully.” We got off at Flora, a railroad town in Indiana. It was cold and the town was “hostile” because so many “bos” had been there that the people were hardened to them. We knew better than to hang around the railroad yards so we decided to go out of town a ways and build a fire to keep warm while we waited for a train. We started out but Sully decided to return and learn from the switchman when a train would be leaving. I said that I would go out along the track and build a wind break with some old ties and make a fire.
I dragged some ties together and had the wind break up by the time Sully returned. I had the fire going too and was taking off my shoes. I had stepped in some water while dragging ties and my feet were wet and cold.
Everything went fine for about half an hour. I was drying my shoes and socks and Sully and I were talking about where we were going and what to do. It was at the time of the Steel Strike, and Sully was planning on going up there to get a job as a “scab herder.” He said that by that means he would get in with the company and that he could work some “sabotage” in the interest of the workers. At that time I was traveling and selling literature, and holding street meetings in the interests of the I.B.W.A.
All of a sudden something hit me in the back between the shoulder blades. I looked around quickly and there were two “bulls.” We were on railroad property and I knew we were in for it. Sully ducked and went over the fence. I had my shoes off and couldn’t run. One of them gave me another tap on the back with a black jack. “What are you here for?” “I am drying my shoes,” was the only answer I could think of. As I hurried to get my shoes on one of them slapped me on the side of the head. I jumped and ran while they cursed me and told me never to let them catch me again. I met Sully an hour later and together we cursed all railroad “bulls” as cowards and sneaks.
Sometime after that I was told by a friend that Sully was an employee of the Pinkerton agency. I did not believe it but before a year was out I heard it from two or three sources. I made an effort to find out and I learned it was true; that he was in their employ at the time we got chased. Then it came to me why he went back to talk to the switchmen and how he got away without being hit. He was traveling with me because he was trying to get a line on me as an agitator.
These stories are typical of those that any experienced tramp can tell.
The private police “talks by hand” because it is the most practical method at his command. The argument of the club coincides most admirably with the mood he is in when on duty searching trains and keeping trespassers off railroad property. He is a hunter and the tramp is his prey. If it is a game to the police, it is no less so to the tramp. One lad who had been caught a time or two said: “I get a lot of ‘kick’ out of riding trains out of a place when I know the ‘dicks’ are trying to keep me off.”
When a town has a railroad policeman who is “hard,” the fact is soon noised about. A few years ago, Galesburg, Illinois, was known throughout the country for the “bad” colored policeman who guarded the yards. The hobo who could tell a story of an encounter with the big “nigger bull” had an exploit to be proud of. For some time Green River, Wyoming, boasted a “hard bull” known to the “floating fraternity” as “Green River Slim.” As the reputation of a “bad” policeman travels ahead, so the information about his tactics and methods. Where he may be found, how avoided, how he watches the trains, are usually common knowledge to the average “bo” before he reaches a town.