"But we got to drink something. We ain't going to drink any beer, and I hate to spend money for soda and ginger-ale and stuff like that," remarked Dempsey.
"That's true enough," admitted Casey, "but, I'll tell you what we'll do. The same fellow who gave me points on how to get to the strawberries, also, told me that the biggest glass of beer in the country was sold right here in Newark. Now, we ain't going to get full or anything like that, but, being as the water ain't fit to drink, I guess we might have one, just one o' those biggest schooners, which I never seen and which, besides quenching our thirst, are surely worth looking at, the same as any curiosities."
Without the aid of a Baedeker, we found our way to Newark's most interesting spot. We entered the hospitable tavern at about seven o'clock, and, at ten o'clock, were still tarrying there admiring the size and beauty of the biggest beers in the world.
Regardless of the size of the drink, the beer alone,—never a product of malt and hops—a vile concoction of injurious chemicals, is sufficient to put the indulger far above the most worrying troubles. Late that night, the quiet streets of Newark were profaned by three unsteady musketeers, who, with song and laughter, were making their way to the "meadows."
Only one more resolution made and broken. It was not the first and was not the last.
Out in the "meadows," the train-yard, where the freight trains were made up, we succeeded, after many mishaps, including Casey's tumble from a moving train into a ditch, in catching a train at about midnight. We had only traveled about a mile, when a trainman, stepping from car to car with lighted lantern, saw us huddled between the bumpers.
"Where are you fellows going?"
"Philadelphia," came the answer in sleepy, drowsy tones.
"You're on a wrong train. This train goes to the 'branch.'"
At the time we did not know that this was only a common ruse to make "hoboes" leave the train and accepted it at its face value.