"The tramp problem is becoming a serious one," said Senator Pennypacker ponderously. "The great army of the unemployed is steadily increasing. In New York City alone, on October the first of last year, there were no less than—just a second. I have the data in my bag. I will read you some figures that will astonish you."
The Senator arose to get his bag. Faint groans were heard as he left us. Senators Bull, Wendell, Baker, several Representatives, and the gentlemen of the press arose as one man and rushed to the button. President Madison appeared and took the orders. Then Pennypacker returned with a look of determination on his face, and for fifteen minutes or more we were regaled with facts, figures, and statistics, all tending to prove that crime and wretchedness were on the increase throughout the country; that we were a degenerate people; and other equally cheerful information.
The hobo's return was hailed with joy. He was vastly improved in appearance, and fairly radiated contentment. He sank into the seat that Colonel Manysnifters had thoughtfully placed for him,—somewhat apart from the rest,—with a murmur of satisfaction not unlike the loud purring of a cat. Senator Bull pushed the cigars in his direction, and Van Rensselaer was equally assiduous with the whiskey and soda. Our visitor seemed perfectly at home. He drank,—drank deeply,—and wiping his mouth on his sleeve, drank again.
"The hair of the goat is certainly good for the butt," said he, smiling, and displaying a set of marvellously white and regular teeth. "Now, gentlemen, I am quite ready to fulfil my part of the agreement. If my little story interests you, you are welcome to it. It was this way.
"I was a doctor by profession, carpenter by trade, stevedore by occupation; then came harder times—booze—more booze—despair, illness, and I found myself discharged from the hospital, down and out—a hobo! Yet tramp life is not so bad after all. I like it. I like the open-air existence, the freedom from care and responsibility, and—the hours. I am much alone, and genius, you know, grows corpulent in solitude.
"My name is Tippett—Livingstone Tippett. Age, of no special moment. You know," he said pleasantly, "there are two things all of us lie about—our ages and our incomes. As this is a true story I will drop the age question. It is better so.
"My early life was uneventful. I was brought up by a pious mother in a quiet, deeply religious home; every influence uplifting and good-instilling. I was taught, among other things, to regard liquor in any form with abhorrence, and that drunkenness was the sin of sins. I was surrounded with every safeguard a loving mother could devise, and it was not until after her death and my wife's that I took to drink. My father and grandfather both died drunkards. Heredity, in my case, overcame both training and environment, and my troubles hurried on the inevitable.
"I passed through college unscathed, studied medicine, walked the hospitals, and began the practice of my profession under the most favorable auspices. I fell in love with a charming girl, and blessed with my good mother's approval we were married. Our future seemed singularly bright and untroubled. Life is a game and I was considerably ahead of the game. I was certainly playing on velvet.
"When my Elizabeth and I announced that instead of going abroad we would spend our honeymoon at 'Raven Hill' our little world thought it quite absurd. They were charitably inclined, however, and made excuses for us upon the ground that we were too much absorbed in each other to know what we were doing. But we did know, nevertheless. Our plans had been fully matured long before we saw fit to reveal them. To spend a month or so at Neville Mason's, down in Virginia, appealed very pleasantly to both of us, and I accepted my old chum's offer with avidity. We were to have everything to ourselves, with just as many servants as we wanted.
"We were married. There was a wedding breakfast, flowers, weeping relatives, old shoes, and a profusion of rice; nothing, in short, was omitted. A few hours later we left Jersey City on the southbound flyer. Breaking the journey at Washington, and remaining over night there, we arrived at the tiny depot near our ultimate destination late on the evening of the following day. An ancient but still serviceable family carriage was in waiting, and we were conveyed in state to the mansion.