"We're goin' West too. Did you come in on that last freight?" asked one.
John shook his head.
"No? Well, we all got put off here a little while ago; the con and other brakies got onto us and fired us. We wanted a sleep anyhow—been ridin' two days straight." (John wondered for a time what "con" and "brakies" meant, but finally concluded that the words might be translated into conductor and brakeman.)
"I walked in," said the boy innocently.
A look of pity showed plainly on each hobo's face as he echoed "Walked?" That any one would walk, with a railroad near, was beyond the comprehension of these tramps, for tramps they were—the regulation kind.
"You're green on the road, kid," said one, whose name was Jimmy, as John soon learned. "You'll soon get sick of counting ties," he continued, gazing curiously at the boy, as did they all. "Why, kid, I've travelled this country from side to side and from top to bottom in the last fifteen years and I've yet to walk a step—except off one side to get feed," he added in explanation.
"But I hadn't money to ride," said John, innocently.
"Money? Ho! ho! Why I haven't seen the color of coin this summer. What d'ye want of money? Beat 'em; we'll show you." He spoke with a sort of professional pride, and the expression was reflected on the faces of the other men.
John's bruised countenance had been noticed, but as he had evidently been whipped in some fistic argument it was etiquette not to question too openly, but to approach the matter indirectly. By degrees they learned that he had had trouble and left home.
"I left home just at his age, boys," said Big Larry, an American-born Irishman.