"Now, boys, not one of us had seen the other forty-eight hours ago, and yet here we are round our fire talkin' sociable, spinnin' yarns and hearin' 'em told; and I'll bet we're happier than any six millionaires in New York city."
"Yes, we are," they said emphatically, in chorus. John thought much and said nothing.
"People s'pose we don't have to work," said Shorty, another of the group, "but I'd like to see them dudes work from Chicago to 'Frisco on a freight train. Why, them fellers don't know a brake beam from a drawhead, to say nothin' of ridin' rods, breakin' seals on box cars, foolin' brakies, and a hundred other of the little fine points of our trade."
"An' then," chimed in another, "if we don't work much, we don't get much, so what's anybody else got to kick about, s'long's we're satisfied?"
Everybody agreed, and the group dropped into a cheerful silence.
John had listened, it must be confessed, rather admiringly; the freedom and apparent ease of the life fascinated him, and he had half a mind to become a hobo. He did not realize the degradation that went with it, the dishonest acts that were necessary to secure food without money, the hardship it entailed, and the constant uncertainty of it all.
CURRAN, BRADY'S NIGHT WRANGLER. ([Page 227].)
The thing that bothered him was the food supply, and he finally ventured the question: "Where will you get your breakfast in the morning?"