Mother exclaimed: “You poor boys, I don’t suppose you know any better. Father, I think we’ll stay here for a few days, and I’ll mend up the boys’ clothes and teach them not to steal.... You boys—why, here you are great big grown-up men, and you can jus’ as well go out every day and work enough to get your supplies. No need to be leading an immoral life jus’ because you’re tramps. I don’t see but what being tramps is real interesting and healthy, if you jus’ go about it in a nice moral way. Now you with the red hair, come here and wipe the dishes while I wash them. I swear to goodness I don’t believe these horrid tin plates have been washed since you got them.”
As Mother’s bland determined oration ended, Crook McKusick, the hook-nosed leader, glanced at her with a resigned shrug and growled: “All right, ma’am. Anything for a change, as the fellow said to the ragged shirt. We’ll start a Y. M. C. A. I suppose you’ll be having us take baths next.”
The youngster introduced as the K. C. Kid piped up, truculently: “Say, where do you get this moral stuff? This ain’t a Sunday-school picnic; it’s a hoboes’ camp.”
Crook McKusick vaulted up with startling quickness, seized the K. C. Kid by the neck, wrenched his face around, and demanded: “Can that stuff, Kid. If you don’t like the new stunt you can beat it. This here lady has got more nerve than ten transcontinental bums put together—woman, lady like her, out battering for eats and pounding the roads! She’s the new boss, see? But old Uncle Crook is here with his mits, too, see?”
The Kid winced as Crook’s nails gouged his neck, and whimpered: “All right, Crook. Gee! you don’t need to get so sore about it.”
Unconscious that there had been a crisis, Mother struck in, “Step lively now, boys, and we’ll clean the dishes while the water’s hot.”
With the incredulous gentry of leisure obeying her commands, Mother scoured the dishes, picked up refuse, then penetrated the sleeping-shack and was appalled by the filth on the floor and by the gunny-sacking mattresses thrown in the crude wooden bunks.
“Now we’ll tidy this up,” she said, “and maybe I can fix up a corner for Mr. Appleby and me—sort of partition it off like.”
The usual evening meditations and geographical discussions of the monastery of hoboes had been interrupted by collecting garbage and by a quite useless cleaning of dishes that would only get dirty again. They were recuperating, returning to their spiritual plane of perfect peace, in picturesque attitudes by the fire. They scowled now. Again the K. C. Kid raised his voice: “Aw, let the bunk-house alone! What d’yuh think this is? A female cemetery?”
Crook McKusick glared, but Reddy joined the rebellion with: “I’m through. I ain’t no Chink laundryman.”