“What sort of job is it?” Walton asked.
“Why, you see,” the man explained, “the railroads of the State have had no end of trouble with hoboes here lately. The dirty tramps are forever stealing rides. At this time of year they are as thick as flies on the trucks, brakes, and bumpers. They fall off when they get to sleep, and are killed; they break in the cars, and steal the freight; and a gang of them have been known to throw rocks at the train-crew, and raise hell generally. So, as a last resort, the roads determined to make cases against every one that could be caught, and they are sending them up by the hundreds, and for good long terms, too. They are never able to pay the fines, you see, and they have to work it out in the coal-mines or turpentine camps. Now and then a big mistake is made, of course; for many a good man has been sent up for only trying to reach a place where he could get honest employment. But the law is no respecter of persons. Let a man without money to pay his fine be caught stealing a ride through this town, and nothing in God's world will save him. The feathers of a jail-bird stick mighty tight, you know, and after one gets out he never makes any headway.”
“They are not well treated, either, I have heard,” Walton put in.
“You bet they are not,” the policeman said, looking across the tracks. “Gee! did you see that? I think I've got one now. I saw a fellow peep out right over there.”
He darted off, club in hand, and Walton saw him disappear between two cars, and heard his stern voice cry: “Come out of there, young man! Don't make me crawl under after you! Come on, the game is up!”
Walton descended to the ground and crossed over to the policeman just as a young man with a grimy face and tousled hair emerged from behind the heavy wheels. He did not appear to be more than twenty years of age, and his clothing, even to his hat and necktie, indicated that he was not an ordinary tramp. He stared in a bewildered way at the blue coat, brass buttons, and helmet-shaped hat.
“For God's sake, don't send me up, policeman!” he pleaded, in a piteous tone. “I am out of money, and want to get through by way of New Orleans to Oklahoma. I am out of work and trying to reach Gate City, where I can get a job.”
“I've got nothing to do with that,” the policeman said, curtly. “I'm put here to arrest you fellows—that's my duty, and I've caught you in the act.”
“O God, have mercy!” Walton heard the boy muttering to himself. “I can't stand it! I'd rather die, and be done with it!”
He looked at the officer again, and his lips seemed to be trying to frame some further appeal, but, as if realizing the utter futility of such a course, he simply hung his head and was silent.