Benjamin Cleveland was a young fellow, but little more than twenty-three. His mother had belonged to an old Boston family.
When Ben was ten years old his widowed mother died leaving him to the tender care of his uncle, with a legacy of twenty thousand dollars. By means of this inheritance he had obtained liberal educational advantages,—attaining his majority shortly after graduating (without any honors) at Yale. (Bostonians take honors at Harvard.) After leaving college he diligently applied himself to the problem of life. He had determined upon making his mark in the world. Nearly all young men do so determine. The "mark" up to the opening of this narrative was neither a very prominent or promising one. On his twenty-first birth-day his uncle, who neither understood or sympathized with him,—in fact rather disliked him,—paid into Ben's hands $15,450, the remainder of the legacy left by his mother, and bade him "God speed";—a fashion some people have of shifting on to God's shoulders responsibilities that belong on their own. For a couple of years Ben enjoyed himself looking around among his fellow men, and at the age of twenty-three had $10,400 left to his bank account. He was fond of good living, fond of adventure, fond of sport, fond of being his own master, fond of a congenial laziness, and fond of every thing pertaining to good health save hum-drum work, and money-making by the "plod" process. He could lie on his back and build castles in the air all day long. But it is doubtful if he would have undertaken the exertion of going twenty rods to get one of the foundation stones to commence one of his castles with. He was something of a dreamer. Not much of a doer. He ignored the past; enjoyed the present; neglected the future.
Several moments elapsed in silence, while the lawn party surveyed the rara-avis before them. The prodigal was the first to speak. Extending his hand toward Hough, he suggestively remarked, "Where are you, boss?"
"Here is your dollar," replied Hough, presenting him one; "you have earned it, my friend, by your truthfulness. Now, my friend, tell me what a tramp is?"
"Why, a tramp's a tramp," replied the prodigal.
"Concise, if not lucid," remarked Wasson.
"Yes, but what are they, who are they, where are they, what do they do and where do they go?" persisted Hough.
The prodigal quietly picked a gravel stone out of the gaping toe of the boot, and answered, "They're tramps; that's what they are. Dead-brokes; bums; beats; codjers; hand-out solicitors; cross-tie sailors; free-lunch fiends; centennial rangers; square-meal crusaders! They're everywhere, they do every thing, and go all over. They're the great American travellers of the nineteenth century. Explorers. Progressionists. Agrarians. I'm one of 'em myself, I am! I'm just from New Orleans, and going to Boston," and the prodigal stopped to request a donation of tobacco.
"But where do they live?" asked Wasson.
"Great Blazes! They live where they eat! What a question!" And the prodigal completely annihilated poor Wasson by rolling his eyes upon him in supreme astonishment.