Better, perhaps, apply for admission at the gates of that Great Hostelry, bearing with you the odor of kind deeds and the sanctity of a generous heart, than with all the pretentions of a successful life and most respectable burial, supplemented by a shaft of marble that shall hand your virtues to posterity in as cold and useless a shape as they existed while you were alive.
When Ben awoke the sun had passed meridian. The Evangelist still slept, and around the fire lounged two tramps with wounds upon their legs caused by unattended bruises received in boarding trains. The rest of the guests had flown.
Ben felt much refreshed by his slumber. One of the invalids asked for tobacco and he gave them both a generous supply. In return they spread before him the contents of the larder, consisting of bread, newly dug potatoes, roasting ears, and a jug of cider. The proprietor, he was informed, had departed early in the forenoon to attend a neighboring carpet beating, to which he had been invited. When the Evangelist awoke he also partook of like fare. At his suggestion, Ben boiled some water in an iron pot, and with a wash tub—improvised out of half a barrel—they washed their undergarments by the brook, and spread them in the sun to dry.
One of the invalids suggested if they were "crumbie" they had best give their clothes a "dry wash," and further explained that a dry wash consisted in spreading their garments over a village of ant hills, and allowing those useful little scavengers to go through them and carry off the parasites, both full grown and in protoplasm. Fortunately the "dry wash" had not yet become a necessity with either.
Being informed that a water tank, conveniently situated for "jumping" trains, was located some seven miles to the west, our two travellers left the Hotel de Log late in the afternoon—before the proprietor returned—and started for it.
The night that followed was an active and eventful one. The two were repeatedly put off of trains, and after having tried bumpers, pilots, ladders and roofs—during which they managed to travel some forty miles—they at last, about midnight, seated themselves upon the front platform of the lightning express baggage car, and made fifty miles without a stop. But, unfortunately, when they attempted to renew their place, the train side tracked, and they were discovered. An exciting chase between the tramps and several road officials followed, but eluding their pursuers, and convinced that it was impracticable to board a train at that depot, they took to the road and walked several miles until they came to an inviting haystack, when both lay down and slept.
Ben had now passed through the states of New Jersey, Pennsylvania and Ohio, and was on the border of Indiana. He had travelled over seven hundred miles in six days, and St. Louis was within a little more than three hundred more in a bee line, but nearer five hundred by the route and in the manner he was compelled to go. So far his success had been encouraging. Should it continue he felt confident of accomplishing his task. Those six days had accomplished a wonderful change in him. He was ragged and dirty, and no longer cared for appearances. He was now an expert in stealing rides. There was a bold, lawless, vagabond feeling gaining an ascendancy over him. He was fast losing the self respect that cares for the opinions of others. His stomach had accustomed itself to the new regime. He ate voraciously when he could obtain food in plenty, and found himself fasting an entire twenty-four hours without any very disagreeable sensations. He was no longer afraid to ask for food, nor ashamed of being ordered roughly from a train or its vicinity. He cared nothing about the stares with which he was greeted; an Ishmaelitish feeling was growing upon him—and he did not care to repress it. In fact Ben had become a tramp.
His new companion, the Evangelist, was a sociable, easy-going, good-natured fellow. He had traits that were peculiar. Differing from the majority of tramps, he never uttered an oath. "I promised my dear, good mother, when a child, that I would not swear, and I never have," he said.
His love and respect for his mother's memory was something sublime, amid his rags and degradation. He never spoke disrespectfully of her sex, nor would he allow others to. He mentioned her often in the most devoted manner, and it was easy to be seen that she was the idol of his life. Though a cynic and a skeptic he once said to Ben:
"Were I positive that there was no hereafter, I would school myself to think otherwise. For of what use would life be to me did I not have the hope of again being by the side of her who has gone before me?" And on another occasion he said: