Part 7 (1/2)

”'Cup o' coffee an' a sand'ich--t'ick slab o' de pig, Cap'n, please,'

said my hobo friend. ”I saw some strawberries behind the counter and I said to the waiter: 'Just start us both in on strawberries and cream, then let us have coffee and some of that fried chicken.'

”'Sport, you are in on this,' said I to the tramp.

”He unpinned his coat and looked with longing eyes on the waiter as he pulled the caps off the berries; he never said a word, merely swallowing the secretion from his glands. When he had gulped his berries, I told the waiter to give him some more.

”'Ever hungry, Major?' said the hobo. 'Dat's kind a feather weight for my ap't.i.te. Let me have a ham sand'ich 'stead.

”'No, go on, you shall have a good square meal. Here, take some more berries and have this fried chicken,' I answered, shoving over another bowl of fruit and a big dish with a half a dozen cooked chickens on it. 'Help yourself like it all belonged to you.'

”The hobo ate two halves of chicken, drained his cup of coffee and started to get down from his stool. But: he cast a hungry look at the dish of chicken.

”'Have some more, old man,' said I.

”'It's been s'long since I had a good square that I could stan' a little more, Major; but let me go up against a ham sand'ich--it's got a longer reach.'

”'No, have chicken--all the chicken you want--and some more coffee,'

said I.

”Eat! How that fellow did go for it--five pieces of chicken! I'd rather see him repeat that performance than go to a minstrel show. He slid off his stool again, saying: 'Major, I guess I'm all in. T'anks.'

”'Oh, no; have some pie,' I said.

”'Well,' he replied, 'Major, 's you s.h.i.+ft the deck, guess I will play one more frame.'

”'Gash o' apple,' said Weary to the waiter.

”When I insisted upon his having a third piece of pie, the hobo said: 'No, Major, t'anks, I got to ring off or I'll break de bank.'

”He, for once, had enough. I gave him a cigar. He sat down to smoke-- contented, I thought. I paid the bill; things are high in Montana, you know--his part was $2.85. My hobo friend saw $3.55 rung up on the cash register. Then I went over and sat down beside him.

”'Feeling good?' said I.

”'Yep, but chee! Dat feed, spread out, would a lasted me clean to Sain' Paul.'”

Although the traveling man will feed the hungry tramp on early strawberries and fried chicken when ham sandwiches straight would touch the spot better, all of his generosity is not for fun. A drug salesman told me this experience:

”A few years ago,” said he, ”I was over in one of the towns I make in Oregon. I reached there on Sat.u.r.day evening. I went to my customer's store. Just before he closed he said to me: 'I'll take you to-night to hear some good music.'

”'Where is it?' said I. 'I'll be glad to go along.'

”'It's down the street a couple of blocks; it's a kind of garden. A family runs it. The old man serves drinks and the rest of the family-- his wife and three daughters--play, to draw the crowd. I want you to hear the oldest girl play the violin.'

”Now, traveling men are ready any time to go anywhere. Sometimes they fly around the arc light, but they can buzz close and not get their wings scorched. They must keep their heads clear and they do, nowadays, you know. It's not as it was in the old days when the man who could tell the most yarns sold the most goods; the old fas.h.i.+oned traveling man is as much behind the times as a bobtailed street car.

Well, of course, I told my friend Jerry that I'd go along. I should have put in my time working on new trade, but he was one of the best fellows in the world and one of my best friends. Yet he would not give me much of his business; we were too well acquainted.

”When we went to the garden--Jerry, his partner ner and myself--we sat up front. We could look over the crowd. It was a place for men only.

The dozen tables were nearly all full, most of the seats being occupied by men from the mines--some of them wearing blue flannel s.h.i.+rts. But the crowd was orderly. The music made them so. The oldest daughter was only seventeen, but she looked twenty-three. She showed that she'd had enough experience in her life, though, to be gray.

There was a tortured soul behind her music. Even when she played a ragtime tune she would repeat the same notes slowly and get a chord out of them that went straight to the heart. The men all bought rounds of drinks freely between the numbers, but they let them remain untasted; they drank, rather, the music.