Tales of the Road Part 7

"'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.

"We listened for two hours. The music suited my mood. I was a long way from home. Most of the men there felt as I did. Twelve o'clock came, yet no one had left the garden. More had come. Many stood. All were waiting for the final number, which was the same every night, 'Home, Sweet Home.'

"There is something more enchanting about this air than any other in the world. Perhaps this is because it carries one back when he once has 'pa.s.sed its portals' to his 'Childhood's Joyland--Little Girl and Boyland.' It reminds him of his own happy young days or else recalls the little ones at home at play with their toys. I know I thought of my own dear little tots when I heard the strain. How that girl did play the splendid old melody! I closed my eyes. The garden became a mountain stream, the tones of the violin its beautiful ripples-- ripples which flowed right on even when the sound had ceased.

"'Home, Sweet Home!' I thought of mine. I thought of the girl's--a beer garden!

"'Boys,' said I to Jerry and his partner, 'I am going up to shake hands with that girl; I owe her a whole lot. She's a genius.' I went.

And I thanked her, too, and told her how well she had played and how happy she had made me.

"'I'm glad somebody can be happy,' she answered, drooping her big, blue eyes.

"'But aren't you happy in your music?' I asked.

"'Yes,' she replied in such a sad way that it meant a million nos.

"When I went back to my friends they told me the girl's father was not of much account or otherwise he would send her off to a good teacher.

"'Now, that's going to take only a few hundred dollars,' said I. 'You are here on the spot and there surely ought to be enough money in the town to educate this girl. I can't stay here to do this thing, but you can put me down for fifty.'

"Well, sir, do you know the people in the town did help that girl along. When the women heard what a traveling man was willing to do, they no longer barred her out because, for bread, she played a violin in a beer garden, but they opened their doors to her and helped her along. The girl got a music cla.s.s and with some a.s.sistance went to a conservatory of music in Boston where she is studying today."

Traveling men are not angels; yet in their black wings are stuck more white feathers than they are given credit for--this is because some of the feathers grow on the under side of their wings. Much of evil, anyway, like good, is in the thinking. It is wrong to say a fruit is sour until you taste it; is it right to condemn the drummer before you know him?

Days--and nights, too--of hard work often come together in the life of the road man. Then comes one day when he rides many hours, perhaps twenty-four, on the train. He needs to forget his business; he does.

Less frequently, I wager, than university students, yet sometimes the drummer will try his hand at a moderate limit in the great American game.

A year or more ago a party of four commercial travelers were making the trip from Portland to San Francisco, a ride of thirty-six hours-- two nights and one day. They occupied the drawing room. After breakfast, on the day of the journey, one of the boys proposed a game of ten cent limit "draw." They all took part. There is something in the game of poker that will keep one's eyes open longer than will the fear of death, so the four kept on playing until time for luncheon.

About one o'clock the train stopped for half an hour at a town in Southern Oregon. The party went out to take a stretch. Instead of going into the dining room they bought, at the lunch counter, some sandwiches, hard boiled eggs, doughnuts and pies and put them in their compartment. On the platform an old man had cider for sale; they bought some of that. Several youngsters sold strawberries and cherries. The boys also bought some of these. In fact, they found enough for a wholesome, appetizing spread.

The train was delayed longer than usual. The boys, tired of walking, came back to their quarters. They asked me to have some lunch with them. Just as one of the party opened a bottle of cider a little, barefoot, crippled boy, carrying his crutch under one arm and a basket half full of strawberries under the other, pa.s.sed beneath the window of their drawing room.

"Strawberries. Nice fresh strawberries, misters--only a dime a box,"

called out the boy. "Three for a quarter if you'll take that many."

There he was, the youthful drummer, doing in his boyish way just what we were--making a living, and supporting somebody, too, by finding his customer and then selling him. He was bright, clean and active; but sadly crippled.

"Let's buy him out," said the youngest of our party--I was now one of them.

"No, let's make a jackpot, the winner to give all the winnings to the boy for his berries," spoke up the oldest.

The pot was opened on the first hand. The limit had been ten cents, but the opener said "I'll 'crack' it for fifty cents, if all are agreed."

Every man stayed in--for the boy! Strangely enough four of us caught on the draw.

"Bet fifty cents," said the opener.

"Call your fifty," said numbers two and three, dropping in their chips.