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He had turned towards the door as he was speaking and the words died in his throat as the door flew open and a dusty form stepped into the lighted room. “Come, John. Tell me about it from the beginning.” “John!” screamed Mother, starting up. “Oh, Johnny! my boy, my boy! Is it really you?”.

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“Much good they’ll do me,” he muttered to himself and sat down with his back to the door to plan some new attempt. The man hesitated a moment before going on with the conversation. When he spoke it was seemingly from a new angle. “I didn’t know what I’d let myself in for. If anything, my life was a lot worse than it’d been before. The Denver Kid was the name of the man who had picked me up and I soon learned that he was a tramp—a hobo. All first class hoboes get boys who go along with them and on whom fall all the hard work. Their pay is in kicks and beatings. And I got my share of both. I found the country to be as he said it was, but we saw very little of it, for the Kid didn’t like walking. He stayed close to the railroad and I saw most of the country from a crack in the door of a box car, or through the flying sand thrown up over us as we clung to a rattling brake-beam. The old man’s meal was sour dough biscuits and a sort of soup made from jerked beef and river water. But he offered it to them and served it as if it were a banquet. To the tired, hungry boys it was a banquet. They had done tremendous deeds on a diet of canned goods and any change was welcome..