KING OF HOBOES

From: Murder Incorporated - In a Keg

by Harold J. Treherne

would like you to think back to the years 1930-40, the dirty thirties, lean in a monetary sense but producing an abundance of track hoofers, freight car sojourners, transients, hoboes, and what-have-you, where the main line and suburban tracks were their highway to everywhere. Anyone living within a half mile of the right-of-way, mostly farmers, had one visit, sooner or later, sometimes many, from one or more members of this wandering fraternity. They were the victims of the times, and while some were just caught up by the tide, others were undoubtedly tough characters. Many an amusing incident took place and many an odd acquaintanceship was established.

Consider the case of the long, rather well built, fortyish fellow, who showed up at our place one day in time for dinner, his intention I believe, but who somehow missed the bus, as we were all through. It was only a matter of a few minutes, though, before my wife had something ready. We were living at the time, one quarter mile north of the Canadian National single track, and I didn't ask this gentleman of the road whether he was looking for a job or a meal. Could I have read him all wrong after these many years? He did justice to a good meal but any thoughts of manual effort were too disturbing to think upon. Why spoil a good meal with such an awful thought? Don't worry, he didn't! He had on a black soft nick hat and I think he valued it rather highly because he never took it off. Our kitchen was small, only 10 by 12, and everything in it. He had his meal off the sliding top of the kitchen cabinet. How he accommodated his long legs I don't know, probably sat side-saddle.

The kitchen door was wide open and I remember sitting on the steps outside. There were three, leading down from a small raised platform and there were two harvesters with me at the time. We were not short of company (of a sort.) Once in a while I would glance back and see our friend tucking in, his hat still in its "outdoor" position on the end of his six foot frame and, in our small kitchen, he undoubtedly looked "one too many." I really should have enquired what its pedigree was. He was through finally, stretched his long legs and stooped to clear his hat and the door frame. I can't possibly have imagined what would have happened had he knocked his topper off. I suspect his topper and his self respect were intimately connected and have often wondered since where the affinity lay.

Probably what dough he had, was kept under his hat. He didn't have much else under it. For a few minutes he sat down on the steps and we were talking horses and farming and — "You know," he said, "farmers round here work so many horses, I'd hate to work for 'em, a man could easily lose one or two" and, by the look on his countenance, I believe he really meant it.

He had a rather high-pitched voice which I can distinctly remember yet. He didn't inflict his presence on us very long and was soon headed back to the iron way. We hoped he felt better but I don't remember if he ever thanked us for the meal. If he didn't - well, he himself was thanks enough. He wasn't an imposition. He didn't stay that long.

Another of the brothers singled us out for a visit one night and a dubious character he was, without a doubt. It was long after dark and my wife answered the door at the insistence of his loud knocks. The door was hardly opened before I heard someone almost shout, "Gimme summat t'eat."

He was short and stubby, gruff manner (obviously) rough looking features and he could have been anything.

"Come in, "I called, "you don't have to demand anything round here, we've never had to refuse anyone a meal yet."

He came in all right, never said a word and had a meal from the same place where our late long fellow sat, but what a contrast. This fellow could have appeared before or after the other one, after all these years I don't remember. I can see him sitting there and he had a cap, not a hat. Certainly a tough character if I ever saw one. He ate fast and only spoke when spoken to. All I could get out of him was that he was Scotch but I had my doubts, and if he was, he wasn't any credit to the race. It was hard work talking to this guy. Very soon he took his departure and headed West, at least, that was his intention but my wife was sure he would bed down in the barn on the adjoining farm just across the road, the house being vacant. She was sure he would smoke and set fire to the place before morning but he disappeared into the night, and that was the last of him. I went over later to make sure he had left.

Another one I recall was a genuine case and actually I don't think he was hard up. At first glance he was better than the run of the mill and offered to do any job around and his appearance, I dimly recollect was all in his favor. We were happy to give him a meal and send him on his way with our good wishes.

Surely, it mirrored the times forcibly and clearly to see the number of fellows passing our window by the freight car route, sitting on top of the cars like crows on a fence, in the Fall. At this distance in time I wouldn't tie myself down to actual count but I would say, a minimum of twenty on an average freight, although at odd times I saw many more than that.

One day, early in March 1938, one star of the track and field showed up like a bolt out of the blue. The year and month were well remembered, as he himself impressed it on our minds. I would call this one a "King of Hoboes," that mysterious, ever moving throng of ne'er-do-wells, but always with us, good times or bad. The day was average for March, not much snow, the temperature above zero, calm but cloudy, and, while taking a tank and team across the road to be filled at the flowing well, an event occurred at home that provided considerable amusement before the day was over. It seems that a hobo of great wandering ability (according to his own statements), arrived at our back door at about this time (looking for a job).

I had returned the team to the barn and was about to turn the door handle when, through the glass panel, with mild surprise, I saw a figure sitting quite at home (apparently) in the far corner of the kitchen with all the appearances of a fully fledged member. He just suddenly appeared out of thin air, so it seemed to me, as I had never set eyes on him before.

Through the glass panel, I stared at him for fully fifteen seconds which he returned, stare for stare, and I was convinced, there and then, that a "gentleman" so bold would have no difficulty gaining admittance. He was in on a free pass anyway.

It appears my wife was listening to Cordell Huil's speech on World affairs when someone knocked on the back door and she rather resented this intrusion.

"Well?" she enquired, bristling slightly and was answered immediately by,

"Can you tell me where I can get a job?" in a rather pleasant voice, a little above the average for a common or garden hobo, she had to admit.

"No, I can't," she returned, emphatically, getting set to battle with any and every adversary, "but come in anyway and please take off your overshoes."

"But, Lady," he demurred, "I can't take 'em off," and then added, by way of true enlightenment, "I have six pairs of socks on inside these overshoes, they are damp and I haven't had them off for days."

"Well, do please keep them on, then," she hastened to add, beseechingly, offering a silent prayer that he didn't ask permission to string twelve socks in various stages of potency on our overhead indoor clothes line.

"But anyway," she continued, relaxing a little towards him, "come in and take a seat and I'll talk to you after this radio address is over."

So our friend came in, stepping over the threshold with puppy-like enthusiasm, and did exactly as he was told. The very instant after he entered our kitchen he was "at home," having acquired such brashness on his many wanderings among genial prairie folk. He seated himself but didn't stay peaceful, interjecting various commonplace remarks during the rest of the speech. These, my wife ignored, being determined, in this case, to stay with one thing at a time. Finally, however, the enforced quiet came to an end, the tension was released, and our visitor blossomed out in his true colors. From his remarks on Cordell Hull's talk and other topics he rose from just a hobo to a man of discernment. This was the first surprise on the agenda. It was at this point that I arrived on the scene as already described.

"How do," I nodded, "and how did you get in, I didn't see anyone around."

"He came in looking for a job, imagine," - emphatically from my wife, "and don't you think there is something wrong with a fellow looking for work at this time of the year?" (Early March.) How true! "Besides," she continued, "nobody round here would give a man a job after no crop last year."

There was no satisfactory answer, but he got a job all right, inside jobs and more than one, and he came through with flying colors.

A man of 51 he was, and his name - Cunningham, Alan Cunningham, to be correct and Scotch, by gee! - and don't you forget it! An old soldier who suffered from shrapnel wounds in the first World War, and all the souvenirs collected in France, he must have had with him, judging by the assortment he turned out of his pockets. He had an old Army greatcoat whose best days were well behind it. At a guess he would be about 5 feet 8 inches in height and weight, 160 pounds, and a good looking fellow, further enhanced by an expensive-looking pair of hexagon rimless spectacles. He possessed two pairs which reposed in one of his various pockets and were called forth to do duty constantly. His cap was on a par with his general makeup, its original khaki color all but faded into obscurity. His footwear we are well acquainted with and that is close enough. Also, he carried a parcel which, he said, contained a spare shirt and a respectable pair of shoes. In lieu of wearing a good pair of shoes he compromised by carrying around six pairs of socks on his extremities. In contrast to the abundance of protection for his feet he possessed no mitts which was indeed strange because he had an elegant sufficiency of other things. It was almost dinner time, but with us it was lunch since our young son and heir (six years old) goes to school, and also because we had the teacher boarding with us: the proper dinner came at six.

Alan made it clear that he never asked for a meal. He always asked for a job, but if a meal was forthcoming and a job wasn't well O.K. He wouldn't question Providence any further. Such a situation was highly satisfactory as it was. As he said himself, sometimes he broke even and sometimes he didn't, and he would always remember the time he was directed seven miles from a certain railroad to a farmer's place. He took a straight course, as near as he could make it across the fields, thinking that was the quickest way. He didn't know the country very well and missed the place (probably was a hobo's sure thing, too) but caught up with another.

The family were having supper and he thought this was going to be a cinch and maybe a good bed and a warm one afterwards to round everything off in fine style. He was thinking along these lines when he knocked on the door. But his luck was out. The farmer didn't invite him in, but stepped outside to carry on the conversation. With the door wide open and the clinking of knives and forks distinctly audible and his imagination running riot he was told there was no job, no meal, and no bed.

Although it seems hardly possible that this could happen in the West, Alan C. vouched for it. He didn't mind so much about the bed, he'd slept in snow banks before, but to come so close to a good meal and a substantial one, and then to see it vanish into nothingness, that was hard to take. He realized men aren't all brothers under the skin and the sooner he forgot about it the better.

To return to home affairs: after lunch, (knee-style) Alan assured me he was quite willing to help with any job outside. He wasn't a piker and his conscience likely prodded him a little.

"O.K." I said, "that's quite all right."

I had mentioned before that I still had the cows to water. However, before doing that I walked over to see how much water was in the tank. The well only flowed about one gallon per minute. Imagine my surprise then to see our cows coming out on the run as if the devil himself was heeling them. Usually, they almost have to be levered out. Then I saw our bespectacled Alan bringing up the rear and, though I certainly don't put him in the same class as the D. the cows weren't taking any chances.

"Nice work," I shouted, "nice work."

"Well, I thought I would let them out but, boy, how they stared at me and gee, they almost took their tie ropes with 'em."

Our next chore, after the feed was put in, was to coax the bossies back into the barn, and to convince them there were no hoboes around, at least not this one, in particular. The spotted year-and-a-half-old heifer, not yet graduated into sensible adult cowhood, cavorted wildly in various geometrical patterns, some real be-bop with tail straight out like a broom handle, the bristles to the back. The stage was all hers and she "figgered" a hobo was just the thing.

"Well, now, Alan, what do we do now? Have you any suggestions how we might induce these 'wild' cows to come in and be good?"

"No, I haven't unless I could get behind them" - I vetoed the idea right away as impractical. I could see those cows going North, South, East and West all at once, their tails straight back, plum full of momentum! As for the fence-! "Maybe I should fade away from the landscape for a few minutes."

I agreed with him one hundred per cent, though I thought a longer period would be a lot better. As far as I could see he was no asset to the landscape anyway. That was my charitable opinion! In genuine consideration for the cows' well being he removed his unwelcome presence from the vicinity of the barn and the cows moseyed back cautiously but ready, at a moment's notice to scat, should anything unusual show up.

It was our friend's intention, at this point, to hit the trail West via the railroad track. He had already said his good-byes to my wife and thanked her for the meal but just as he was about to leave, I noticed the brown paper parcel, sitting on a stone just outside the barn. He was evidently leaving it, whether by accident or design, I couldn't quite say, but as things turned out I strongly suspect the latter reason. The incident, at any rate, had the effect of prolonging what would otherwise have been a closed chapter, and the rest of this story wouldn't have been written. I have to admit that could have been a blessing in disguise.

"I suppose you need the parcel you brought with you," I remarked, casually.

"By golly, I sure do," he answered emphatically, "there's my other shirt in there and a pair of new shoes." From this little parcel a story grew.

I picked up the valuable package and handed it to him and, as we were walking towards the gate, again I said casually (not being much interested) "I suppose you have quite a time getting your shirts washed."

"Don't I," he agreed readily, "and you know," he confided, "in a lot of the houses I go into, the housewife won't let me wash my shirt."

"That's tough, but anyway, you can sure wash your shirt here, that is, as soon a s we have enough water at the house. You will have to wait till I get the tank over."

I didn't seriously think he would need a whole tanktul of water to wash his shirt but he could have it all if he wanted it. Water was plentiful and easy to get.

"That's just fine," he said, becoming really confidential. "I can promise you, you won't need to worry, I'm sure I haven't any vermin on me.

I was slightly taken aback, I admit, wondering what information he would impart next and I didn't have long to wait.

"You don't need to be scared I shall bother your wife neither," he assured me. "I haven't any hankering after women since I was wounded during the war."

In the barn he showed me his stomach. It was shrunken and a big scar angled across it, looked as if it had been caught in the wringer.

"See," pointing to it, "I lost some of my guts but you don't need to worry."

He covered it up; he was certainly no artist's model. Fortified by these assurances, I just told him to go back to the house, wash his shirt, and make himself at home. He made himself at home, long before he washed his shirt, in fact. I was beginning to think he never intended to wash his shirt. I really suspect this shirt washing business was an open sesame to every house he went to. He probably washed it half a dozen times every week. He had to keep one card up his sleeve in addition to all the stuff in his pockets.

The tank was eventually hauled over to the house; the water piped into the cistern in the basement and the team returned to the barn. The chores were now finished for a while; it was about 2:30 p.m. and I strolled back to the house in the sure and certain hope that Alan would be deep in the shirt washing business. But no, sir. That was temporarily in abeyance.

Someone had just called up on the phone wanting to know how to prepare "Pigs in Blankets" - of all things, from a recipe my wife had in Mrs. Beeton's Cookery Book.

"I can't just remember," she replied. "I'll look it up for you if you'll just wait a minute."

But the caller didn't need to wait even a minute, with our fast moving Alan to the rescue. He was ready for action.

"Recipe," he enquired, "where?" and my wife said "yes" to the first question and then pointing, added, "on top of the kitchen cabinet" and hey, presto! he had the right book down and, skimming over the pages, came to the right place in a hurry.

"Here you are, Mrs." he said, reading out loud just as if finding recipes in unfamiliar books was his pet hobby.

We really had to give him credit for moving fast; a real accomplishment on such short notice.

"Now," I asked A., the way being clear, "how's the shirt washing business?"

"Not very fast," he admitted, "your wife has only just finished at the sink." He seemed to be hesitating about something and I think I read him rightly.

"If you would like to change your shirt, just slip into the dining room, there won't be anyone coming in there."

He did, and presently emerged in a sparkling blue shirt and holding in his hand the brown one he had just discarded.

I was thrilled by my first view of it.

"There it is," I said to myself, eyeing the much discussed garment, "There is the nucleus of the whole thing. If this poor fellow didn't possess a spare shirt this whole business would flop like a pack of cards."

"Here you are then," I pointed out, "here's the water, soap and everything, and all you need now is a little elbow grease". But do you suppose he actually started? In spite of every inducement and all things favorable, he did not wash that shirt, for, at this moment, and everything propitious, another little incident occurred that effectually relegated the shirt washing to second place. It was on the agenda but would be up for consideration later.

Our small daughter, Peggy (four years old), who generally has a nap most afternoons, had just come downstairs about 3 p.m. and, as usual, was hunting round for various articles of attire she had shed on retiring. She firmly believed she would never need them again. Her small shoes, for instance, had an unholy knack of being in every other place than where she was looking, and the flurry of excitement till they show up is an almost everyday upheaval. She gazed long and steady at this unexpected addition to the family circle and finally O.K'd him as acceptable. In fact she took a childlike fancy to this man. He was really wonderful and she was sure he could give her anything she wanted. To her he was Mr. Cunningham stated in precise English. Her shoes were found at last, one behind the stove and the other one in another room (where she had "throwed" 'em - they went!). How they got there was still a mystery though. With a whoopee and a look of triumph, she handed them, almost threw 'em at Mr. Cunningham for inspection.

He juggled them around and took a close look; one is O.K'd the other, kayoed. A buckle is missing. "Could Mr. Cunningham fix it?" Sure, he could, he could do anything for a little old lady of four. The buckle was found in some obscure place and all it needed was stitching on. So, needle and thread in his hand, also fortified with the correct pair of glasses for such a delicate operation, he fondles the shoe, makes a remark or two, sits himself fair and square in the middle of our pup-size kitchen and, without further comment or interference, completes the job.

Peggy followed these proceedings with rapt attention. She clapped her hands in undisguised joy and admiration, then balanced on one foot while a shoe was slipped on and now, after a one step dance, both are O.K. She flittered around wholly in a four-year-old manner.

At about this time, our six-year-old son and heir (almost 7) arrived home from school, said nothing, took an intent look at the newcomer, and, in spite of Peggy's jubilation was quite unimpressed and treated him with polite unconcern. However, not to be outdone by his sister, (why should she get all the attention?) he agreed, with a little persuasion, to let A. cut his hair, if he could find time to do it.

We never for a moment doubted his ability. That time honored and almost essential item, the kitchen stool, was rounded up. David, adorned in a flowing white choker, was not too enthusiastic about all this palaver. The scissors clicked and clipped, and his head assumed all the necessary angles associated with this "mop" operation. Not a word was spoken. "Like a lamb, dumb before his shearers."

Peggy, on the side, moved closer to get a ringside view and explored her own tresses. She was sure she needed a hair cut, which, of course she didn't. The hair cutting was now finished, the shroud removed, and David emerged like a feathered chicken and Peggy did a ring a 'roses round him, to celebrate. In between the rings the barber cleaned up the floor.

Souvenir time was upon us now and out came six or seven cigarette lighters from the deep recesses of his many pockets. He had to hunt for them, it appeared, other things being in the way. He didn't reveal everything he had. While the two youngsters crowded into the inner circle for a closer look he explained how he acquired them. There was a discrepancy somewhere. The First War had been over almost twenty years and the next one hadn't appeared on the horizon yet. He had lighters, admitted, of various shapes and sizes, including the old flinted pioneer, the bullet type and two others were up to date (1938) so I hardly think they were all souvenirs. We kept to our own opinions and took his explanations cum grano salis. He slipped them back in his pockets and though willing t o leave one for the kids. We decided against it. They were no kids' toys. The youngsters, of course piped up in noisy disagreement.

Between now and supper time the shirt washing was, at long last, accomplished, and we were intensely relieved though A. didn't show any visible signs. His passport was now stamped and O.K'd. There were no impediments and no excuses to hold up his departure. Supper was close and with such a handy man around, it seemed good policy to offer him a meal in exchange for services. He accepted readily. No sham about him.

This simulated hesitation stuff, - "I shouldn't really." - "I never intended to stay this long." - "Are you sure you don't mind?" This didn't register with him at all. With one emphatic "Sure," he blew the froth completely off the beer, and the beer might be heady, but it was genuine.

The table was now set for supper and it proved to be a memorable meal. The five of us and the teacher and Alan, groomed to Army precision standards, ruddy face, hair slicked straight back, sparkling blue shirt, his spectacle lens polished to mirror-like finish. A king of hoboes, living up to his title, bolstered by the genial atmosphere surrounding him, sure of the present, but unconcerned about the morrow. Whoso drinks not deep of the cup of friendship when offered and returns it not, will one day have thrust upon him a tankard of remorse.

The lights were on, a little brighter, the wind hopping up the revs on the windcharger blades.

The teacher and Alan were sitting opposite each other. The soup course was served (canned tomato) and a lazy hand stirred slow twirls and squeaks alternately, for 5 seconds, 10 seconds, 20 seconds and the teacher's eye glued on this fascinating performance. Impressionable and giggly, our teen-age teacher was going to blow up and bust for sure, if this didn't stop, and soon. But the race track gyrations deep in the bowl continued and no sign of a break in sight. Alan's countenance was consumed with a far away look, unmindful of hidden pressures gathering momentum.

She gazed, hypnotized at this mechanical performance (just too bad it wasn't cream), and the gong intoned - going once — going twice - going - and she burst into a thousand trills of uncontrollable laughter, her face red from pent-up restraint. She lowered her head and floods of mirth swamped her completely.

This jarred his far away look and he paused from his labors and pondered this unseemly conduct.

"What is the matter with her? Is she often taken like this?" he asked, fair puzzled. "There must be something funny about me, is there?"

A veritable rising crescendo of giggles overpowered the teacher and she staggered kitchen-wards where she was eventually reduced to tears.

Alan idly removed his specs, and marveled and wondered at the unpredictable and totally ununderstandable goings-on in the feminine mind. He was baffled and, poor fellow he never tumbled on to the main reason. After a while, the teacher resumed her place and the rest of the meal was quiet. Supper over, the dishes were removed with alacrity, A. providing the impetus. I will give him credit, when he tackled anything, he spared n o effort and as my wife was donning an apron, he forestalled her and took over the strategic position right square in front of the sink. A man who was so expert at washing and ironing shirts could surely wash dishes. Unthinkable that he should be relegated to any inferior position. So be it, he washed, he always washed dishes he said and he liked it. He kept the two of them busy, in the meantime rehashing his past experiences in a steady and monotonous voice as if to say, "You just have to believe me, this is the Gospel truth."

This occurred a year or two before the "suds booster" days so I'm not quite sure if the job was done sparkingly, or not. The teacher was beginning to show signs of instability again and very soon retired to collect her scattered thoughts. He was proving one too many for her. A spot of solitude would straighten her out.

The night wore on in one-sided conversation and we learned very little about him. For sleeping quarters he had a big room on the West side all to himself. He was used to sleeping in snow banks and this would come close to his natural habitat. I'm sure he appreciated our consideration. This room was a hard one to heat in Winter. We wished him "Good Night." And, with the door closing and clicking as the catch caught, our star boarder was left to his own devices. My wife was a little apprehensive about him, thought he might revert to Mr. Hyde under cover of darkness but I had no such qualms.

We retired and peace and quiet reigned and morning broke according to its daily habit. Breakfast came and went in sober mood. This fleeting partnership must end. He shook hands with the teacher (still wondering) and my wife - thanked her for everything, patted the kids' heads, in a most fatherly manner, repeated his adieus and prepared to leave. Peggy, by way of the sink, saw him leave. The kitchen window and the sink were just made for each other. She had her nose, blob-like, pressed on the glass as we passed out of range.

A. and his venerable greatcoat were mutual partners again, and, his indispensable parcel in his hand, he was ready for any further encounters. Leisurely, we bumped into town (two and a half miles) in the grain wagon, behind a pair of aging bays. At the railway crossing he climbed out, offered his thanks, hesitated a moment, half saluted, and headed Northwest.

I followed his receding form for a few minutes. The track had led him to us, and, by the same route, he disappeared. The lines converged in the far distance and he and the lines became one in the converging.

Turning round, I headed home, with an acute sense of loss, back to the daily chores, but musing, long afterwards, on this "King of Hoboes."