He grunted and went on eating. I waited. After a coupleof minutes he looked up with an I-thought-you-were-goneexpression on his face， and demanded：—
“Well？”
“I ... I am waiting for something to eat，” I said gently.
“I knew you wouldn’t work！” he roared.
He was right， of course； but his conclusion must have beenreached by mind-reading， for his logic wouldn’t bear it out.
But the beggar at the door must be humble， so I accepted hislogic as I had accepted his morality.
“You see， I am now hungry，” I said still gently. “Tomorrowmorning I shall be hungrier. Think how hungry I shall be whenI have tossed bricks all day without anything to eat. Now ifyou will give me something to eat， I’ll be in great shape forthose bricks.”
He gravely considered my plea， at the same time going oneating， while his wife nearly trembled into propitiatory speech，but refrained.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do，” he said between mouthfuls. “Youcome to work to-morrow， and in the middle of the day I’lladvance you enough for your dinner. That will show whetheryou are in earnest or not.”
“In the meantime—” I began； but he interrupted.
“If I gave you something to eat now， I’d never see you again.
Oh， I know your kind. Look at me. I owe no man. I have neverdescended so low as to ask any one for food. I have alwaysearned my food. The trouble with you is that you are idle anddissolute. I can see it in your face. I have worked and beenhonest. I have made myself what I am. And you can do thesame， if you work and are honest.”
“Like you？” I queried.
Alas， no ray of humor had ever penetrated the sombre worksoddensoul of that man.
“Yes， like me，” he answered.
“All of us？” I queried.
“Yes， all of you，” he answered， conviction vibrating in hisvoice.
“But if we all became like you，” I said， “allow me to pointout that there"d be nobody to toss bricks for you.”
I swear there was a flicker of a smile in his wife’s eye. As forhim， he was aghast—but whether at the awful possibility of areformed humanity that would not enable him to get anybodyto toss bricks for him， or at my impudence， I shall never know.
“I’ll not waste words on you，” he roared. “Get out of here，you ungrateful whelp！”
I scraped my feet to advertise my intention of going， andqueried：—
“And I don’t get anything to eat？”
He arose suddenly to his feet. He was a large man. I was astranger in a strange land， and John Law was looking for me. Iwent away hurriedly. “But why ungrateful？” I asked myself asI slammed his gate. “What in the dickens did he give me to beungrateful about？” I looked back. I could still see him throughthe window. He had returned to his pie.
By this time I had lost heart. I passed many houses bywithout venturing up to them. All houses looked alike， andnone looked “good.” After walking half a dozen blocks I shookoff my despondency and gathered my “nerve.” This beggingfor food was all a game， and if I didn’t like the cards， I couldalways call for a new deal. I made up my mind to tackle thenext house. I approached it in the deepening twilight， goingaround to the kitchen door.
I knocked softly， and when I saw the kind face of themiddle-aged woman who answered， as by inspiration cameto me the “story” I was to tell. For know that upon his abilityto tell a good story depends the success of the beggar. First ofall， and on the instant， the beggar must “size up” his victim.
After that， he must tell a story that will appeal to the peculiarpersonality and temperament of that particular victim. Andright here arises the great difficulty： in the instant that he issizing up the victim he must begin his story. Not a minuteis allowed for preparation. As in a lightning flash he mustdivine the nature of the victim and conceive a tale that will hithome. The successful hobo must be an artist. He must createspontaneously and instantaneously—and not upon a themeselected from the plenitude of his own imagination， but uponthe theme he reads in the face of the person who opens thedoor， be it man， woman， or child， sweet or crabbed， generousor miserly， good-natured or cantankerous， Jew or Gentile，black or white， race-prejudiced or brotherly， provincial oruniversal， or whatever else it may be. I have often thought thatto this training of my tramp days is due much of my successas a story-writer. In order to get the food whereby I lived， Iwas compelled to tell tales that rang true. At the back door， outof inexorable necessity， is developed the convincingness andsincerity laid down by all authorities on the art of the shortstory.
Also， I quite believe it was my tramp-apprenticeship thatmade a realist out of me. Realism constitutes the only goodsone can exchange at the kitchen door for grub.
After all， art is only consummate artfulness， and artfulnesssaves many a “story.” I remember lying in a police station atWinnipeg， Manitoba. I was bound west over the CanadianPacific. Of course， the police wanted my story， and I gave it tothem—on the spur of the moment. They were landlubbers， inthe heart of the continent， and what better story for them thana sea story？ They could never trip me up on that. And so I tolda tearful tale of my life on the hell-ship Glenmore. （I had onceseen theGlenmore lying at anchor in San Francisco Bay.）I was an English apprentice， I said. And they said that I didn’ttalk like an English boy. It was up to me to create on the instant.
I had been born and reared in the United States. On the death ofmy parents， I had been sent to England to my grandparents. It wasthey who had apprenticed me on the Glenmore. I hope the captainof the Glenmore will forgive me， for I gave him a character thatnight in the Winnipeg police station. Such cruelty！ Such brutality！
Such diabolical ingenuity of torture！ It explained why I haddeserted the Glenmore at Montreal.
