There was nobody in but the proprietor when I entered. "My friend, I am very hungry, and am broke--I have just ten cents, and am thousands of miles from home. Give me ten cents worth of supper, and please understand I want quantity and not quality." The meal that good-hearted fellow spread out on the table caused me to blush with shame, but I was hungry, and shame was set in the background. It was chicken fricassee, sausage, beef, etc., and more of each than I could eat, hungry as I was. In a short time I left the restaurant. It was already time for the Dallas freight to leave, and I went hurrying down the track through the darkness to where the train was making up. I came upon two brakemen struggling in a vain endeavor to close a tight car door. (From this point throughout the West the brakemen are white men.) The men were cursing and swearing at a great rate at their failure to close the door, but with the united effort of all three of us, it was finally pushed to and sealed. "I want to go to Dallas. You fellows care if I get on?" "We'll take you for $1.00" said the brakemen. I told them I didn't have the money. (In this part of the country a brakeman makes almost as much carrying hobos as his wages amount to. A dollar is the usual charge for a division, which is anywhere from one hundred to two hundred miles, but when a hobo attempts to go without paying, he is generally treated pretty rough, if not thrown from the train and killed.) "Four bits, and we'll carry you," said one of the brakemen. "I give you my honest word, I haven't got a cent, fellows." "Then don't get on this train. Do, you'll get kicked off," said the men. I left them and went hurrying through the darkness down the long line of cars. I found a car half full of cross-ties. The door had not been sealed, and crawling into the back end of the car I pulled off my coat--for the night was very hot--and folding it up into a nice pillow, I lay down to sleep. I never knew when the train started, but about forty miles down the road the brakemen found me, and shining their lanterns within a foot of my face, woke me up. Instead of "kicking" me off, as threatened, they talked fairly sociable. "We'll not put you down in this storm, here on the prairie, for there's nothing here but a side-track, but the next stop is Longview, and you'll have to get off," they said. I went to the door and looked out. The rain was coming down in great sheets, and the heavens were lit up by an almost constant glare of lightning. It was the worst storm I had ever seen. As far as I could see in every direction was a vast expanse of rolling prairie. It was the first time I had ever seen the prairies, and I felt deeply impressed. I noted that the air seemed purer and fresher too than any I had ever breathed before. At Longview the men came to the car to put me down, but I had already gotten down, and not finding me, they left.