Probably fifteen thousand Eastern and Northern tramps winter in the South every year. Their luck there seems to be entirely individual; some do well and others barely live. They are all glad, however, to return to the North in April and go over their old routes again. An amusing experience that I had not long ago illustrates the different kind of tactics necessary in the tramp's summer campaign. So far as I know, he has never made use of the story that did me such good service, and that was told in all truthfulness, but it has since occurred to me that he might find it useful, and I relate it here so that the reader may not be taken unawares if some tramp should attempt to get the benefit of it. I was travelling with some tramps in western Pennsylvania at the time, and we were "beating" our way on a freight-train toward a town where we expected to spend the night. Noontime found us all hungry, and we got off the train at a small village to look for lunch. It was such a small place that it was decided that each man should pick out his particular "beat," and confine his search to the few houses it contained. If some failed to get anything, those who were more successful were to bring them back "hand-outs." My "beat" was so sparsely settled that I hardly expected to get so much as a piece of bread, because the entire village was known to hate tramps; but an inspiration came to me as I was crossing the fields, and I got a "set-down" and a "hand-out" at the first house I visited. The interview at the back door ran thus: "Madam,"--she was rather a severe-looking woman,--"I have exactly five cents in my pocket and I am awfully hungry. I know that you don't keep a boarding-house, but I have come to you thinking that you will give me more for my nickel than the storekeeper will over in the village. I shall be obliged to you if you will help me out." A look of surprise came into the woman's face. I was a new species to her, and I knew it, and she knew it. "Don't know whether we've got anything you want," she said, as if I were a guest rather than a wayfarer. "Anything will do, madam, anything," I replied, throwing into my words all the sincerity of which a hungry man is capable. She invited me into the dining-room, and gave me a most satisfying meal. There were no conversational interruptions. I ate my meal in silence and the woman watched me. The new species interested her. Just as I was finishing, she put some sandwiches, cake, and pie into a newspaper. I had made a good impression. "There," she said, as I was about to go. "You may need it." I held out my nickel and thanked her. She blushed, and put her hands behind her back. "I don't keep a hotel," she said, rather indignantly. "But, madam, I want to pay you. I'm no beggar." "You wouldn't have got it if you had been. Good-bye."