Years after, I got out of a train at Cheyenne, racked with the opium habit, after an all-day ride to escape the Denver police. Making a hasty survey of the gambling houses and joints I failed to find anybody I knew who could direct me to a place to “smoke.” It was almost midnight, cold and storming, and I set out to find a laundry. There was one near by, the laundrymen were resting after the day’s toil, and through the glass door I saw one lying in his bunk, smoking his day’s ration of hop. The door was locked, and they refused to open up for me. No hop fiend’s wits ever fail to work when the “yen yen” arrives. In desperation I hastened to one of the gambling houses, and going into a rear room took off my vest and wrapped it in a newspaper. Hurrying out, I got a messenger and gave him fifty cents to take the bundle to the Chinese laundry. I was at his heels. The Chinamen seeing what they thought was a parcel of laundry opened the door and I shouldered myself in behind the boy. Once inside, I took my vest away from him and going directly to the bunk where the smoker lay threw down some silver, explaining what I wanted. The smoker turned out to be the boss laundryman. The sight of my money mollified him somewhat, and after much protesting and objecting he let me lie down on his bunk and smoke my fill. In an hour we were friends. He explained that he refused to open the door because he thought I was a “ketchum money man”—a robber. In the days of my sad experience at the Chinese store, Vancouver was a much smaller town than it is now. There were few opportunities worth while, and I decided to leave. Moreover every Chinese store, laundry, and business house reminded me of that disastrous night. I was afraid of bumping into Chew Chee or the boss Chinaman that had given me the letter. I was sure they had heard about it, and didn’t want to face them. I was nearly broke again, and had to bestir myself. The American side seemed the only place to go, and not having enough money to buy a ticket, I went down to the railroad yards to get a train. The blind baggage, or “stormy end” as the bums call it, was so crowded when the train pulled out that I saw they would all be thrown off at the first stop. I didn’t want to get underneath on the rods and ruin my clothes for a short jump of fifty miles to the junction, so I got on top of a coach. Something must have been wrong with the engine, for there was one continual shower of red-hot cinders falling on me that burned holes in my clothes, ruining them and blistering my skin. At the first stop I got down, intending to go in a coach and steal a hat check, or crawl under a seat out of sight. Looking about I saw that the last coach was in darkness, and thinking it was a dead, empty car, I waited till it came along and boarded the front end, hoping to find the door unlocked. The door opened to my touch, but when I went inside I found myself in a luxuriously furnished private car instead of a dead coach.