Breakfast over, the bums shaved. Both had razors. All bums carry razors for shaving, fighting, or cutting through a sleeper’s clothing to get into his pocket. One of them had a big silk handkerchief that he stropped his razor on, the other used his belt. They heated water in a tin can, lathered their hands, and rubbed it on their faces. One used his mirror, the other used none. After shaving they dried their blades carefully and secreted them about their persons. Blankets were rolled up, and the bums were ready to take the road. The D.D. man was going into the city for a few days. “So long.” He scrambled up the bank to the road. The other was traveling in my direction and volunteered to direct me to a junction where I could make a westbound train. “You’re welcome to travel with me, kid, if you want to jungle-up for a month or two,” my companion said. “The fruit will be gettin’ ripe soon, and there’ll be green corn and new spuds and the gumps are fat already. I promise myself some famous mulligans around these parts.” Many boys would have jumped at this chance, but I declined. Maybe it was a dislike for begging, or ambition, or my imagination pulling me westward. I don’t know; but it wasn’t the hardships, I’m sure. At the junction we parted. “So long, kid. May see you out West next fall when I make the poultice route.” “What’s that?” I asked. “That’s southern Utah, kid, the land of milk and honey. You’re always sure of a big pan of milk and a fresh loaf of home bread—the poultice route, see? So long.” --- A long, heavy westbound freight train was slowly pulling out when I got to the railroad yards. A car of lumber, clean and white, piled halfway to the roof, the door invitingly open, came along. Nimbly I swung up and in. Inside the car I looked about for a place to secrete myself. The lumber was about six feet shorter than the car, which left a large space at one end. I dropped down into it, took off my coat, and stretched out on the floor, feeling sure of a long ride. No brakeman would crawl over that pile of lumber even if he knew there was a hiding place at one end. Along in the afternoon, after one of the many stops, I heard a scrambling above and a young fellow about my own age dropped lightly down beside me. I had been in the car so long that the half light was enough. I saw he was ragged and frightfully dirty, road dirt—coal smoke, cinders, ashes, grease. His coat, too large for the thin frame, was full of holes and its lining hung in tatters. His trousers were greasy and full of hot-cinder holes. His calico shirt was open in front, his skin was dirty. He was sharp-eyed and thin-faced. He eyed me wolfishly. “How long you been here?” “All day.” “Where you headin’ for?” “Denver.” “Got a smoke?” “No.”