One of the bums started to march and the rest followed. He seemed to know just what to do and where to go. A short walk across the tracks brought us up in front of a big barnlike house with a hotel sign and broad steps in front. The bum led us straight up the steps and into a barroom, where he stood up against the wall opposite the bar. We did the same. A stout, grayish, red-faced man with a very positive air was busy serving drinks. He paused and spoke to one of our captors: “What have you there, Mike?” “Eight bums, judge.” He served another round of drinks and turned to us again. “Are you guilty or not guilty?” The big bum that led us in immediately answered: “We’re all guilty, judge, an’ hungry.” The judge—and he was no less person than Judge Casey, famous and celebrated in song and story for his speedy trials and the human quality of his justice—waved a short, hairy, muscular arm toward the dining room. “Feed them first, Mike.” We followed our leader into the dining room and all sat at one big table where we had a substantial breakfast. When the last bum had his fill, we marched back to the barroom and lined up against the wall again. “All ready, judge,” said Mike. The judge stopped dealing drinks and pronounced sentence. His voice sounded tired, weary; there was a note of kindness in it. “Oh, well, Mike, lave the big bums take tin days, and the little bums five.” He turned to his work. The big bum now led us out and to a near-by box car that served as a calaboose. One side door was nailed up and both end doors fastened outside. We crawled in and the other side door was shut and padlocked on the outside. Smiler sat down in the car and laughed. “What’s next, I wonder, kid?” Some one answered out of the darkness: “They’ll hook this box car on to the first freight and haul us over to Martinez, the county seat, an’ slough us in the county jail.” I had told Smiler about cutting myself out of the car when my companion was killed. “Better get busy with your ‘shive,’ kid.” I started cutting on the side opposite the boarding house. The bum that pleaded guilty for all of us saw what I was doing and protested. “Hey, kid, lay off o’ that. You want to get us all six months, destroyin’ railroad property?” Smiler was on him like a tiger and cuffed him around till he whined. “Go over in that corner and lie down, you greasy, big gay cat, or I’ll cut your tail off.” The bum sat down and stayed quiet. In an hour we kicked the boards out. “You first, kid.” I dropped out and Smiler followed. As we dodged across the yards I looked back. Two more bums had wriggled out. The other four elected to stay in the car, too lazy to run away.