arrest on suspicion, lead to any embarrassing questions on the part of the sheriff or his deputy. Forsooth, almost anyone may carry a piece of steel or whalebone from a corset without necessarily falling under suspicion as a robber or tramp.

Once inside the dump, the tramp and his kid reconnoitre in order to reassure themselves that all is quiet and safe. Then, if a gunny sack is not available, an old shirt is made into a bag; the collar of the shirt is buttoned up and the sleeves are tied about the neck. This impromptu suitcase is filled with clothing, shoes, ties, tinned goods, food, and such other articles as are deemed needful. Usually the tramp fills one shirt for himself and another for the kid. All the pilfered articles are removed from shelf, rack, or case in such a way as not to excite the suspicion of the owner when he opens his store in the morning. No telltale signs are left behind; no bit of merchandise not needed is carelessly discarded. The store is left apparently just as it was found. The result is that the number of detections of tramp robbery is almost nil. Only the merest accident or some bit of carelessness proves the undoing of the weeder. When everything has been closely packed in the shirts or gunny sacks and the tramps are about to leave, the till of the cash register is opened. By the same principle of selection used in weeding the dump, money is removed from the drawer. The amount taken is determined by the amount in the register; never is enough taken to cause the owner of the store to suspect at once that there is something wrong.

The tramp and his kid then depart, taking a route along the railroad right of way, keeping down behind the embankments whenever a house is passed. By dawn they usually reach some favorable spot, a wood or a ravine, where all the stolen goods are quickly

VOL. 136-NO. 6

B

buried, but enough food is taken from the cache to last the day. With enough to eat, they lie in the shade of a tree and read and wait for the passing of the day to tell them that all danger of pursuit is over, that the owner of the store is still ignorant of his loss. Never, even under what seem the most favorable conditions, do they relax vigilance or talk about what was done the night before.

That night they sally forth to some near-by town, sometimes taking the loot with them, sometimes leaving it buried. Upon arriving, they drop in upon some Mexican shack at the time of the evening meal. There, among the so-called 'greasers,' the tramps are welcomed and fed. During the course of the meal the master-tramp, who nearly always speaks Mexican, recites the list of materials on hand, mentions the quality and style, and states the price of sale. If the Mexicans are willing to purchase, the kid goes back for the hidden goods, which are then laid out piece by piece and sold. Sometimes the Mexicans give their orders, stating their price in advance, so that when the tramp weeds a dump he does it to meet the orders of his customers. All that is sold is disposed of at ridiculously low prices.

By all tramps in the Southwest the Mexican is held in the highest esteem. In his dealing with the gentlemen of the road the greaser never takes a mean advantage, never 'snitches' on the tramp. The dark-skinned men from across the Rio are very fond of tramps, from whom it may be said that they receive about the only fair treatment they ever receive in these grand democratic States. I have listened for hours at a stretch to tramps and Mexicans as they talked politics and manners. Sometimes tramps hide their stolen property in the shacks of the greasers, accepting the word of honor of the head man for its return intact. Such a trust is

never abused. The rest of the Mexicans would probably knife the compatriot who tried to make away with the goods or go to the local police. It may be said that the Mexican is the tramp's sole friend in all the Southwest.

That is the lighter and comparatively interesting side of trampery. All old tramps too aged for active work in cracking safes make their living by weeding dumps. But the grim side of tramping, and its raison d'être, is opening obies and cracking boxes.

IV

On the day and date, at the place previously agreed upon, all those invited to participate in the forthcoming robbery assemble. When everything is in readiness, and a leader has been chosen, the tramps move in upon the town and hide themselves. Between two and four in the morning is the time usually chosen for blowing the box. This allows for the explosion and robbery and the get-away. It may be said parenthetically that the get-away from the scene of the crime is always the most carefully worked-out feature of the whole act, excepting, of course, the acquisition of the money. It is the more important since tramps live and operate in a sparsely settled land, affording few places of concealment, and having but few roads and still fewer railroads. The get-away nearly always involves flight by rail on a fast freight to some junction point where another fast train is boarded. By morning as much space as possible is put between the tramps and the scene of the theft. This part of the programme presupposes a knowledge of the movements of railroad freights and their speed and destination. Contrary to popular conception, tramps rarely make use of high-powered cars, as these are too easily traced and identified. A hiding

place is chosen that neither man nor dog can trace, and it must be filled with sufficient food to last at least a week. In the hiding-place the loot is divided by equal shares among all the participants, the tramp kid receiving a share from his master, usually one quarter to one half of the latter's portion.

After the leader has been chosen, the men are placed strategically, according to the needs of proper defense. Each man carries a sawed-off rifle or shotgun, loaded. No matter what the size of the party, on the inside of the obie or bank there are always three men. Of these three men the head is the cracksman. He carries the soup. His kid carries a kit of tools, consisting of a steel drill, files, chisels, hammer, and a cake of ordinary washing-soap.

The cracksman takes his position before the box, sitting in front of the door and bracing his feet against it. On the floor before him or at one side — lie the soup, the drill, and the soap. First he tries the knob of the safe in order to throw the tumblers of the patented lock, so as to open the door accidentally or to make easier its opening by the explosion. As soon as he is ready to drill, his kid and the assistant plant themselves behind his back, holding their knees hard against him to brace him for the arduous work of drilling a hole in the steel of the safe. The hole is made near the knob of the door, and is drilled until it penetrates far enough to blow out the bolts inside the safe and rip off the door.

When the hole has been drilled to the proper depth, the cracksman pours the soup into it, puts a fuse into the liquid, and stops up the hole with soap. An old blanket is often wrapped around the safe, both to muffle the noise of the explosion and to prevent flying débris. When everyone has carefully disposed himself either behind the furniture or outside the building, the fuse is ignited.

Generally the force of the explosion, if it is carefully prepared for, results in the dislodgment of the heavy armored door, leaving the lighter inner door exposed. This door is jimmied open with a chisel and a hammer, unless the charge has been unusually heavy and has blown a hole clean through the box. After the explosion the safe is red hot, and great care must be exercised to avoid bad burns.

The noise of the explosion never fails to arouse the entire town. But it is the duty of the tramps stationed outside to hold off the citizens until the mastercracksman and his two assistants appear outside the door with the 'keister' or satchel holding the money and stamps. Until everyone is outside the building, no tramp deserts his post. Sometimes a second or a third shot of the soup is necessary to complete the job. Meanwhile the whole town must be held at bay, but no one killed, while the men inside work at a feverish pace. The record number of shots ever taken at a box is the well-authenticated attempt of the celebrated 'Heavy Alky Jimmie' (so named because he drank raw alcohol); twelve shots were taken before he finally penetrated to the inside of the box, only to find three cents instead of the fifteen thousand dollars he had hoped to obtain.

The first offensive measure taken by the tramps is the shooting out of all the visible lights of the town. Then in the dark they keep volley after volley whizzing over the heads of the townsmen to frighten them away from the scene of operations. The truth is that, although their money is being stolen, the townsmen have an abiding fear of tramps and rarely care to meet them in an encounter of this sort.

There is a standing rule among all tramps that no bloodshed must occur

at a robbery. The danger and the risk of such a happening are entirely too great. Usually the tramps can keep the yokels at bay with a plentiful supply of shot sent just near enough to make them shiver. Only on the most extreme provocation will a tramp wound a burgher. That is why yeggs — real yeggs, not city toughs—are rarely charged with murder or homicide resulting from a box expedition. Sometimes after two or three shots have been fired, and the opposition on the part of the men of the town is growing hotter, the head tramp the one chosen as leader gives the command for a retreat. Then it is pell-mell and rush, every man for himself, to escape the posse that is almost certain to be organized to pursue the fleeing bandits.

Despite high-powered motor-cars, radio, telephones, and tear gas, the tramp still persists. But the frontiers of his country are rapidly being delimited and his field of operation is narrowing. In the end, perhaps, only darkest and most backward Arkansas will be left as his sole hunting-ground. That will make easier the problem of his extermination. Like many another picturesque road-robber, he is passing away. Younger men are coming in, younger men who care only for science and speed. Like the highwayman of old and of romance, the tramp will become one of the gallery of historic robbers. The honor of his profession, if such it may be termed, the recognition that the fight with society is a game with humane rules, involving generosity, loyalty, a sense of humor, and buoyant anarchical conduct, will then be no more than a memory. But by that time trampery will have fallen into dishonor by having become brutalized, democratic, and mechanical. It will truly have fallen among thieves.

-

THIS is the story of a laugh. A sidesplitting, uproarious laugh that comes echoing down the years and reveals to us our Revolutionary heroes, not in their solemn portrait poses, but in a mood of ribald mirth, most abominably forgetful of dignity and justice and decency. It was an upsetting, demoralizing laugh that respected neither law nor order; a rough, barbarous laugh that cheated an honest man out of his due.

In 1789 a famous case was tried at New London, Virginia. It was six years since peace had been made, eight since the surrender at Yorktown. The hard-fought war was over. The splendid rejoicings were over. The soldiers had gone back home and had beaten their swords into reaping-hooks. It was a long time since that day in St. John's Church when Patrick Henry had thrilled his audience with 'Give me liberty, or give me death!' His hearers had been too deeply moved for applause, and they had sat silent for a space while those words seemed to be still ringing through the building. The speaker had led them up into a high mount, and they had seen a vision of glory and sacrifice. 'Let me be buried on this spot!' cried Colonel Edward Carrington, feeling that he had reached a spiritual height that he would never reach in life again.

Shortly after Yorktown a certain Mr. John Hook had bethought himself that some steers of his had been taken to feed the Continental Army, and that he had not been paid for the

cattle. It was true that the soldiers had been very hungry, and that the commissary had been hard-pressed for food. Also it was true that the heroes who had fought and bled had not been paid, and that many patriots had sacrificed all in the common cause. No matter - Mr. John Hook wanted his money. He brought suit against the commissary who had taken his cattle, and the commissary retained Patrick Henry to defend him. The case had lingered long on the docket, but it finally came to trial. The courthouse was crowded.

It would seem that the defense had not much to say. The facts, as stated by the plaintiff, were not contested. Mr. Henry's speech has come down to us in fragmentary form. He carried his hearers back to the stirring times of the war when a common danger had united all patriotic souls and a spirit of unselfishness had possessed them — when men had given freely of their blood and treasure, not counting the cost. Some had thrown their entire estates into the cause; some had laid down their lives. He painted the sufferings of the soldiers, half-starved and marking the frozen ground with the blood of their unshod feet. Then came the surrender at Yorktown, the wonderful relief after the dark hours of the struggle. The orator described the surrender, the humiliation of the foe marching out of the trenches, the joy of the worn and weary victors, the fraternal embraces and tears, the shouts of triumph, the bonfires and

rejoicings. 'But hark, what notes of discord are these which disturb the general joy and silence the acclamations of victory? They are the notes of John Hook, hoarsely bawling through the American camp, "Beef, beef, beef!"

The courthouse rocked with laughter. The clerk of the court, to preserve the dignity of his office, fled from the room and, when safely outside, threw himself on the lawn and rolled in uncontrolled merriment. The jury laughed until their sides ached, and when they got through laughing they brought in their verdict: 'One penny damages, and one penny costs to be paid by the plaintiff.' Later, when everybody had laughed so much that he could n't laugh any more, some rough spirits were heard talking about tar and feathers, and the best thing that John Hook could do was to get on his horse and ride swiftly

away.

Surely a great injustice was committed that day. Mr. John Hook was a worthy citizen of credit and renown. By rights he should have been paid principal and interest. But the jury let themselves be carried away by their emotions. They were a foolish set of fellows, and suddenly the suit appeared to them a huge impertinence - an amazing revelation of selfishness. They were struck by the disproportion between Hook's sufferings and those of others. The money he was crying about was so infinitesimal compared to the great losses endured by others. They saw in imagination the long heartbreaking struggle and the great piledup mass of human agony. The blood that had been shed and the lives that had been given could never be repaid -but Mr. John Hook wanted his money. It would have been tragic if it had not been comic. It was a thumping anticlimax to the story of the great war. After all the heroic adventures, the terrible battle, and the

wonderful triumph, here comes the collector presenting his bill. The epic ends in a greasy ledger.

The simple, rude men of that heroic time laughed loud and long. For them Justice was not the classic goddess austerely blindfolded, but an open-eyed frontier lassie with a will of her own. Mr. John Hook was laughed out of court, and all because he wanted to collect a just debt. A derisive chuckle still lingers in the dusty records of the court, for the verdict was a jokesolemnly awarding a penny damages and then playfully taking it away for costs. So ends this story of a laugh.

--

In these civilized times John Hook would have had a better chance of getting his money. The world has grown more sober and sensible since those outrageous days of our youth. We do not laugh so easily and we do not jest when money is concerned. When Uncle Sam presents his bill to his comrades of the late war the discussions will, of course, be conducted with decent solemnity. No one will be so tactless as to compare money losses with human losses. No one will paint the picture of the trenches, showing the very blood upon the ground, and then suddenly project upon the scene the collector with his bill. No one would dare such an impertinence; and no artful orator will confuse men's minds and, by some hocus-pocus, make an honest man, seeking his own, appear sordid and base.

This is not the moment to bring up old stories of the war and to talk about Verdun and the wild night of the Armistice. That adventure is over. We are back on the plain of everyday life. The time has come to settle accounts.

Mr. John Hook wants his money · and there is no Patrick Henry to loose upon us the laughter of the world.