“Goin’ down in the yards, young feller?”

“Yes, why?”

“Better wait till night if you want to make a train. The railroad bull is hostile. They found a bum dead in a car of lumber this morning, and they had to tear the end of the car off to get his body out. He must have been an awful gay cat to get into the end of a carload of planed lumber. It’s suicide.”

I went back uptown and into a lunch counter. The waiter was idle and talkative.

“Traveling?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Which way?”

“Denver.”

“Beating it?”

“Yes.”

“Listen here, it’ll take you three or four days to make Denver that way. You’ll ruin your clothes and maybe get grabbed off a train and handed thirty days at Colorado Springs⁠—big chain gang there⁠—they’re cleaning up the streets. If you can dig up five dollars I’ll give you a card to a porter on the Overland tonight. Give him the five and he’ll do the rest.”

“Thanks, I’ll try it.”

I met the train and the porter who took the card and my five dollars, stowed me away in the linen closet, and locked the door. I was almost suffocated. Once in the night he opened the closet. “How you makin’ out, buddy?”

“All right,” I said, and the door was locked again. Next morning he gave me a piece of steak between slices of bread, and a bottle of coffee. After that I felt better and dozed in a cramped, sitting position in a corner.