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.

We hid all day under a warehouse and at dark rode a freight into Oakland where we got the ferry. We bought new clothes, rented a room, and got cleaned up. San Francisco fascinated us. We spent days on the waterfront watching the ships and sailors, or at the Cliff House where I first saw the ocean, and in the park. Our nights were spent about the Coast, Broadway and Pacific Street, at Bottle Koenig’s or the Bella Union or downtown at Pete Dorsey’s and other dance halls.

Gambling was open everywhere; we experimented and lost. We wasted our money around the shows, dance halls, and hop joints, which were open and unmolested by the police. In a month we were almost broke, and ready for the road. Salt Lake was decided upon where Smiler had something special in view.

An uneventful week on the road put us into Salt Lake City.

Then swiftly came the tragic night that separated us forever⁠—I to jail and the kindly, lovable Smiler to his grave.