I don’t ride no East coast lines. Hell, ya git East a the Mississippi ‘n it’s hotter ‘n a son of a bitch. Ever’ yard’s got a dick ready to toss yer ass out er take ya to jail. Last time I was East, I wound up in jail, fer nothin’, tresspassin’ er some shit. Them dicks are layin’ fer a tramp. They do it to keep the job. The more tramps they take in, the more the big bosses in the office think the dicks are doin’ their job. It doesn’t make a bit a sense. One guy with a sleepin’ bag ain’t gonna mess up a railroad. I know that; the dicks know that. It’s the big bosses don’t know it.

A dick stops me in Chicago. He sez, “I’m takin’ ya in. Yer trasspassin’ on railroad property.” I sez, “So what else is new?” He tells me they had a load a TV’s stolen off one a the cars. I sez to him, “Do I look like I got any TV’s on me?” I sez, “Ya c’n unroll my sleepin’ bag, ‘n all the TV’s ya find’s yers.” He said it don’t make no diff’rence, he got orders to bring in anyone looks suspicious. I did a night fer that, ‘n next night caught outta them very same yards. It jus’ don’t make sense. A tramp ain’t gonna pull a job like that. Ya need a truck ta pull off somethin’ that big. Ya gotta haul them TV’s outta the yard somehow, ‘n a tramp got no truck else he wouldn’t be a tramp. ‘N a tramp sure as hell ain’t gonna go carryin’ a load a TV’s all by hisself. No, it ain’t tramps stealin’ from the railroad.

Some a them yards, though, they’ll be all over them trains, shakin’ ‘em down. If I know a yard is hot, I won’t even git off the train. I’ll try ‘n git me somethin’ goin’ straight through. ‘N if the train gits broke up, I’ll lay low till somethin’s made up goin’ in my direction. I c’n usually make it through. Might be I’ll have to catch it at night. Been in yards where I spent all night climbin’ b’tween rows a cars, keepin’ ahead a the dicks. I’d see a couple a flashlights comin’ down a row a cars, ‘n I’d climb through the cars to the next row. Been times where it went on like that all night, playin’ cat ‘n mouse with them guys. It’s either keep movin’ er take yer chances a windin’ up in jail. It’s how it is in the East.

The East got no room fer a tramp. The land’s been all took up with buildin’s ‘n concrete. Ain’t no place to jungle. It’s all fact’ries ‘n concrete aroun’ them yards. No place to even lay down yer bedroll. ‘N there’s niggertowns. Some a them yards is in the middle a niggertowns. Tramp’d be clean outta his mind to jungle in a place like that. Only thing to do is keep movin’ er stay in a flop er a mission er somethin’. Them big city flophouses, I stayed in ‘em. Got to if yer stuck in a city. Cain’t go sleepin’ out in a place like New York or Chicago. Be rolled ‘fore ya closed yer eyes. The Legion, that’s one fer the books. In Chicago. Big buildin’, seven er eight stories. Ya git a room, er cage is more like it, six feet by four feet, barely ‘nuff room to turn aroun’ in. ‘N there’s a cot ‘n locker takin’ up half the room. The ceilin’s is all chicken wire. Got rows a cages to ever’ floor, ‘n them cage walls is only ‘bout seven feet high, ‘n the main ceilin’s mebbe three, four feet ‘bove that. ‘N ever’ cage is got chicken wire nailed over it so’s no one c’n climb over the walls ‘n git in at’cha. It ain’t the Ritz, that’s fer damn sure, but yer off the street.

Don’t hardly find no tramps in the East. Ride East, ‘n y e’ll be lucky to run into ‘nother tramp past the Mississippi. Back there, people see ya climb off a boxcar, ‘n they look at’cha like yer from outter space. Been a long time since any of ‘em seen a tramp. Rode two weeks ‘long the East coast ‘n never laid eyes on ‘nother tramp. It’s no place fer a tramp.  Them people back East got no use fer a tramp. They ain’t needin’ a tramp. What they need is stenographers, ‘n, hell, there ain’t a tramp I know takes shorthand.

59.