and the storekeeper said it would be impossible to be put up for the night anywhere in the village. I told him I considered the harbouring of travellers a Christian duty. "They don't feel it so about here," said he politely. There was an empty park-seat at the end of the main street, I went and sat on it and made my supper. Whilst I sat there several folk came and gazed at me, and thought I might be plotting revenge. In America they are very much afraid of the refused tramp — he may set houses on fire. But I was quite cheerful and patient. I had been sleeping out regularly for weeks, and shelter refused did not stir a spirit of revenge in me. In any case, I was out to see America as she is, not simply to be entertained. I was having my little lesson - "and very cheap at the price.” But I found hospitality that night. As I sat on the park-seat a tall labourer with two water-pails came across some fields to me, passed me, and went to the town pump and drew water. myself, "that is a Russian." I hailed him as he came back. "Surely," said I to I had guessed aright; he replied in Russian. "Are you working in a gang?" I inquired. "No, only on the section of the railway; there are six of us. We have charge of this section. Where are you going to? To Chicago? Looking for a job? Going to friends there? Where are you going to sleep? This village is not a good one. Ne dobry. If you sleep there, on the seat, up comes the politzman, and he locks you up. So you be three weeks late in getting to Chicago perhaps. Why do you walk? You get on freight train and you be there to-morrow or the day after. You come with me now. I sleep in a closed truck with five mates, four are Magyars, one is a Serb. It's very full up, and I don't know how the Magyars would take it if I brought you in. But I know a good place. A freight train is waiting here all night. There are plenty of places to sleep, and you go on in it to-morrow morning to Toledo." He showed me an empty truck. I was very much touched, and I thanked him warmly. "How do you believe," he asked in parting, "are you a Pole or are you Orthodox ?" "Oh," said I, "I'm not Russian, I've only lived some years there. I'm a British subject." This somewhat perplexed him. But he smiled. "Ah well," said he, "good-bye, Sbogom - be with God," and we parted. A little later he returned and said that if I were lonely and didn't mind a crush, the Magyars would not object to my presence. But by that time I had swept the sawdusty floor of the truck, made a bed, and was nearly asleep. "Thanks, brother," said I, "but I'm quite comfortable now." The Russians are a peculiarly hospitable people. Their attitude of mind is charitable, and even in commercial America they retain much of the spirit that distinguishes them in Europe. I met a queer old Russian tramp in Eastern Pennsylvania; he exemplified what I mean. He was, however, rather an original. In a district inhospitable to tramps I obtained my dinner by paying for it. In this way and by these words: "Can you give me a meal for a quarter?" "Well, if you've got the coin I reckon we can do that." I was sitting at a meal of canned beef, beans, and red-currant jelly, sipping from a mug of coffee, in which might possibly be discerned the influence of a spoonful of milk. The farmer was cross-examining me on my business where had I come from? for a job? Was I walking for wager? Was I looking when a strange figure appeared at the window, a broad-faced, longhaired, long-bearded tramp in a tattered cloak. He approached the house, and about ten feet from the window where we were sitting he stood stock-still, leaning on his staff and staring at us. "A hobo - looks a opening the window. want ?" bit fierce," said the farmer, "How "How do? Whayer |