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A hard town for scoffings, was what the hoboes called it at that time. I know that I missed many a meal, in spite of the fact that I could throw my feet with the next one when it came to slamming a gate for a poke-out or a set-down, or hitting for a light piece on the street. Why, I was so hard put in that town, one day, that I gave the porter the slip and invaded the private car of some itinerant millionnaire. The train started as I made the platform, and I headed for the aforesaid millionnaire with the porter one jump behind and reaching for me. It was a dead heat, for I reached the millionnaire at the same instant that the porter reached me. I had no time for formalities. Gimme a quarter to eat on, I blurted out. And as I live, that millionnaire dipped into his pocket and gave me ... just ...precisely ... a quarter.

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