never once did I lay eyes on him. His
"monica" was Skysail Jack. I first ran into it at Montreal. Carved
with a jack-knife was the skysail-yard of a ship. It was perfectly
executed. Under it was "Skysail Jack." Above was "B.W. 9-15-94." This
latter conveyed the information that he had passed through Montreal
bound west, on October 15, 1894. He had one day the start of me.
"Sailor Jack" was my monica at that particular time, and promptly I
carved it alongside of his, along with the date and the information
that I, too, was bound west.

I had misfortune in getting over the next hundred miles, and eight
days later I picked up Skysail Jack's trail three hundred miles west
of Ottawa. There it was, carved on a water-tank, and by the date I saw
that he likewise had met with delay. He was only two days ahead of me.
I was a "comet" and "tramp-royal," so was Skysail Jack; and it was up
to my pride and reputation to catch up with him. I "railroaded" day
and night, and I passed him; then turn about he passed me. Sometimes
he was a day or so ahead, and sometimes I was. From hoboes, bound
east, I got word of him occasionally, when he happened to be ahead;
and from them I learned that he had become interested in Sailor Jack
and was making inquiries about me.

We'd have made a precious pair, I am sure, if we'd ever got together;
but get together we couldn't. I kept ahead of him clear across
Manitoba, but he led the way across Alberta, and early one bitter gray
morning, at the end of a division just east of Kicking Horse Pass, I
learned that he had been seen the night before between Kicking Horse
Pass and Rogers' Pass. It was rather curious the way the information
came to me. I had been riding all night in a "side-door Pullman"
(box-car), and nearly dead with cold had crawled out at the division
to beg for food. A freezing fog was drifting past, and I "hit" some
firemen I found in the round-house. They fixed me up with the leavings
from their lunch-pails, and in addition I got out of them nearly a
quart of heavenly "Java" (coffee). I heated the latter, and, as I sat
down to eat, a freight pulled in from the west. I saw a side-door open
and a road-kid climb out. Through the drifting fog he limped over to
me. He was stiff with cold, his lips blue. I shared my Java and grub
with him, learned about Skysail Jack, and then learned about him.
Behold, he was from my own town, Oakland, California, and he was a
member of the celebrated Boo Gan