aken up the moment of grace and I hear the shacks strike the
steps on either side. I don't stop to look. I raise my arms overhead
until my hands rest against the down-curving ends of the roofs of the
two cars. One hand, of course, is on the curved roof of one car, the
other hand on the curved roof of the other car. By this time both
shacks are coming up the steps. I know it, though I am too busy to see
them. All this is happening in the space of only several seconds. I
make a spring with my legs and "muscle" myself up with my arms. As I
draw up my legs, both shacks reach for me and clutch empty air. I know
this, for I look down and see them. Also I hear them swear.

I am now in a precarious position, riding the ends of the down-curving
roofs of two cars at the same time. With a quick, tense movement, I
transfer both legs to the curve of one roof and both hands to the
curve of the other roof. Then, gripping the edge of that curving roof,
I climb over the curve to the level roof above, where I sit down to
catch my breath, holding on the while to a ventilator that projects
above the surface. I am on top of the train--on the "decks," as the
tramps call it, and this process I have described is by them called
"decking her." And let me say right here that only a young and
vigorous tramp is able to deck a passenger train, and also, that the
young and vigorous tramp must have his nerve with him as well.

The train goes on gathering speed, and I know I am safe until the next
stop--but only until the next stop. If I remain on the roof after the
train stops, I know those shacks will fusillade me with rocks. A
healthy shack can "dewdrop" a pretty heavy chunk of stone on top of a
car--say anywhere from five to twenty pounds. On the other hand, the
chances are large that at the next stop the shacks will be waiting for
me to descend at the place I climbed up. It is up to me to climb down
at some other platform.

Registering a fervent hope that there are no tunnels in the next half
mile, I rise to my feet and walk down the train half a dozen cars. And
let me say that one must leave timidity behind him on such a
_passear_. The roofs of passenger coaches are not made for midnight
promenades. And if any one thinks they are, let me advise him to try
it. Just let him walk along the roof of a jolting, lurching car, with
nothing to hold on to but the black and empty air, and when he comes
to the down-curving end of the roof, all wet and slip