ls present to look on
and see how justice was administered in their community. The judge
glanced at the list of cases before him and called out a name. A hobo
stood up. The judge glanced at a bailiff. "Vagrancy, your Honor," said
the bailiff. "Thirty days," said his Honor. The hobo sat down, and the
judge was calling another name and another hobo was rising to his
feet.

The trial of that hobo had taken just about fifteen seconds. The trial
of the next hobo came off with equal celerity. The bailiff said,
"Vagrancy, your Honor," and his Honor said, "Thirty days." Thus it
went like clockwork, fifteen seconds to a hobo--and thirty days.

They are poor dumb cattle, I thought to myself. But wait till my turn
comes; I'll give his Honor a "spiel." Part way along in the
performance, his Honor, moved by some whim, gave one of us an
opportunity to speak. As chance would have it, this man was not a
genuine hobo. He bore none of the ear-marks of the professional
"stiff." Had he approached the rest of us, while waiting at a
water-tank for a freight, should have unhesitatingly classified him as
a "gay-cat." Gay-cat is the synonym for tenderfoot in Hobo Land. This
gay-cat was well along in years--somewhere around forty-five, I should
judge. His shoulders were humped a trifle, and his face was seamed by
weather-beat.

For many years, according to his story, he had driven team for some
firm in (if I remember rightly) Lockport, New York. The firm had
ceased to prosper, and finally, in the hard times of 1893, had gone
out of business. He had been kept on to the last, though toward the
last his work had been very irregular. He went on and explained at
length his difficulties in getting work (when so many were out of
work) during the succeeding months. In the end, deciding that he would
find better opportunities for work on the Lakes, he had started for
Buffalo. Of course he was "broke," and there he was. That was all.

"Thirty days," said his Honor, and called another hobo's name.

Said hobo got up. "Vagrancy, your Honor," said the bailiff, and his
Honor said, "Thirty days."

And so it went, fifteen seconds and thirty days to each hobo. The
machine of justice was grinding smoothly. Most likely, considering how
early it was in the morning, his Honor had not yet had his breakfast
and was in a hurry.

But my American blood was up. Behind me were the many generations of
my American ancestry. One of the kinds of liberty those ancestors