“And you?” queried Hamilton of the third speaker.

“Plain American,” the other said simply, “born and raised in Ohio.  Not a Yankee, not a Westerner, not a Southerner,—­nothin’, jest plain Middle-West American.”

“Well,” suggested Hamilton, “I think you chaps ought to let me put you down in the schedule here.  We need white men in this country badly enough in all conscience, and we might as well make the strongest showing we can.  Two Americans and an Englishman will help the average just that much.  Part of the ‘white man’s burden,’” he added with a laugh.

“If you put it that way,” said ‘Hatchet Ben,’ “I calc’late after all I’m elected for one.  Anything I can do to put down, even on paper, these foreigners that live on nothin’ and drive a decent man out of a job, I’ll do.  I’m down on this jabberin’ mob from the south o’ Europe bein’ dumped down here by the hundred thousand every year, an’ you can take that straight from me.”

“It’s a little curious,” said Hamilton, noting down the facts as they came up in conversation, not wanting to work directly upon the schedule for fear of rebuffs, “that two of you should be Americans and one an Englishman.  Somehow, one always thinks of an American as making good, not tramping it.”

“Nearly all hoboes are Americans,” ‘Hatchet Ben’ explained, “there’s a few English, and a few Swedes.  Lots of races in this country you never meet on the road.”

“Trampdom,” said ‘Windy,’ “is a most exclusive circle.  For example, you never saw a Jew hobo, did you?”

“No,” Hamilton said.  “Never.”

“And you’re never likely to,” ‘Hatchet Ben’ interjected, “there’s no money in it, not unless it is organized and run on a percentage basis.  There are a few French Canadians, but no real Frenchmen on the road, and the Dagoes never take to it.”

“I wonder why?” Hamilton queried.

“I purpose writing a monograph upon the subject of the nationality of the Hobo Empire,” the ‘Windy Duke’ broke in, “and therein I shall enlarge upon my theory that the life of a tramp requires more independence and more address than any profession I know.  I find that usually those who adopt this unromantic gypsy career are the men who will not drop to the level of the horde below them and who consequently take to the life of the road in protest against the usage of an ill-arranged social state.  That, for example, is the condition of my two friends here.”

“Would you mind my asking what made you take to the road?” said Hamilton, turning to the first speaker.

“Not at all,” ‘Hatchet Ben’ replied.  “It’s a very usual story.  I’m a steel worker by trade, an’ when I was workin’ I was reckoned among the best in the plant.”

“What did you quit it for?” asked Hamilton.

“Slovaks,” the man answered.  “Every year or two the Pittsburg operators would get together an’ pretty soon gangs of foreigners would start comin’ to the West.  They seemed to know where to come, an’ started work the mornin’ after they got there, without even seein’ the boss.”