By this time I had lost heart.  I passed many houses by without venturing up to them.  All houses looked alike, and none looked “good.”  After walking half a dozen blocks I shook off my despondency and gathered my “nerve.”  This begging for food was all a game, and if I didn’t like the cards, I could always call for a new deal.  I made up my mind to tackle the next house.  I approached it in the deepening twilight, going around to the kitchen door.

I knocked softly, and when I saw the kind face of the middle-aged woman who answered, as by inspiration came to me the “story” I was to tell.  For know that upon his ability to tell a good story depends the success of the beggar.  First of all, and on the instant, the beggar must “size up” his victim.  After that, he must tell a story that will appeal to the peculiar personality and temperament of that particular victim.  And right here arises the great difficulty:  in the instant that he is sizing up the victim he must begin his story.  Not a minute is allowed for preparation.  As in a lightning flash he must divine the nature of the victim and conceive a tale that will hit home.  The successful hobo must be an artist.  He must create spontaneously and instantaneously—­and not upon a theme selected from the plenitude of his own imagination, but upon the theme he reads in the face of the person who opens the door, be it man, woman, or child, sweet or crabbed, generous or miserly, good-natured or cantankerous, Jew or Gentile, black or white, race-prejudiced or brotherly, provincial or universal, or whatever else it may be.  I have often thought that to this training of my tramp days is due much of my success as a story-writer.  In order to get the food whereby I lived, I was compelled to tell tales that rang true.  At the back door, out of inexorable necessity, is developed the convincingness and sincerity laid down by all authorities on the art of the short-story.  Also, I quite believe it was my tramp-apprenticeship that made a realist out of me.  Realism constitutes the only goods one can exchange at the kitchen door for grub.

After all, art is only consummate artfulness, and artfulness saves many a “story.”  I remember lying in a police station at Winnipeg, Manitoba.  I was bound west over the Canadian Pacific.  Of course, the police wanted my story, and I gave it to them—­on the spur of the moment.  They were landlubbers, in the heart of the continent, and what better story for them than a sea story?  They could never trip me up on that.  And so I told a tearful tale of my life on the hell-ship Glenmore. (I had once seen the Glenmore lying at anchor in San Francisco Bay.)

I was an English apprentice, I said.  And they said that I didn’t talk like an English boy.  It was up to me to create on the instant.  I had been born and reared in the United States.  On the death of my parents, I had been sent to England to my grandparents.  It was they who had apprenticed me on the Glenmore.  I hope the captain of the Glenmore will forgive me, for I gave him a character that night in the Winnipeg police station.  Such cruelty!  Such brutality!  Such diabolical ingenuity of torture!  It explained why I had deserted the Glenmore at Montreal.