At last came the day of days, my release.  It was the day of release for the Third Hall-man as well, and the short-timer girl I had won for him was waiting for him outside the wall.  They went away blissfully together.  My pal and I went out together, and together we walked down into Buffalo.  Were we not to be together always?  We begged together on the “main-drag” that day for pennies, and what we received was spent for “shupers” of beer—­I don’t know how they are spelled, but they are pronounced the way I have spelled them, and they cost three cents.  I was watching my chance all the time for a get-away.  From some bo on the drag I managed to learn what time a certain freight pulled out.  I calculated my time accordingly.  When the moment came, my pal and I were in a saloon.  Two foaming shupers were before us.  I’d have liked to say good-by.  He had been good to me.  But I did not dare.  I went out through the rear of the saloon and jumped the fence.  It was a swift sneak, and a few minutes later I was on board a freight and heading south on the Western New York and Pennsylvania Railroad.

HOBOES THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT

In the course of my tramping I encountered hundreds of hoboes, whom I hailed or who hailed me, and with whom I waited at water-tanks, “boiled-up,” cooked “mulligans,” “battered” the “drag” or “privates,” and beat trains, and who passed and were seen never again.  On the other hand, there were hoboes who passed and repassed with amazing frequency, and others, still, who passed like ghosts, close at hand, unseen, and never seen.

It was one of the latter that I chased clear across Canada over three thousand miles of railroad, and 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.