We took up a collection and sent a telegram to the authorities of that town.  The text of the message was that eighty-five healthy, hungry hoboes would arrive about noon and that it would be a good idea to have dinner ready for them.  The authorities of Grand Island had two courses open to them.  They could feed us, or they could throw us in jail.  In the latter event they’d have to feed us anyway, and they decided wisely that one meal would be the cheaper way.

When the freight rolled into Grand Island at noon, we were sitting on the tops of the cars and dangling our legs in the sunshine.  All the police in the burg were on the reception committee.  They marched us in squads to the various hotels and restaurants, where dinners were spread for us.  We had been thirty-six hours without food, and we didn’t have to be taught what to do.  After that we were marched back to the railroad station.  The police had thoughtfully compelled the freight to wait for us.  She pulled out slowly, and the eighty-five of us, strung out along the track, swarmed up the side-ladders.  We “captured” the train.

We had no supper that evening—­at least the “push” didn’t, but I did.  Just at supper time, as the freight was pulling out of a small town, a man climbed into the car where I was playing pedro with three other stiffs.  The man’s shirt was bulging suspiciously.  In his hand he carried a battered quart-measure from which arose steam.  I smelled “Java.”  I turned my cards over to one of the stiffs who was looking on, and excused myself.  Then, in the other end of the car, pursued by envious glances, I sat down with the man who had climbed aboard and shared his “Java” and the hand-outs that had bulged his shirt.  It was the Swede.

At about ten o’clock in the evening, we arrived at Omaha.

“Let’s shake the push,” said the Swede to me.

“Sure,” said I.

As the freight pulled into Omaha, we made ready to do so.  But the people of Omaha were also ready.  The Swede and I hung upon the side-ladders, ready to drop off.  But the freight did not stop.  Furthermore, long rows of policemen, their brass buttons and stars glittering in the electric lights, were lined up on each side of the track.  The Swede and I knew what would happen to us if we ever dropped off into their arms.  We stuck by the side-ladders, and the train rolled on across the Missouri River to Council Bluffs.

“General” Kelly, with an army of two thousand hoboes, lay in camp at Chautauqua Park, several miles away.  The after-push we were with was General Kelly’s rear-guard, and, detraining at Council Bluffs, it started to march to camp.  The night had turned cold, and heavy wind-squalls, accompanied by rain, were chilling and wetting us.  Many police were guarding us and herding us to the camp.  The Swede and I watched our chance and made a successful get-away.