E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Diane Monico,
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(www.pgdp.net)

 


 

 

THE ROAD

By Jack London

1907

 

(New York: Macmillan)



TO

JOSIAH FLYNT

The Real Thing, Blowed in the Glass

 


 

Contents

Confession

Holding Her Down

Pictures

"Pinched"

The Pen

Hoboes That Pass in the Night

Road-Kids and Gay-Cats

Two Thousand Stiffs

Bulls




"Speakin' in general, I 'ave tried 'em all,
The 'appy roads that take you o'er the world.
Speakin' in general, I 'ave found them good
For such as cannot use one bed too long,
But must get 'ence, the same as I 'ave done,
An' go observin' matters till they die."

          —Sestina of the Tramp-Royal


Confession

There is a woman in the state of Nevada to whom I once lied continuously,consistently, and shamelessly, for the matter of a couple of hours. Idon't want to apologize to her. Far be it from me. But I do want toexplain. Unfortunately, I do not know her name, much less her presentaddress. If her eyes should chance upon these lines, I hope she will writeto me.

It was in Reno, Nevada, in the summer of 1892. Also, it was fair-time, andthe town was filled with petty crooks and tin-horns, to say nothing of avast and hungry horde of hoboes. It was the hungry hoboes that made thetown a "hungry" town. They "battered" the back doors of the homes of thecitizens until the back doors became unresponsive.

A hard town for "scoffings," was what the hoboes called it at that time. Iknow that I missed many a meal, in spite of the fact that I could "throwmy feet" with the next one when it came to "slamming a gate" for a"poke-out" or a "set-down," or hitting for a "light piece" on the street.Why, I was so hard put in that town, one day, that I gave the porter theslip and invaded the private car of some itinerant millionnaire. The trainstarted as I made the platform, and I headed for the aforesaidmillionnaire with the porter one jump behind and reaching for me. It was adead heat, for I reached the millionnaire at the same instant that theporter reached me. I had no time for formalities. "Gimme a quarter to eaton," I blurted out. And as I live, that millionnaire dipped into hispocket and gave me ... just ... precisely ... a quarter. It is myconviction that he was so flabbergasted that he obeyed automatically, andit has been a matter of keen regret ever since, on my part, that I didn'task him for a dollar. I know that I'd have got it. I swung off theplatform of that private car with the porter manoeuvring to kick me in theface. He missed me. One is at a terrible disadvantage when trying to

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