Black Mask (Vol. 7, No. 5 — April 1950), British Edition

It was a five dollar bill. Regulation. Nothing unusual. The moonlight through the trees streaked past, and the freight car lurched under us making it hard to read. I kept studying the bill, turning it over, and then I noticed something. On one side, in the clear space above the serial number, there was a word written. A name.

“Peggy.”

“That’s her name. My sister’s name,” said the kid. I looked down at the bill again.

“I did it with every dollar I got,” said the kid. “Most of the guys used to go into town on a drunk every payday. Whenever I thought that I would go with them I took my money out and there was her name on it, where I had written it. That’s what I was working for. I never let myself forget about it.”

I looked at the photograph in my hand. “She’s a lucky girl.”

He sort of snorted and looked out at the country passing by. “She’s a smart kid,” he said turning back to me. “Too smart and too decent to have to take the knocks. She graduates from high school this month. That’s what the money is for. It’ll start her off in college, pay for tuition and buy some clothes too, maybe. Oh, it ain’t much, but it will start her off. That’s the main thing.”

My throat felt sort of thick. I’d like to bash in the teeth of any guy who considers a man a tramp just because he happens to be riding the rails. I looked down at the picture, then handed it and the bill back to the kid. He smiled at me.

The two other ’boes in the car must have finished their game, because they walked over to where we were sitting. The kid was just putting the picture back into his wallet.

“Cleaned!” said the big guy. I had heard the other ’boe call him Mug.

“Like a whistle,” chuckled the little gray haired guy. As he smiled I could see that his front teeth were missing.

Mug had been watching the kid stuff his wallet back into his money belt. The big guy’s eyes gleamed like shattered glass. His thick lower lip hung loose. “You made out better than I did.”

The kid started to laugh but it ended in that hacking cough. He pulled the sweater over his belt.

“This your first time on the rails, kid?” continued Mug.

“Yes,” said the kid.

Mug grinned a fleshy grin. I didn’t like the look I had seen in his eye as he had stared at the kid’s wallet. Mug was a big guy. I’m far from being a pint size myself, but he still looked like a guy who could make plenty of trouble if he wanted to.

Mug looked away from the kid. “You oughta see Pete here matching coins,” he said, turning to the little gray-haired guy. “The damnest little cheat in the world.”

The little character called Pete laughed his toothless grin again. “You boys wanna play?” he asked, turning to the kid and me. We both shook our heads.

I twisted the thick ring on my finger, looking down at it. I knew that even then Mug was only thinking of the kid and his crammed wallet.

“It’s cold,” said Mug.

“Sort of,” agreed the kid. Pete grunted.

“Now down on the rods,” continued Mug, “that’s where you really get a comfortable trip.”

I looked up quickly. Riding the rods was the most dangerous part of hoboing. A ’boe only did it when he was afraid of being spotted by a prowling dick or when all the cars were locked.

“It’s an easy way of slicing off an arm,” I said.

“Hell! It’s the best way of riding,” said Mug angrily. “It’s as safe as riding on top if you don’t get panicky.”

“I wouldn’t do it,” I said, talking half to Mug and half to the kid.

Mug threw me a hard look and then laughed harshly. “You just gotta know how.”

Pete lit a pipe. “It is dangerous,” he said. “I’d never do it.”

There had been no more talk about it. While the kid listened with open-eyed wonder, we traded road stories for a couple of hours, then bedded down.

And here I was now, lying on the freight car floor. Listening, waiting. Fighting sleep. The freight rushed through the lonely night with a comfortable rocking sound. This was my kind of life. Traveling, doing what I liked, being on my own. After I had gotten out of the army I wanted my freedom. The locomotive whistle hooted somewhere far up the track. The freight car doors rattled slowly...

I awoke with a start. It was day! The kid was still on the floor next to me. One car door was open and Mug and Pete were sitting with their legs dangling over the platform. I looked back at the kid. One side of his face was flat against the floor. I raised myself on one elbow and looked more closely at him. He wasn’t breathing!

I got up quickly and bent over him. Everything inside me tightened, then knotted hard.

The kid was dead.

Pete was calling to me. “Something wrong?”

I got to my feet slowly. If I had only stayed awake the night before. Pete and Mug started over toward me. Then I remembered the wallet. I bent down again and unfastened the kid’s money belt. I started to take out the wallet.

Pete looked down at the kid. His thin mouth hung open. His eyes widened. “Is... is he?”

Mug rubbed one large, gnarled hand against his jaw.