The Autobiography of a Super-Tramp

breadth of the North American Continent, who had not heard of this and a goodly number had at one time or another patronised his establishment. Often had I heard of this famous hostelry for the poor and needy, and the flavour of its stew discussed by old travellers in the far States of the South. When I thought of this, I knew that a companion for any part of America could most certainly be found on this man’s premises, and I would there hear much valuable information as to the road I was about to travel. So I went strolling along quietly, intending to wait until I met some needy looking individual before I made enquiries. Now, whenever Joe Beef’s name had been mentioned it had invariably led to the mention of French Marie, and the name of the latter as invariably introduced the name of Joe Beef, for these two establishments seemed to be patronised by the same class. These names were well-known to me, for, as I have said, their fame was abroad throughout America.

I was strolling along with these thoughts, when I met the man of my desire, leaning lazily against a post. Not wishing to accost him outright, and yet eager for his conversation, I stood beside him lighting my pipe, striking several matches for this purpose and failing, owing to the wind blowing in small gusts. Seeing my dilemma, the man quickly produced matches of his own, and striking one, held it lighted between the palms of his hands, leaving just enough space for the bowl of my pipe to enter. For this I thanked him, and secondly, invited him to a drink, asking him where we should go, being in hopes he would mention Joe Beef. “Well,” he answered, pointing to the opposite corner, “the nearest place is French Marie’s.” We entered that place and, in the course of conversation, I told him how I had beat my way from state to state, but that this was my first experience in Canada. “The United States,” said this man sagely, “are nearly played out, and of late years there are far too many travellers there. You will find the Canadian roads better to beat, and the people’s hearts easier to impress, for they are not overrun. When did you get here?” Knowing that this man was under the impression that I had just beat my way into Canada from the States, and not willing to undeceive him, I answered quickly “This morning,” and for a time changed the conversation into a praise of the beer. “Where are you going to sleep?” he asked. “Meet me here in half an hour, after I have begged the price of my bed, and a drink or two⁠—and we will both go to Joe Beef’s, where I have been for this last week.” Not wishing to lose sight of this man, I told him that my pocket could maintain the two of us until the next day. “All right,” said he, appearing much relieved, “we will go at once and settle for our beds, and come out for an hour or so this evening.” Leaving French Marie’s we walked beside the river for some distance, when my companion halted before a building, which I knew must be Joe Beef’s, having just seen two seedy looking travellers entering. We followed, and to my surprise, I saw it was a rather clean looking restaurant with several long tables, with seats and a long bar on which the food was served. But what surprised me most was to see a number of Salvation Army men and officers in charge of this place. Without saying a word to my companion, I took a seat at one of the tables, to order a beef stew, asking him what he would have, and, for his sake, the order was doubled. “When Joe Beef kept this place,” whispered my companion, “he was a true friend to travellers, but you don’t get much out of these people except you pay for it!” Although I winked at him, as though the same thoughts were mine, I noticed that the meals were well worth what was charged for them, and, in after days, I often compared this place favourably with similar institutions in London, that were under the same management, and where men did not get the worth of their money.

XIX

A Voice in the Dark

At this place I remained several weeks, watching the smiling Spring, which had already taken possession of the air and made the skies blue⁠—unloosing the icy fingers of Winter, which still held the earth down under a thick cover of snow. What a glorious time of the year is this! With the warm sun travelling through serene skies, the air clear and fresh above you, which instils new blood in the body, making one defiantly tramp the earth, kicking the snows aside in the scorn of action. The cheeks glow with health, the lips smile, and there is no careworn face seen, save they come out of the house of sickness of death. And that lean spectre, called Hunger, has never been known to appear in these parts. If it was for one moment supposed that such a spectre possessed a house in this country, kind hearts would at once storm the place with such an abundance of good things that the spectre’s victim would need to exert great care and power of will, if he would not succumb to an overloaded stomach. This spectre is often seen in the overcrowded cities of Europe, and one of its favourite haunts is the Thames Embankment, in front of the fine hotels where ambassadors and millionaires dine sumptuously. Where they sit or stand at their windows watching the many lights of the city, and to see the moon dipping her silver pitcher in the dark river, and they swear, by Jove! it is worth seeing. But they cannot