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A VAGABOND JOURNEY

AROUND THE WORLD

A VAGABOND JOURNEY AROUND THE WORLD
A NARRATIVE OF
PERSONAL EXPERIENCE

BY

HARRY A. FRANCK

ILLUSTRATED WITH MORE THAN ONE HUNDRED PHOTOGRAPHS

Pour connaître les véritables moeurs d’un pays il faut descendre dans d’autres états; car celles des riches sont presque partout les mêmes.

Jean Jacques Rousseau.

NEW YORK

THE CENTURY CO.

1910

Copyright, 1910, by

The Century Co.

Published, March, 1910

TO MY ALMA MATER

THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN

WITHOUT WHOSE TRAINING

THIS UNDERTAKING HAD BEEN IMPOSSIBLE

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

A FOREWORD OF EXPLANATION

Some years ago, while still an undergraduate, I chanced to be present at an informal gathering in which the conversation turned to confessions of respective aspirations.

“If only I had a few thousands,” sighed a senior, “I’d make a trip around the world.”

“Modest ambition!” retorted a junior, “But you’d better file it away for future reference, till you have made the money.”

“With all due respect to bank accounts,” I observed, “I believe a man with a bit of energy and good health could start without money and make a journey around the globe.”

Laughter assailed the suggestion; yet as time rolled on I found myself often musing over that hastily conceived notion. Travel for pleasure has ever been considered a special privilege of the wealthy. That a man without ample funds should turn tourist seems to his fellow-beings an action little less reprehensible than an attempt to finance a corporation on worthless paper. He who would see the world, and has not been provided the means thereto by a considerate ancestor, should sit close at home until his life work is done, his fortune made. Then let him travel; when his eyes have grown too dim to catch the beauty of a distant landscape, when struggle and experience have rendered him blasé and unimpressionable.

A spirit of rebellion against this traditional notion suggested a problem worthy of investigation. What would befall the man who set out to girdle the globe as the farmer’s boy sets out to seek his fortune in the neighboring city; on the alert for every opportunity, yet scornful of the fact that every foot of the way has not been paved before him? There were, of course, other motives than mere curiosity to urge me to undertake such an expedition. As a vocation I had chosen the teaching of modern languages; foreign travel promised to add to my professional preparation. Were I permitted an avocation it would be the study of social conditions; what surer way of gaining vital knowledge of modern society than to live and work among the world’s workmen in every clime? In the final reckoning, too, an inherent Wanderlust, to which, as an American, I lay no claim as a unique characteristic, was certainly not without its influence.

It was not until a year after my graduation that opportunity and my plans were ripe. I resolved to take a “year off,” to wander through as much of the world as possible, and to return to my desk in the autumn, fifteen months later. As to my equipment for such a venture: I spoke French and German readily, Spanish and Italian with some fluency; I had “worked my way” on shorter journeys, had earned wages at a dozen varieties of manual labor in my own country, and had crossed the Atlantic once as a cattle man and once before the mast. It was my original intention to attempt the journey without money, without weapons, and without carrying baggage or supplies; to depend both for protection and the necessities of life on personal endeavor and the native resources of each locality. That plan I altered in one particular. I decided to carry a kodak; and to obviate the necessity of earning en route what I might choose to squander in photography, I set out with a sum that seemed sufficient to cover that extraneous expense; to be exact: with one hundred and four dollars. As was to be expected, I spent this reserve fund early, in those countries of northern Europe in which I had not planned an extensive stay. But the conditions of the self-imposed test were not thereby materially altered; for before the journey ended I had spent in photography, from my earnings, more than the original amount,—to be exact again: one hundred and thirteen dollars.

The chief object of investigation being the masses, I made no attempt during the journey to rise above the estate of the common laborer. My plan included no fixed itinerary. The details of route I left to chance and the exigencies of circumstances. Yet this random wandering brought me to as many famous spots as any victim of a “personally conducted tour” could demand; and in addition, to many corners unknown to the regular tourist. These latter it is that I have accentuated, passing lightly over well-known scenes. It is easy and, alas, too often customary for travelers to weave fanciful tales. But a story of personal observation of social conditions can be of value only in so far as it adheres to the truth of actual experience. I have, therefore, told the facts in every particular, denying myself the privilege even of altering unimportant details to render more dramatic many a somewhat prosaic incident. The names of places, institutions, and persons appearing in the text are in every case authentic; the illustrations are chosen entirely from the photographs I took during the journey.

The question that aroused my curiosity has been answered. A man can girdle the globe without money, weapons, or baggage. It is in the hope that the experiences and observations of such a journey may be of interest to fireside travelers that I offer the following account of my Wanderjahr.

The author wishes to acknowledge the courtesy of Harper’s Weekly, Outing and The Century Magazine in permitting him to republish from their pages certain chapters of this book.

A VAGABOND JOURNEY AROUND THE WORLD

CHAPTER I
PRELIMINARY RAMBLES

On the eighteenth day of June, 1904, I boarded the ferry that plies between Detroit and the Canadian shore, and, coasting the sloping beach of verdant Belle Isle, swung off on the first stage of my journey around the globe. At the landing stage a custom officer glanced through my bag, stared perplexedly from the kodak to my laborer’s garb, and with a shrug of his shoulders passed me on into the streets of the Canadian village.

A two-mile tramp brought me to the Walkerville cattle-barns, where thousands of gaunt calves are rounded up each autumn to come forth in the summer plump bulls and steers, ready for the markets of old England. From the long rows of low, brick buildings sounded now and then a deep bellow or the song or whistle of a stock feeder at his labor. I had arranged for my passage some days before, and, dropping my bag at the office, I joined the crew in the yard.

Months of well-fed inactivity had not tamed the spirits of the sleek animals that were set loose and driven one by one out of the various stables. The racing, bellowing cattle, urged slowly up the shute into the waiting cars by blaspheming stockmen, waving lancelike poles above their heads, gave to the scene the aspect of a riotous corrida de toros. The sun had set and darkness had fallen in the alleyways between the endless stables before the last bull was tied and the last car door locked. The shunting engine gave a warning whistle. We, who were to attend the stock en route raced to the office for our bundles, and, tossing them on top of the freight cars, climbed after them.

There were no formal leave-takings between the little stock-yard community on the shute platform and those who were “crossin’ the pond wi’ the bullocks.” The cars began to move amid such words of farewell as might have been exchanged with one setting out for the nearby village:

“So long, Jim, keep sober.”

“Don’t fergit me that tin o’ Wills’ Smokin’, Bob.”

“Give me best to Molly down on the Broomielaw, Jim,” with an overdrawn wink at that worthy standing stolidly on the last car.

Jim and Bob were “boss cattle men,” each of whom, though still young, had made scores of trips between the barns and the principal ports of Great Britain.

A short run down the spur brought us to the main line of the Canadian Pacific; our cars were joined to a train that was making up, and we made our way to the caboose that had been rammed on behind. Though the companies permit it, train men look with no kindly eye on the intrusion of traveling “cow-punchers” into their home and castle. As we emerged into the glare of the tail-lights, carrying our bundles and poles, a surly growl gave us greeting:

“Huh! ’Nother bloody bunch o’ cattle stiffs!”

A steady run of thirty-six hours, enlivened by changes of caboose at unseemly hours, crews of increasing surliness, and a tramp along the cars at every halt to “punch ’em up” brought us to Montreal. The feeders at the railroad pens took charge of the shipment and we repaired to the “Stockyards Hotel,” a hostelry pervaded from bar-room to garret by the odor of cattle. Thus far our destination had been uncertain, but, not long after our arrival, information leaked out that we were to sail for Glasgow on the Sardinian two days later.

On that second evening, I reported at a wharf peopled by a half-hundred men whose only basis of fellowship, apparently, was pennilessness and riotous desire to secure passage to the British Isles. Twelve hundred cattle, collected from several Canadian feeding centers, were to be shipped and, besides the bosses, twenty cattle men were needed. A few, like myself, had come overland with the stock trains; but the throng was made up chiefly of those who had paid a Montreal agency $2.50 for the privilege of shipping.

Over these we were given precedence. “Farnsworth’s gang” was summoned first and under the lead of our boss we filed into the shipping-office, to be greeted by a blustering officer seated before the ship’s log:

“What’s yer name?”

“H. Franck.”

“Ever been over before?”

“Yes, sir, on the Manchester Importer.”

The name was recorded and I touched the pen to make binding the contract I had signed by proxy.

“All right! Fi’ bob fer the run. Next!”

Our boss was entitled to eight men, four of whom he had already chosen. The last of these had barely given his name, when the “agency stiffs” swept aside the policeman who had held them back, and surged screaming into the office. We left them to fight for the coveted places and, stepping out into the night, groped our way on board the Sardinian. Even while we wandered among the empty cattle pens, built on her four decks, we clung jealously to our bundles, for the skill of the Montreal wharf-rat in “lifting bags” is proverbial among seafaring men.

Towards midnight several loads of baled straw were sent on board, and those of us who had not succeeded in hiding “turned to” to bed down the pens. Like many another transatlantic liner, the Sardinian, homeward bound, carried cattle in the spaces allotted to third-class passengers on the outward journey. It was not, however, for this reason, as one of my new acquaintances was convinced, that this section of the ship was known as the steerage.

The bedding completed, we threw ourselves down in the stalls and fell asleep. Long before the day broke, the entire ship’s company, from the first mate to the sleepiest “stiff,” was rudely awakened by a stampede of excited cattle and the blatant curses of their drivers. The stock-yard tenders had tied up alongside. In three hours our cargo was complete; the panting animals were securely tied in their stanchions; the winch had yanked up on deck the three or four bulls that, having been killed in the rush, were to be dumped in the outer bay; and we were off down the St. Lawrence. The crew fell to coiling up the shore-lines and joined the cattle men in a rousing chorus:—

“We’re homeward bound, boys, for Glasgow town,

Good-by, fare thee well! good-by, fare thee well!

We’ll soon tread the Broomielaw now, my belle,

Good-by, fare thee well; good-by.”

Our passage varied little from the ordinary trip of a cattle boat. A few quarrels and an occasional free-for-all mélée were to be expected, for the “stiffs’ fo’c’stle” housed a heterogeneous company. Some of our mates were skilled workmen of industry and good habits, bound on a visit to their old homes. Contrasted with them were several incorrigible wharf-rats, bred on the docks of the United Kingdom, who had somehow contrived to cross the Atlantic to what had been pictured to them as a land “where a bloke c’n live like a gent at ’ome widout wavin’ ’is bleedin’ flipper.” The western hemisphere had proved no such ideal loafing-place. Bound back now to their accustomed haunts, the disillusioned rowdies spent their energies in heaping curses on America and those who had painted it in such glowing colors. They were not pleasant messmates.

The work on the Sardinian was, as we had anticipated, hard, the food unfit to eat, and the forecastle unfit to live in. But there were no “first trippers” among us and all had shipped with some knowledge of the treatment meted out to “cattle stiffs.”

On the tenth day out, the second of July, we came on deck to find, a few miles off to starboard, the sloping coast of Ireland, patches of growing and ripening grain giving the island the appearance of a huge, tilted checkerboard. Before night fell, we had left behind Paddy’s Mile-stone and the Mull o’ Kintyre, and it was near the mouth of the Clyde that we completed our last feeding.

A mighty uproar awakened us at dawn. Urged on by the bellows of Glasgow longshoremen, the cattle were slipping and sliding down the gangway into the wharf paddock. Unrestrained joy burst forth in the feeders’ quarters. Enmities were quickly forgotten, the few razors passed quickly from hand to hand, beards of two weeks’ growth disappeared as if by magic, bags were snatched open, the rags and tatters that had done duty as clothing on the voyage were poked in endless stream through the porthole into the already poisonous Clyde, and an hour later the “stiffs,” looking almost respectable, were scattering along the silent streets of Sunday-morning Glasgow.

Strange it seemed next morning to find business moving as usual, with no sounds of celebration, for it was the Fourth, “Independence” or “Rebellion” day, according to the nationality of the speaker. At noon we gathered on board the Sardinian to receive our “fi’ bob” and our discharges from the Board of Trade. These latter were good for the return trip on the same steamer, but few besides the bosses intended to avail themselves of the privilege. As for myself, I found another use for the document. One who is moving about Europe in the garb of a laborer must be ever ready to declare his station in life. The answer of the American tramp that he is “just a’ travelin’” will not pass muster across the water. To have called myself a carpenter or a teamster without corroborating testimonials would have been as foolish as to have told the truth. The discharge from the Sardinian, though issued to a cattle man, did not differ materially from that of an able seaman. My corduroy suit and cloth cap gave me the appearance of a Jack ashore. I decided to pose henceforth as a sailor.

A boss cattleman of the Walkerville barns who has crossed the Atlantic scores of times

Upon arrival in Montreal I put up at the “Stock Yards Hotel” and get a preliminary hair-cut in anticipation

Tucking my kodak into an inside coat pocket, I sold my bag for the price of a ticket on the night steamer to Belfast. A two days’ tramp along the highways of the Emerald Isle was a pleasant “limbering up” for more extended journeys to come. It might have been longer but for an incessant rain that drove me back to Scotland.

On the afternoon of my return to Glasgow I struck out along the right bank of the Clyde towards the Highlands. An overladen highway led through Dumbarton, a town of factories, that poured its waste products into the sluggish river of poison, and brought me at evening to Alexandria. A band was playing. I joined the recreating throng and stretched out on the village green. What a strange fellow is the Scotchman! In a few short hours he runs through the whole gamut of emotions, gloomy and despondent when things go wrong, romping and joking a moment after.

The sun was still well above the horizon when the concert ended, though the hour of nine had already sounded from the church spire.

Not far beyond the town the hills died away on the left and disclosed the unruffled surface of Loch Lomond, its western end aglow with the light of the drowning sun. By and by the moon rose to cast a phosphorescent shimmer over the Loch and its little wooded islands. On the next hillside stood a field of wheat shocks. I turned into it, giving the owner’s house a wide berth. The straw was fresh and clean, just the thing for a soft bed. But wheat sheaths do not offer substantial protection against the winds of the Scottish Highlands, and it was not with a sense of having slept soundly that I rose at daybreak and pushed on.

Two hours of tramping brought me to Luss, a cozy little village on the edge of the Loch. I hastened to the principal street in quest of a restaurant, but the hamlet was everywhere silent and asleep. Down on the beach of the Loch a lone fisherman, preparing his tackle for the day’s labor, took umbrage at my suggestion that his fellow-townsmen were late risers.

“Why mon, ’tis no late!” he protested, “’tis no more nor five, an’ a bonny mornin’ it is, too. But there’s a mist in it,” he added pessimistically.

I glanced at the bright morning sun and the unclouded sky and set down both statements for fiction. But a clock-maker’s window down the beach confirmed the first, and the second proved as true before the day was done. Stifling my premature hunger, I stretched out on the sands to await the morning steamer; for Ben Lomond, the ascent of which I had planned, stood just across the Loch.

About six a heavy-eyed shopkeeper sold me a roll of bologna, concocted of equal parts of pepper and meat, and a loaf of day-before-yesterday’s bread. The steamer whistle sounded before I had regained the beach. I purchased a ticket at the shore-end of the distorted wooden wharf and hurried out to board the craft. My way was blocked by a burly Scot who demanded “tu p’nce.”

“But I’ve paid my fare,” I protested, holding up the ticket.

“Aye, mon, ye hov,” rumbled the native, straddling his legs and setting his elbows akimbo. “Ye hov, mon. But ye hovna paid fer walkin’ oot t’ yon boat on oor wharf.”

Ten minutes later I paid a similar sum for the privilege of walking off the boat at Renwardenen.

Plodding across a half-mile of heath and morass, I struck into the narrow, white path that zigzagged up the face of the Ben, and soon overtook three Glasgow firemen, off for a day’s vacation in the hills. The mist that the fisherman had foreseen began to settle down and turned soon to a drenching rain. For five hours we scrambled silently upward in Indian file, slipping and falling on wet rocks and into deep bogs, to come at last to a broad, flat boulder where the path vanished. It was the summit of old Ben Lomond, a tiny island in a sea of whirling grey mist, into which the wind bowled us when we attempted to stand erect. My companions fell to cursing their luck in expressive Scotch. The remnants of a picnic lunch under the shelter of a cairn tantalized us with the thought of how different the scene would have been on a day of sunshine. I was reminded, too, of the bread and bologna that had been left over from my breakfast, and I thrust a hand hopefully into my pocket. My fingers plunged into a floating pulp of pepper, dough, and bits of meat and paper that it would have been an insult to offer to share with the hungriest mortal; and I fell to munching the mess alone.

Two of the firemen decided to return the way we had come. With the third I set off down the opposite slope towards Inversnaid. In the first simultaneous stumble down the mountain side, we lost all sense of direction and, fetching up in a boggy meadow, wandered for hours over knolls and through swift streams, now and then scaring up a flock of shaggy highland sheep that raced away down primeval valleys. Well on in the afternoon, as we were telling ourselves for the twentieth time that Inversnaid must be just over the next ridge, we came suddenly upon a hillside directly above the landing stage of Renwardenen. On this side of the Loch was neither highway nor footpath. For seven miles we dragged ourselves, hand over hand, through the thick undergrowth, and even then must each take a header into an icy mountain river before we reached our goal.

Here a new disappointment awaited me. Instead of the town I had expected, Inversnaid consisted of a landing stage and a hotel of the millionaire-club variety in which my worldly wealth would scarcely have paid a night’s lodging, even should the house dogs have permitted so bedraggled a being to approach the establishment. The fireman wandered down to the wharf and I turned towards a cluster of board shanties at the roadside.

“Can you sell me something to eat?” I inquired of the sour-faced mountaineer who opened the first door.

“I can no!” he snapped, “go to the hotel.”

There were freshly baked loaves plainly in sight in the next hovel, but I received a similar rebuff.

“Have you nothing to eat in the house?” I demanded.

“No, mon, I’m no runnin’ a shop.”

“But you can sell me a loaf of that bread?”

“No!” bellowed the Scot, “we hovna got any. Go to the hotel. Yon’s the place for tooreests.”

The invariable excuse was worn threadbare before I reached the last hut, and, though I had already covered twenty-five miles, I struck off through the sea of mud that passed for a highway, towards Aberfoyle, fifteen miles distant.

The rain continued. An hour beyond, the road skirted the shore of Loch Katrine and stretched away across a desolate moorland. Fatigue drove away hunger and was in turn succeeded by a drowsiness in which my legs moved themselves mechanically, carrying me on through the dusk and into the darkness. It was past eleven when I splashed into Aberfoyle, too late to find an open shop in straight-laced Scotland, and, routing out a servant at a modest inn, I went supperless to bed. Months afterward, when I was in training for such undertakings, a forty-mile tramp left no evil effects; at this early stage of the journey the experience was not quickly forgotten.

The attraction of the open road was lacking when, late the next morning, I hobbled out into the streets of Aberfoyle, and, my round of sight-seeing over, I wandered down to the station and took train for Stirling. Long before the journey was ended, there appeared, far away across the valleys, that most rugged of Scotland’s landmarks, the castle of Stirling. Like the base of some giant pillar erected by nature and broken off by a mightier Sampson, it stands in solemn isolation in a vast, rolling plain, the very symbol of staunch independence and sturdy defiance.

My imagination far back in the days of Wallace and Bruce, I made my way up to the monument from the city below, half expecting, as I entered the ancient portal, to find myself surrounded by those bold and fiery warriors of past ages. And surely, there they were! That group of men in bonnets and kilts, gazing away across the parapets. Cautiously I approached them. What pleasure it would be to hear the old Scottish tongue and, perhaps, the story of some feud among the fierce clans of the Highlands! Suddenly one of the group strode away across the courtyard. As he passed me, he began to sing. A minstrel lay of ancient days, in the old Gaelic tongue? No, indeed. He had broken forth in the rasping voice of a Liverpool bootblack, juggling his H’s, as only a Liverpool bootblack can, in “The Good Old Summer Time.”

An hour afterward I faced the highway again, bound for Edinburgh. The route led hard by the battle-field of Bannockburn, to-day a stretch of waving wheat, distinguished from the surrounding meadows, that history does not know, only by the flag of Britain above it. With darkness I found lodging in a wheat field overlooking the broad thoroughfare.

The next day was Sunday and the weather calorific. For all that, the highroad had its full quota of tramps. I passed the time of day with any number of these roadsters,—they call them “moochers” in the British Isles. Some were sauntering almost aimlessly along the shimmering route, others were stretched out at apathetic ease in shady glens carpeted with freshly-blossomed bluebells. The “moocher” is a being of far less activity and initiative than the American tramp. He is content to stroll a few miles each day, happy if he gleans a meager fare from the kindly disposed. He would no more think of “beating his way” on the railroads than of building an air-ship for his aimless and endless wanderings. It is always walk with him, day after day, week after week; and if, by chance, he hears of the swift travel by “blind-baggage” and the full meals that fall to his counterpart across the water, he stamps them at once “bloody lies.”

Women laborers in the linen-mills of Belfast, Ireland

S.S. Sardinian. “Lamps does a bit of painting above the temporary cattle-pens”

In stranger contrast to the American, the British tramp is quite apt to be a family man. As often as not he travels with a female companion whom he styles, within her hearing and apparently with her entire acquiescence, “me Moll” or “me heifer.” But whatever his stamping ground the tramp is essentially the same fellow the world over. Buoyant of spirits for all his pessimistic grumble, generous to a fault, he eyes the stranger with deep suspicion at the first greeting, as uncommunicative and noncommittal as a bivalve. Then a look, a gesture suggests the world-wide question, “On the road, Jack?” Answer it affirmatively and, though your fatherland be on the opposite side of the earth, he is ready forthwith to open his heart and to divide with you his last crust.

I reached Edinburgh in the early afternoon, and, following the signs that pointed the way to the poor man’s section, brought up in Haymarket Square. A multitude of unemployed, in groups and in pairs, sauntering back and forth, lounging about the foot of the central statue, filled the place. Here a hooligan, ragged and unkempt as his hearers, was holding forth, to as many as cared to listen, on the subject of governmental iniquities. There another, less fortunate than his unfortunate fellows, wandered from group to group in his shirt-sleeves, vainly trying to sell his coat for a “tanner” to pay a night’s lodging.

High above towered the vast bulk of Edinburgh castle. A royal infant lowered from its windows, as happened, ’tis said, in the merry days of Queen Bess, would land to-day in a most squalid lodging house. Indeed, this is one point that the indigent wanderer gains over the wealthy tourist. The cheap quarters, the slums of to-day are, in many a European city, the places where the history of yesterday was made. The great man of a century ago did not dwell in a shaded suburb; he made his home where now the hooligan and the laborer eke out a precarious existence.

The sorry-looking building at the foot of the castle rock bore the sign:—

“Edinburgh Castle Inn. Clean, Capacious Beds, 6d.”

I had too often been misled by similar self-assertive adjurations to expect any serious striving on the part of the proprietor to keep anything but the sign in any marked degree of cleanliness. I was not prepared, however, to find the place as filthy as it proved. The cutting satire of the ensign was doubly apparent when I escaped again into the square. A “Bobby” marched pompously up and down not far from the brazen-voiced speaker, whose power of endurance should have won him a livelihood somewhere.

“Where shall I find a fairly cheap lodging house?” I inquired.

“Try the Cawstle Inn h’over there,” replied “Bobby,” with a majestic wave of his Sunday gloves towards the hostelry I had just inspected.

“But that place is not clean!” I protested.

“Not clean! Certainly it’s clean! There’s a bloomin’ law makes ’em keep ’em clean,” and “Bobby” glared at me as if I had libeled the King’s Parliament and the Edinburgh police-force into the bargain.

I entered another inn facing the square, but was thankful to escape from it to the one I had first visited. Paying my “tanner” at a misshapen wicket, I received a stub bearing the number of my sty and passed into the main room. It was furnished with benches, tables, and a cooking establishment. For four pence the guest might have set before him an unappetizing, though fairly abundant, supper. By far the greater number of the inmates, however, were crowded around several cooking stoves at the back of the room. Water, fuel, and utensils were provided gratis to all who had paid their lodging. On the stoves was sputtering or boiling every variety of cheap food, tended by tattered men who handled frying-pans with their coat-tails as holders, and cut up cabbages or peeled potatoes with knives on the blades of which were half-inch deposits of tobacco. Each ate his concoction with the greatest relish as soon as it showed the least sign of approaching an edible condition, generally without any allowance of time for boiling messes to cool, thereby suffering more than once dire injury.

Three days later I took passage for London and on the afternoon following my arrival embarked at Gravesend on the Batavien II, bound for Rotterdam. The steerage fare was five shillings; in view of the accommodations, an extravagant price. My only companions amid the chaos of so-called mattresses strewn about the hold were a German Hufschmied and his bedraggled spouse, joint possessors of a bundle of rags containing a most distressingly powerful pair of lungs. The odor of the mattresses and the stench from the bundle turned the night into a walking nightmare, which I spent in congratulating myself that the voyage was to be of short duration.

I climbed on deck at sunrise to find the ship steaming at half speed through a placid canal. Far down below us were clusters of squat cottages, the white smoke of kindling fires curling slowly upward from their chimneys. Here and there a peasant, looking quite tiny from the height of our deck, crawled along across the flat meadows. Away in the distance several stocky windmills were turning slowly yet ceaselessly in the morning breeze.

The canal opened out into the teeming harbor of Rotterdam. A custom’s officer inquired my profession, slapped me paternally on the back with a warning in German to beware the “schlechte Leute” who lay in wait for seamen ashore, and dismissed me, while the well-dressed tourist still fumed over the uninspected luggage in his cabin.

I quickly tired of the confines of the city and turned out along the flat highway to Delft. The route skirted a great canal; at intervals it crossed branch waterways, all half-hidden by cumbersome cargo-boats. Heavily laden boats toiled slowly by on their way to market, empty boats glided easily homeward. On board, stocky men, bowed double over heavy pike-poles, marched laboriously from bow to stern. Along the graveled tow-paths that checkered the flat landscape, buxom women strained like over-burdened oxen at the tow-ropes about their shoulders. Wherever one met him the boating Dutchman shared most fairly with his wife the labor of propelling his unwieldy craft, except that the wife walked and the Dutchman rode.

In the early afternoon I briefly visited Delft, and pushed on towards the Hague. No wayfarer, obviously, could in a single day become accustomed to the national clatter of wooden shoes. Beyond Delft I turned into a narrow roadway paved in cobblestones and flanked by two canals. It was a quiet route even for Holland. In serene contentment I pursued my lonely way, gazing off across the unbroken landscape. Suddenly a galloping “rat-a-tat” sounded close behind me. What else but a runaway horse could produce such a devil’s tattoo? To pause and glance behind might cost me my life, for the frenzied brute was almost upon me. With a swiftness born of fear I took to my heels. A few yards beyond was a luckily-placed foot-bridge over one of the canals. I made a flying leap at the structure and gained it in safety, just as there dashed by me at full speed—a Hollander of some six summers, bound to market with a basket on his arm!

“S-Gravenhage,” as the Dutchman calls his capital, was a city teeming with interest; but Holland was one of those countries which I purposed to “do” in orthodox tourist fashion and, after a few short hours in the royal borough, I sought out the highway to Leiden. My seeking was not particularly successful. The mongrel commixture of German, English, and pantomime in which I carried on conversation with the natives was a delectable language, but it did not always gain me lucid directions. Sharply prosecuted inquiries brought me to a road to Leiden, right enough, but it was not the public highway. Thanks to some misconstruction of the native dactylology, I set out for the stamping ground of Rembrandt along the old royal driveway.

It was a pleasure, of course, to travel by the Queen’s own promenade, especially as it led through a fragrant forest park. Unfortunately, a royal demesne is no place in which to find an inn when hunger and darkness come on. This one had not even a cross-road to lead me back to the main highway, and I plodded on into the night amid unbroken solitude. Just what hour it was when I reached Leiden I know not. Beyond question it was late, for the good people, and even the bad, except a few drowsy policemen, were sound asleep; and with a painful number of miles in my legs I went to bed on a pile of lumber.

The warming sun rose none too early, though long before the first shopkeeper. Still fasting I set off towards Haarlem. On these flat lowlands this Sabbath day was oppressively hot. Yet how dolorously devout appeared the peasants who plodded for miles along the dusty highway to the village church! The men, those same men so comfortably picturesque in their work-a-day clothes, marched in their cumbersome Sunday garments like converts doing penance for their sins. The women, buxom always, but painfully awkward in stiffly starched gowns, tramped swelteringly behind the males. Even the children, the rollicking youngsters of the day before, were imprisoned in homemade straight-jackets and suffered martyrdom in uncomplaining silence. But one and all had a cheery word for the passerby and never that sour look which one “on the road” encounters on British highways.

Often, since leaving Rotterdam, I had wondered at the absence of wells in the rural districts. Surely these peasants’ cottages were not connected by water-mains! Pondering the question, I had thus far quenched my thirst only in the villages. But towards noon on this hot Sunday an imperative call for water drove me to turn in at an isolated cottage. Beside the road ran the omnipresent canal. A narrow foot-bridge crossed it to the gate before the dwelling, around which flowed a branch of the main waterway, giving a mooring for the peasant’s canal-boat. The gate proved impregnable and it required much shouting to attract the attention of the householder. At last, from around a corner of the building, a Vrouw of the most buxom type hove into view and bore down upon me as an ocean liner sails into a calm harbor. My knowledge of Dutch being nil, I followed my usual method of coining a language by a process of elimination. Perhaps the lady spoke some German.

“Ein Glas Wasser, bitte.”

“Vat?”

It could do no harm to give my mother tongue a trial.

“A glass of water.”

“Eh!”

I tried a mixture of the two languages. For what is Dutch after all than a jumble of badly spelled English and German words with the endings lopped off?

“Ein glass of vater.” It was the open sesame.

“Vater?” shrieked the lady with such vehemence that the rooster in the back yard leaped sideways a distance of six feet. “Vater!”

“Ja, vater, bitte.”

A profound silence succeeded, a silence so absolute that one could have heard a fly pass by a hundred feet above. Slowly the lady placed a heavy hand on the intervening gate. A shadow passed over her face, as though she were mentally calculating the strength of resistance of the barrier against a madman. Then, with a bovine snort, she wheeled about and waddled towards the house. Close under the eaves of the cottage hung a tin basin. Snatching it down without a pause, the human steamship set a course for the family anchorage, stooped, dipped up a basinful of that selfsame weed-clogged water that flowed by in abundance at my feet, and tacked back across the yard to offer it to me with a magnanimous sigh of resignation. I quenched my thirst thereafter, in rural Holland, at roadside canals, after the manner of beasts of the field—and Hollanders.

Miles away from Haarlem appeared the great flower-farms for which this region is famous and, growing more and more frequent, continued into the very suburbs of the city itself. Across the ultra-fertile plain beyond, the broad highway to Amsterdam ran as straight as a geometrical line. From the city of tulips to where it disappeared in the fog of rising heat waves, the thoroughfare was thronged with vehicles, riders, and, above all, with wheelmen, who, refusing to swerve a hair’s breadth for my convenience, drove me ever and anon into the wayside ditch. The Hollander is, ordinarily, an obliging fellow, and in the main the humble workman or pedestrian is fairly treated. Yet that distinct line of demarkation between the “commoner” and the “upper class” is never obliterated. The American laborer may spend some time in the British Isles without noting this discrimination; he will not be long on the continent before the advantage of his status at home is shown forth in plain relief.

There is not that gradual shading off from the professional man to the coal-heaver that exists in the United States. One can no more conceive of a Hollander who looks forward to a career in the gentler walks of life “beginning at the bottom” than of one who aspires to the papacy taking a wife. He whose appearance stamps him as of those who live by the sweat of the brow cannot complain of any overt act of oppression. Yet he is early reminded that, as a worker with his hands, he has a distinct place in society and that he must keep to it. Among his fellow workmen, in his own caste, he lives and moves and has his being as in our own land. But in other ranks he catches here and there a glance, a gesture, a protesting silence, that brings home to him his lowly status.

My zigzag tramp ended late in the afternoon, and, after a deal of wandering in and out among the canals of the metropolis, I took a garret lodging overhanging a sluggish waterway. The proverbial cleanliness of Holland is no mere figure of speech. Few cities of the same size have as little of the slum district within their confines as Amsterdam. The Dutch laborer is, in many ways, far better off than those of the same class across the channel. In the city there is always a Koffie Huis close at hand, where eggs, milk, cheeses, and dairy products in general are served at small cost and in cleanly surroundings. Compare this diet with that of the British workman, who subsists often, not on food, but on the waste products of those places where food is prepared. One can identify a Briton of the lower classes by his teeth. At twenty he has a dozen, perhaps, that are neither broken off, crumbling, black, nor missing. At thirty he shows a few yellow fangs. But one cannot determine the class of the Hollander by the same sign. His diet is too wholesome.

Parks, museums, laborers’ quarters, and the necessity of a protracted search each evening for my canalside garret kept me three days in Amsterdam. On the fourth I drifted on board one of the tiny steamers of the Zuidersee and journeyed to Hoorn. Hoorn is one of Holland’s dead cities, one of the many from which prosperity and wealth departed to come no more as the shifting sands of the North Sea blocked up their channels and drove away the rich commerce that was their fortune. Now they are dead indeed. A tiny remnant of a great population clatters along their deserted streets, a few of the ancient mansions house humbler inmates, and all about is ruin.

By no means regretting the whim that had carried me away to this land of yesterday, I set back along the See towards Amsterdam. The typical Hollander is nowhere seen to better advantage than in this district. The population plies two vocations. Along the shores and on the adjoining islands the stolid, picturesque fisherman is predominant. In the great, flat meadows the care of his cattle occupies the no less stolid, if less quaint, peasant.

There are wheat shocks even in Holland. As night was falling over the vast plain I withdrew to a roadside field and retired. A Dutchman spied me out in my resting-place at some silent hour, but sped away across the country like a firm believer in ghosts when I offered to share my bed. I awoke at daybreak to find myself within sight of the much maligned island of Marken, with an unobstructed view of the quaint old church of Monnickendam, a once populous city that has shrunk to a baggy-trousered hamlet of fisherfolk. Beyond the town there rattled by occasionally a milk or baker’s cart, drawn, now by one dog, now by a team of two or three, harnessed together with utter disregard to size, breed, or disposition. Sometimes, indeed, a canine and a human team-mate tugged together at the traces.

There ran a rumor in my favorite Koffie Huis soon after my arrival at Amsterdam in the afternoon, that a cargo-boat which carried passengers for a song was to leave at four for Arnheim on the Rhine. I thrust a lunch into a pocket and hurried down to the mooring-place of the international liner. She was a canal-boat some twenty-five feet long and eight wide, as black as a coal-barge, though by no means as clean; her uncovered deck piled high with boxes, barrels, and crates ranging in contents from beer mugs to protesting live stock. I scrambled over the cargo and found a seat on a barrel of oil. It was already after four, but there was really no reason for my anxious haste. No Dutch cargo-boat was ever known to depart at the hour set.

It turned out that the overburdened craft was not yet loaded. From time to time lethargic longshoremen wandered down to the wharf with more bales, crates, and boxes, and stacked them high about us. It was long after dark when their task was done, and, what with quarrels between the captain and the crew as to the proper channel, we were scarcely out of the harbor when dawn broke.

A long day we spent in jumping about the cargo like jack-rabbits, in a vain attempt to keep out of the way of the crew searching for a bale to set ashore at each wayside village. That alone would have been endurable. But our lives were made miserable by two Hungarians, owners of a barrel organ, who insisted that the infernal squawk which the machine emitted was “moosik,” and who had the audacity to invite us periodically to pay for the torture.

I left the cargo-boat at Arnheim and, halting at the principal cities on its banks, made my way up the Rhine by steamer and on foot in a few days to Mainz. From there I turned eastward along the highway to Frankfurt. Strange and varied had been my sleeping-places in Germany. The innkeepers of the Fatherland, fearful of punishment for lodging those who turn out to be “wanted” by His Majesty’s officers, are chary of offering accommodations to strangers. Whether it was due to the garb that stamped me as a wanderer or to a foreign accent, it was my fate to be treated in the Kaiser’s realm as an extremely suspicious member of society.

It was late at night when I reached Frankfurt. The highway ended among the palatial edifices of the business section, and I wandered long in search of the poorer quarters. At last, in a dingy side street a tavern, offering logieren at one mark, drew my attention. Truly it was a high price to pay for a bed, but the hour was late and the night stormy. I entered the drinking-room, and waiting until the Kellner could catch a moment’s respite from his strenuous task of silencing the shouts of “Glas Bier” that rose above the tumult, made my wants known.

“Beds?” cried the Kellner, too busy with his glasses to look up at me, “To be sure. We have always plenty of beds. One mark.”

But mein Herr the proprietor was staring at me from the back of the hall. Slowly he shuffled forward, cocked his head on one side, and scrutinized me intently from out his bleary eyes.

“What does he want?” he demanded, turning to the tapster.

I answered the query myself and the customary inquisition began.

“Woher kommen Sie?”

A baker’s cart of Holland on the morning round

A public laundry on the Rhine at Mainz, Germany

Knowing from experience the order of the questions, I launched forth into the story of my life, past, present, and future, or as much of it as was in keeping with the assertion that I was an American sailor on a sight-seeing expedition in the Fatherland. Plainly my hearers regarded it as a clumsy tale. Long before I had ended, the proprietor, the Kellner, and those clients of the house that had clustered around us, fell to nudging each other with grimaces of incredulity. The Wirt, harassed by the conflicting emotions of greed and fear, blinked his pudgy eyes and glanced for inspiration into the faces about him. The temptation to add another mark to his coffers was strong within him. Yet what would the police inspector say in the morning to the name of a foreigner on his register? He scratched his grizzly poll with a force that suggested that he was going clear down through it to extract an idea with his stubby fingers, glanced once more at the tipplers, and surrendered to fear.

“Es tut mir leid, Junge,” he puffed, with a prolonged blink, “I am sorry, but we have not a bed left in the house.”

I wandered out into the night and told my story to a second, a third, and even a fourth innkeeper with the same result. In despair I turned in at the fifth house resolved to try a strange plan—to tell the truth. In carefully chosen words I explained my identity and my purpose in visiting Germany in laborer’s garb. Never before since leaving Detroit had I resorted to such an expedient, and I took good care not to repeat the experiment during my subsequent travels. I had barely elucidated my situation when the landlord informed me in no uncertain terms that I was a liar and an ass into the bargain; and that a hasty retreat from his establishment was the surest way of preserving my good health. He was a creature of awe-inspiring proportions, and I followed his suggestion promptly. At midnight a policeman directed me to an inn where suspicious characters were less of a novelty, and I was soon asleep.

I had not yet well learned the lesson, begun in the British Isles, that the homes of the famous of a century ago are the slums of to-day. Next morning I turned back to the brilliant thoroughfares, expecting to find somewhere along them the birthplace of Goethe. Once amid such surroundings as the greatest of the Germans might fittingly have graced by his presence, I addressed myself to a policeman. Goethe? Why, yes, the name seemed familiar. He was not sure, but he fancied the fellow lived in the eastern part of the city, and directed me accordingly. The way led through narrow, winding streets. Now and then I went astray, to be set right again by other minions of the law. The quest cost me a goodly amount of shoe-leather and most of the morning, but I found at last the landmark I was seeking—exactly across the street from the inn in which I had slept.

There was in Frankfurt after all a lodging house where wanderers free from the burden of wealth were welcome. I came across it during the day’s roaming and took care not to forget its location. Several disreputable humans were wending their way thither as twilight fell and, joining them, I entered a great, dingy hall, low of ceiling, and poorly served in the matter of windows. A cadaverous female, established behind a rust-eaten wicket, was dealing out Schlafmarken at thirty Pfennig (7 cents) each. I pocketed one and hastened to find a place on one of the wooden benches; for the hall was rapidly filling with members of the Brotherhood of the Great Unwashed.

Drowsiness came quickly in the stifling atmosphere. I stepped to the wicket and asked to be shown to my quarters.

“What!” croaked the hollow-eyed matron, “bed? You can’t sleep yet. Wait till you hear the bell at ten-thirty.”

I turned back to the bench only to find that another squatter had jumped my claim. Too sleepy to stand unaided, I hung myself up against the wall and waited. If the dreams from which I was aroused were not much shorter than they seemed, several days passed before there sounded the sudden clang of an iron-voiced bell. The resulting stampede carried me to the second floor.

In an evilly-ventilated room, lower of ceiling than the hall below, I found that cot thirty-seven, to which I had been assigned, could be reached only by climbing over several of the sixty which as many men in varying stages of insobriety were preparing to occupy. By a series of contortions, in the execution of which I often thumped with my elbows the man behind me and displaced my cot sufficiently to cause the downfall of my opposite neighbor, whose equilibrium was far from stable, I succeeded in removing my shoes and coat. To venture further in the disrobing process seemed undesirable. I spread my germ-proof jacket across the animated coverlet and lay down. Before the last sot had ceased his maudlin grumbling there broke out here and there in the room a dialogue of snores. Rapidly it increased to a chorus. In ten minutes the ensemble would have put to shame the most atrocious steam calliope ever inflicted upon a defenceless public. Reiterated kicks and punches reduced to comparative silence the few slumberers within reach; by shying one shoe at a distant sleeper whose specialty was a nerve-racking falsetto and the other at a fellow whose deep bass set the cots to trembling in sympathy, I brought a moment’s respite. But the dread of going forth in the morning unshod drove me on an expedition across the bodies of my roommates and, by the time I had recovered my footwear, the chorus was again swelling forth in Wagnerian volume. I gave up in despair and settled down on the hill and dale mattress to convince myself that I was sleeping in spite of the infernal bedlam.

There runs a proverb, the origin of which is lost among the traditions of hoar antiquity, to the effect that misfortunes travel in bands. That it is true I have never doubted since the day following that broken-backed night in Frankfurt. It was curiosity that called down upon my head this new adversity, for naught else could have moved me to investigate the secrets hidden behind a fourth-class ticket to Weimar. In all the countries of Europe there is nothing that compares with the fourth-class railway service of Germany. The necessity of providing some mode of transportation cheaper than walking may be an excuse for its perpetration, but woe betide the unsuspecting traveler who, for mere matter of economy, abandons for this system that of our ancient forebears.

Intending to take the nine o’clock train, I purchased a ticket about eight-forty and stepped out upon the platform just in time to hear a guard bellow the German variation of “all aboard.” The Weimar train stood close at hand. As I stepped towards it, four policemen, strutting about the platform, let out simultaneous war-whoops, and sprang after me.

“Wo gehen Sie hin?” shrieked the first to reach me.

“Ich gehe nach Weimar.”

“Aber, the train to Weimar is gone!” shouted the second officer.

As I had a hand on the carriage door, I made so bold as to deny the assertion.

“Aber, ja, er ist fort!” gasped the sergeant who brought up the rear of the constabulary deluge. “It is gone! The guard has already said ‘all aboard.’”

The train stood at the edge of the platform long enough to have emptied and filled again; but, as it was gone ten minutes before it started, I was forced to wait for the next one at ten-thirty.

The fourth-class carriage, unlike other European cars, was built on the American plan, with a door at each end. In reality it was nothing more than a box car with wooden benches around the sides and a few apologies for windows. Almost before we were under way, the most unkempt couple aboard stood up and turned loose what they evidently thought was a song. Many of the passengers seemed to be victims of the same auricular illusion, for the pair gleaned a handful of Pfennige before descending at the first station. The bawl of cracked voices, however, was but a prelude to worse visitations, for, as no train man enters the cars while they are in motion, fourth-class travelers are the prey of every grafter who chooses to inflict himself upon them.

We stopped at a station at least every four miles during that day’s journey. At the first hamlet beyond Frankfurt the car slowly filled with peasants and laborers in heavy boots and rough smocks, who carried sundry farm implements ranging from pitchforks to young plows. Sunburned women, on whose backs were strapped huge baskets stuffed with every product of the countryside from cabbages to babies, packed into the center of the car, turned their backs upon those of us who occupied the benches, and serenely leaned themselves and their loads against us. The carriage filled at last to its utmost limits, and its capacity passed belief, a guard outside closed the heavy door with a bang, and uttered a mighty shout of “Vorsicht”! (look out), evidently to inform those near the portal that they were lucky to have “looked out” before it was slammed. The station master on the platform, a man boasting a uniform no American rear-admiral could afford, or dare to appear in, raised a hunting-horn to his lips and gave as a signal of departure such a blast as echoed through the ravines of Roncesvalles. The head-guard drew his whistle and shrilly seconded the command of his superior. The engineer whistled back to inform the guard that he was ready to do his duty. The guard repeated his sibilant order. The driver liberated another pent-up shriek to show how easily his engine could reach high C, or to imply that he was fast nerving himself up to open the throttle; the man on the platform whistled again to cheer him on; a heroic squeal came from the cab in answer; and, with a jerk that sent peasants, baskets, farm-tools, lime-pails, cabbages, and babies into a conglomerate, struggling mass at the back end of the car, we were off. To celebrate which auspicious event the engineer emitted a final shriek and gave a second yank, lest some sure-footed individual had by any chance retained his equilibrium.

By the time some semblance of order had been restored, unwieldy peasant women pulled out of the clawing miscellany and stood right end up, cabbages and babies restored to their proper baskets, pitchforks and smocks disentangled, the next station was reached and a sudden stop undid all our efforts, this time stacking the passengers at the front end. Some minutes after the train had come to a standstill, when long-distance travelers had lost all hope of relief from the sweltering congestion, the countrymen began slowly to wander out at the doors. The exodus continued until there remained in the car only those few through-passengers, who, utterly cowed and subjugated, shrank back on the benches to escape attention. Then the vanguard of another multitude, bound for a village some three miles distant, made its appearance and history repeated itself.

There were times, too, during the journey when the villages were apparently too far apart to suit the engine-driver. For occasionally, soon after having run through his entire repertoire of toots, he suddenly, remarkably suddenly in fact, brought the engine to a halt in the open country. But as German railway laws forbid voyagers to step out, crawl out, or peep out of the car under such circumstances without a special permit from the guard, countersigned under seal by the head-guard, there was no means of learning whether the engineer had lost his courage or merely caught sight of a wild flower that particularly took his fancy.

Such are the pleasures of a fourth-class excursion in Germany. Travelers by first-class, it is said, suffer fewer inconveniences, but, however varied the accommodations may be, the prices are more so. At every booking-office is posted a placard giving the cost of transportation to every other town in the Empire. He who would ride on upholstered seats pays a bit higher rate than in the United States. Second-class costs one-half, third-class one-fourth as much. Three other rates are quoted: fourth-class, soldiers’ tickets, and Hundekarten (dog tickets). The German conscript pays one-half fourth-class fare and rides in a third-class carriage. Hundekarten cost fourth-class fare. Verily it is better in Germany to be a soldier than a dog—at least while traveling.

I arrived at Weimar late at night. A stroll to Jena the following afternoon led through a pleasant rural district well known to the “poet pair” of Germany and the soldiers of Napoleon. From Jena I turned westward again, and, braving the rigors of fourth-class travel for two interminable days, descended during the waning hours of July at the city of Metz.

When August broke in the east, I turned pedestrian once more and set out towards Paris on the Route Nationale, constructed in the days when Mayence was a proud French city. The road wound its way over rolling hills, among the ravines and valleys of which was fought a great battle of the Franco-Prussian war. For miles along the way, dotting the hillsides, standing singly or in clusters along lazy brooks, or half-hidden by the foliage of summer, were countless simple, white crosses, bearing only the brief inscription “Hier ruhen Krieger-1870.” Beyond, the colossal statue of a soldier of past decades pointed away across a deep-wooded glen to the vast graveyard of his fallen comrades.

A mile further on, in the open country, out of sight of even a peasant’s cottage, two iron posts at the wayside marked the boundary established by the treaty of Versailles. A farmer with his mattock stood in Germany grubbing at a weed that grew in France.

Mindful of the lack of cordiality that exists between the two countries, I anticipated some delay at the frontier. The customhouse was a mere cottage, the first building of a straggling village some miles beyond the international line. A mild-eyed Frenchman, in a uniform worn shiny across the shoulders and the seat of the trousers, wandered out into the highway at my approach. Behind him strolled a second officer. But the difficulties I had expected were existent only in my own imagination. The pair cried out in surprise at mention of my nationality; they grew garrulous at the announcement that I was bound to Paris à pied. But their only official act was to inspect my bundle, and I pressed on amid their cries of “bon voyage.”

The highways of France are broad and shaded, her innkeepers neither exclusive nor intrusive; yet even here pedestrianism has its drawbacks. Chief among them are the railway crossings. The French system of protection against accidents is effective, no doubt; but if monsieur the Frenchman were as impatient a being as the American the mortality would be little lessened, for the delay involved at these traverses du chemin de fer would choke with rising choler as many as might come to grief at an unprotected crossing.

On either side of the track is a ponderous barrière, the opening and shutting of which would be slow under the best of circumstances. Being always tended by a colossal barrièrière (gate-woman) who moves with the stately grace of a house being raised on jack-screws, the barricade is unduly effective. Ten minutes before a train is due, la barrièrière hoists herself erect, waddles across the track to draw the further gate, closes the nearer one, and, having locked both, returns to the shade of her cottage. The train may be an hour late, but that is beside the question. This is the time that Madame is hired to lock the gates and locked they must remain until the train has passed. Woe betide the intrepid voyager who tries to climb over them, for her tongue is sharp and the long arm of the law is arrayed on her side.

Plodding early and late, I covered the round-about route through Châlons, Rheims, and Meaux, and reached Paris a few days after crossing the frontier. A month of tramping had made me as picturesque a figure as any boulevardier of Montmartre; moreover, August in the French capital was neither the time nor the place to display garments chosen with the winds of the Scottish Highlands in mind. I picked up in the Boulevard St. Denis, at a gross expenditure of fifteen francs, an outfit more in keeping with the weather, took up my abode in a garret of the Latin Quarter, and roamed at large in the city for three weeks.

CHAPTER II
ON THE ROAD IN FRANCE AND SWITZERLAND

The month of August was drawing to a close when I swung my wardrobe of the city over a shoulder and, wandering down the Boulevard St. Germain, struck off to the southward. A succession of noisy, squalid villages, such as surround most cities of the old world, lined the way to Mélun. Beyond, tramping was more pleasant, for the route swung off across a rolling country, unadorned with squalling urchins and mongrel curs, towards Fontainebleau. The foot-traveler in France need have no fear of losing his way. From Paris to the important cities and frontier towns radiate “Routes nationales,” each known by a certain number throughout its length. Signboards point the way at every cross-road; kilometer posts of white stone keep the wayfarer well informed of the progress he is making—almost too well, for when he has grown foot-sore and ill-tempered, each one greets him with a sardonic smile that says as plainly as words, “Huh! You’re only a kilometer further on, and a kilometer is not a mile by a long way.”

They are excellently built, these national highways; the heaviest rain barely forms upon them a perceptible layer of mud. But one could pardon them a little unevenness of road-bed if only they would strike out for their goal with the dogged determination of our own axle-cracking turnpikes. They wind and ramble like mountain streams. They zigzag from village to village even in a level country. The least knoll seems to have been sufficient reason in the minds of the constructing engineers for making wide detours, and where hills abound, there are villages ten miles apart with twenty miles of tramping between them.

Thus far I had tramped the highways of Europe alone. Beyond Nemours, my second night’s resting-place, I came upon two wayfarers in the shelter of a giant oak, enjoying a regal repast of hard bread which they rendered more palatable by dipping each mouthful in a brook at their feet. On the plea of an ample breakfast I declined an invitation to share the feast, but our routes coincided and we passed on in company. The pair were young miners walking from Normandy to the great coal-fields of St. Etienne. Thanks to the free-masonry of “the road,” formalities were quickly forgotten, and before the first kilometer post rose up to greet us we were exchanging confidences in the familiar “tu” form. I soon added to my vocabulary the nickname of the French tramp. My new comrades not only addressed me as mon vieux, but greeted by that title every wayfarer we encountered, until it came to have as familiar a sound in my ears as the “Jack” of the American hobo. Its analogy to our “old man” is at once apparent.

There are stern laws in France against wandering from place to place. A lone traveler may sometimes escape attention, but well I knew that in trio we should often be called upon to give an account of ourselves. We were still some distance off from the first village beyond our meeting-place when an officer appeared at the door of the gendarmerie and, advancing into the highway, awaited our arrival.

“Où allez vous autres?” he demanded, with officious bruskness.

“A St. Etienne.”

“Et vos papiers?”

“Voilà!” cried the miners, each snatching from an inside pocket a small, flat book showing signs of age and hard usage.

The gendarme stuffed one of the volumes under an arm and fell to examining the other. Between its greasy covers was a complete biography of its owner. The first leaf bore his baptismal record, followed by a page for each of his three years of military service, all much decorated with official stamps and seals. Then came affidavits of apprenticeship, variously endorsed and viséd, and last a page for every firm that had employed the miner, giving dates, wages, testimonials, and reasons for leaving or dismissal. The miner bore the scrutiny with fortitude. With his official book at hand the French laborer has little dread of the officers of the law. After each term at his trade he may, if he sees fit to travel a bit, give variations of the old “looking-for-work” story, though as the date of his last employment grows more and more remote, the gendarmerie becomes an increasing obstacle.

Without some such document no one may tramp the highways of France. He who travels on foot for other reason than poverty, or who, being poor, will not make his way by begging, is an enigmatical being to any race but the Anglo-Saxon. To the French gendarme his mode of travel is proof absolute that he is a misérable sans-sous to whom every law against vagrancy must be strictly applied.

The officer ended the examination of the books and handed them back with a gruff bien.

“Maintenant, les vôtres,” he growled.

“Here it is,” I answered, ignoring the plurality of the French pronoun, and I drew from my pocket a general letter of introduction to our consular service, signed by the Secretary of State. The gendarme, who had expected another book, opened the paper with a perplexed air which increased to blank amazement when, instead of familiar French words, his eyes fell on a half-dozen lines of incomprehensible hieroglyphics.

“Hein! Que diable!” he gasped. “Qu’est-ce que c’est que ça?”

“My passport,” I explained. “Je suis américain.”

“Ha! Américain! Diable! And that is really a passport? Never before have I seen one.”

It was not really a passport by any means. I had none. But monsieur le gendarme was in no position to dispute my word had I told him it was a patent of nobility.

“Very good,” he went on, “but you must have another paper. Foreign vagabonds cannot journey in France without a document to prove that they have worked.”

Here was a poser. It would have been easy to assert that I was a traveler and no workman, but it would have been still easier to guess where such an assertion would land me. I rubbed my unshaven chin in perplexity, then struck by a sudden inspiration, snatched from my bundle the cattle-boat discharge.

“Bah!” grumbled the officer, “more foreign gibberish! What is that vilaine langue the devil himself couldn’t read?”

“English,” I replied.

“Tiens, que c’est drôle que cette machine-là,” he mused, holding the paper out at arm’s length and scratching his head.

However, with some assistance he made out one date on the document, and, handing it back with a sigh of resignation, gave us leave to pass on.

“A propos!” he cried, before we had taken three steps, “what country did you say you come from?”

“America,” I answered.

“L’Amérique! And being in America you come to France? Oh, mon Dieu, what idiocy!” and waving his arms above his head he fled for the shade of his office.

The ways of my companions would have made them the laughing-stock of American roadsters. They looked forward to no three meals a day. The hope of a “set-down” never intruded upon their field of vision. In fact, they considered that the world was going very well with them if they collected sous enough for one or two lunches of bread and wine daily. Yet wine they would have, except for breakfast, or they refused to eat even bread. Like almost all who tramp any distance in France, they “played the merchant” and were surprised to find that I ventured along the highways of their country without doing likewise. That is, they carried over one shoulder a bundle containing shoe-strings, thread, needles, thimbles, and other articles in demand among rural housewives. The demand was really very light. They did make a two or three-sous sale here and there, but the market value of their wares was of least importance. By carrying them, the miners evaded the strict laws against vagrancy. Without the bundles they were beggars, with them they ranked as peddlers. The ruse deceived no one, not even the gendarme. But it satisfied the letter of the law.

Still engrossed in discussing the character of the officer who had delayed us, we reached a large farmhouse. With one of the miners I lingered at the roadside. The other entered the dwelling, ostensibly to display his wares. A moment later he emerged with a half-loaf of coarse peasant’s bread. Madame had needed nothing from his pack, but “she made me a present of this lump.”

It was while they were canvassing a village in quest of sales, or crusts, in the dusk of evening that I lost sight of the miners. I had passed the village inn, and, being always averse to retracing my steps, continued my way alone. Had I suspected the distance to the next hamlet, I might have been less eager to press on. Fully three hours later I stumbled into Les Bussières and, having walked sixty-nine kilometers, it was not strange that I slept late next morning. Besides, the day was Sunday, and what with satisfying the curiosity of a company of peasants in the wine-room and drinking the health of several of them, I did not set out until the day was well advanced. Beyond the village stretched the broad, white route, endless and deserted. The long journey before me would have been less lonely in the company of the miners; but we had parted and I plodded on in solitude, wondering when I should again fall in with so cheery a pair.

In passing a clump of trees at the roadside, I was suddenly roused from my revery by a shout of “Holà! L’américain!” What could have betrayed my nationality? I halted and stared about me. My eyes fell on the grove and I beheld my companions of the day before hastily gathering their possessions together.

We journeyed along as before, producing our papers at each village and being once stopped in the open country by a mounted gendarme. The miners played in poor luck all through the morning. A single sou and an aged quarter-loaf constituted their gleanings. Gaunt hunger was depicted on their countenances before we reached Briare in the early afternoon and, breaking the silence of an hour, I offered to stand the compte of a meal for three.

There was in Briare, as in every town in France larger than a hamlet, an inn the proprietor of which catered to the vagabond class. None but a native tramp could have found the establishment without repeated inquiries; but the miners, needing no second invitation and guided by some peculiar instinct, led the way down a side street and into a squalid cul de sac. The most acute foreign eye would have seen only frowning back walls, but my companions pushed open the door of what looked like a deserted warehouse and we entered a low room, gloomy and unswept. Around the table, to which we made our way through a very forest of huge wine-barrels, were gathered a dozen peasants and a less solemn pair who turned out to be of “the profession.”

The first greetings over, the keeper set out before us a loaf of coarse bread and a bottle of wine, demanded immediate payment, and having received it, resumed his seat on a barrel. His shop was, in reality, the wine cellar of a café the gilded façade of which faced the main street. In it the liquor that sold here for four sous the litre would have cost us a half-franc. One of the miners, having gained my consent to the extravagance, invested two sous in raw, salt pork which he and his companion ate with great relish. I was content to do without such delicacies, for the wine and bread made a very appetizing feast after hours of trudging under a broiling sun.

Canal-boats laden with lumber from Nièvre entering Paris

“They are excellently built, the Routes Nationales of France”

In the course of the afternoon I photographed the miners, a proceeding which caused them infantine delight, both declaring that this was the first time in their begrimed existence that they had ever been tirés. We found lodging in a peasant’s wheat stack. I was a bit chary of spending the night in so deserted a spot with two such vagabonds, for the kodak and the handful of coins from which I had paid for our dinner was a plunder worth a roadster’s conspiracy. My anxiety was really ungrounded. Morning broke with my possessions intact and, after an hour’s work in picking straw and chaff from our hair and clothing, we set off at sunrise.

I left my companions behind soon after, for their mode of travel resulted in far less than the thirty miles a day I had cut out for myself, and passed on into the vineyard and forest country of Nièvre. Harvest was over in the few fertile farms that were not given up to the culture of the grape; the day of the gleaners had come. In the fields left bare by the reapers, peasant women gathered with infinite care the stray wheat stalks and, their aprons full, plodded homeward. To the thrifty French mind there is nothing so iniquitous as to waste the smallest thing of value. Before this army of bowed backs one could not but wonder whether it had ever occurred to them that labor also may be wasted.

The most extravagant of its inhabitants were already lighting their lamps when I entered the village of La Charité. To whatever benevolence the quiet hamlet owes its name, it was typical of those rural communities that line the highways of France. A decrepit grey church raised a time-mellowed voice in the song of the evening angelus. Squat housewives gossiped at the doors of the drab stone cottages lining the route. From the neighboring fields heavy ox-carts, the yokes fastened across the horns of the animals, lumbered homeward. In the dwindling light a blacksmith before his open shop was fitting with flat, iron shoes a piebald ox triced up on his back in a frame.

In lieu of the familiar sign, Ici on loge à pied et à cheval, the village inn was distinguished from the private dwellings by a bundle of dried fagots over the door. I entered, to find myself in a room well-stocked with wooden tables, with here and there a trio of villagers, over their wine and cards, blowing smoke at the unhewn beams of the ceiling. In answer to the customary signal, the tapping of pipes on the tables, an elderly woman appeared and inquired bruskly wherein she could serve me.

“You have lodgings, n’est-ce pas?”

A sudden, startling silence greeted the first suggestion of foreign accent. Cards paused in mid-air, pipes ceased to draw, tipplers craned their necks to listen, and madame surveyed me deliberately, even a bit disdainfully, from crown to toe. Satisfied evidently, with her inspection, she admitted that she had been known to house travelers and hurried away to bring the register, while the smoking and the drinking and the playing were slowly and half-heartedly resumed. Madame scrutinized intently each stroke of the coarse pen as I filled in the various blanks, puzzled several moments over my “passport,” and dropping all her stiff dignity, became suddenly garrulous:

“What! You are an American? Why, another American has lodged here. It was in 1882. He was making the tour of the world on a bicycle. He came from Boston”—she pronounced it with a distressing nasal—“but I could not understand his French. He did not pronounce the R. He said ‘foncé’ when he meant ‘français.’ for ‘terre’ he said ‘tèah.’ I will give you his bed. He had not many hairs on his head. Do you eat ragoût also in America? He wore such funny pince-nez. Fine wine, n’est-ce pas? He had hurt his foot—” and thus she chattered on, through my supper and up the stairs to my chamber.

The room once graced by the man from Boston was stone-floored, with whitewashed walls, and large enough to have housed a squad of infantry. Of its two beds, hung with snow-white curtains, I preferred the one nearer the window. Unfortunately, my compatriot of the pince-nez had chosen the other and madame would not hear of my violating the precedent thus established. The price of this lodging, and the usual one in the rural inns of France, was fifteen cents.

There were times when my zealous efforts to spend for lodging as few sous as possible brought me to temporary grief. The night following my sojourn in La Charité is a case in point. I reached St. Pierre le Moutier some time after dark, and, upon inquiry for the cheapest auberge, was directed up a dismal alleyway. On the fringe of the open country I stumbled upon a ramshackle stone building, one end of which was a dwelling for man, while the other housed his domestic animals. Inside, under a sputtering excuse for a lamp, huddled two men, a woman and a girl, around a table that canted up against the wall as if it had borne too much wine in its long existence and become chronically unsteady on its legs thereby. So preoccupied was the quartet in devouring slabs of dull-brown bread and a watery soup from a common bowl in which floated a few stray cabbage-leaves that my entrance passed unnoticed.

Advancing to attract attention I brought disaster. For in the semi-darkness I stepped on the end of a board that supported two legs of the tipsy table, causing the bowl of soup to slide into the woman’s arms, and the loaf to roll about on the earth floor. The mishap, evidently no new experience, aroused no comment, but it gained me a hearing and brought me into the conversation. Of the two men, one was the proprietor and the second a traveler of the tramp variety who, though posing as a Parisian, spoke a decidedly mongrel language. With the fluency of a stranded tragedian he launched forth in a raging narration of his misfortunes. French at all resembling the educated tongue had become as familiar to me as English, but the patois and slang in which the fellow unfolded the story of a persecuted life would have daunted an international interpreter. I caught the drift of his remarks by making him repeat each sentence twice or thrice, but he ended with a: “Heing! Tu comprinds ma’reux le frinçais;” and I was forced to admit that if the jargon he got off were “frinçais,” I certainly did.

The younger, and consequently less begrimed of the females, led the way to my “room,” which turned out to be a hole over the stable, some four feet high, approached by an outside stairway, and containing two of the filthiest cots a vivid imagination could have pictured. To my disgust I found that one of the beds was reserved for my friend of the uncouth tongue. A half-hour later, unstable after a final bottle of wine with the aubergiste, he stumbled into the den and proceeded to make night hideous—awake, by his multiloquence, asleep, by a rasping snore. A dozen times I awoke from a half-conscious nap to find him sitting cross-legged in his cot, puffing furiously at a cigarette, above the feeble glow of which glistened his cat-like eyes as he stared at me across the intervening darkness. At daybreak he was gone and I departed soon after.

There is really no reason why the French roadster should go hungry in autumn. That he does, is due to a strange national prejudice unknown in America; for at that season half the highways of France are lined with hedges heavy with blackberries. At first I looked with suspicion on a fruit left ungathered by the thrifty peasantry, but, coming one morning upon a hedge unusually burdened with berries, I satisfied myself as to their identity and fell to picking a capful. A band of peasants, on the way to the fields, halted to gaze at me in astonishment and burst into uproarious laughter.

“Mais, mon vieux,” cried a plowman. “Que diable vas tu faire de ces choses-là?”

“Eat them, of course,” I answered.

“Eat them!” roared the peasants, “but those things are not good to eat,” and the notion struck them as so droll that their guffaws still came back to me long after they had turned a bend in the highway. Every Frenchman I approached on the subject held the same view. The two miners traveled for hours with a gnawing hunger, or invaded lonely vineyards at imminent risk of capture by the rural gendarmerie, to eat their fill of half-ripe grapes, sour and acrid. But when I, from my safe position outside the hedge, held up a heavily-laden bush, their answer was always the same: “Ah, non, mon vieux. Not any for me.” Obviously I could not regret the bad repute in which the fruit was held, for when hunger overtook me I had but to stop and pick my dinner, and except for the few sous spent for bread and wine, my rations from Fontainebleau to the Swiss frontier cost me nothing.

My tramp continued past Nevers and Moulin, down through the department of Allier to the city of Roanne, stretching along both banks of the upper Loire. A few kilometers beyond, the highway began a winding ascent of the first foothills of the Alps. Even here the cultivation bespoke the thrift of the French peasant. Far up the rugged hillside stretched terraced farms, each stone-faced step of the broad stairways thickly set with grapevines. Higher still a few wrinkled patches in sheltered ravines gave sustenance to the most sturdy toilers. Here it is that may be seen the nearest prototype of that painful figure known far and wide, that stolid being who leans on his mattock, gazing helplessly away into meaningless space; nearest, because his exact original no longer dwells in the fields of France: he has moved southward. Down a glen below the highway the trunk of a tree, broken off some six feet above the ground and with a huge knot on one side, stood out in silhouette against the distant horizon. But for a crudeness of outline one might have imagined the stump a clumsy, ragged peasant, with a child astride his shoulders. I stood surveying this figure, wondering what forces of the elements could have given a mere tree so strange a likeness to a human form, when it suddenly started, moved, and strode away across the gully.

The highway continued to climb. The patches of tilled ground gave way to waving forests where sounded the twittering of birds, and here and there the cheery song of the woodsman or shepherd boy. Some magic there is inherent in the clear air of mountain heights that calls forth song from those that dwell among them.

A typical French roadster who has tramped the highways of Europe for thirty years

The two French miners with whom I tramped in France. Notice shoe laces carried for sale

With sunset came the summit. The road began to descend, the forests fell away, the tiny fields appeared once more, and the ballad of the mountaineer was silent. A colony of laborers, engaged in the construction of a reservoir, gave me greeting from the doors of their temporary shacks, and lower still I turned in at an auberge half-filled with a squad of soldiers.

He is an interesting figure, the French conscript. In his make-up is none of the boisterous braggadocio of the American trooper and of Tommy Atkins, never that scorn for civilians so often characteristic of the voluntary, the mercenary soldier. He feels small inclination to boast of his wisdom even in military matters, for well he knows that the jolly innkeeper may be able to tell a tale of his own days sous le drapeau that makes the conscript’s favorite story weak and insipid by comparison. Then, too, it is hard to be boastful when one is sad at heart; and the French conscript is not happy. To him conscription is a yoke, akin to disease and death, which fate has fastened upon the children of men. He dreads its coming, serves under unexpressed protest, and sets it down in his book of life as three years utterly lost.

There is, indeed, a note of pessimism everywhere prevalent among the masses of France. It is not a universal note, not even a constant one: loud-voiced “calamity-howlers” are less in evidence than in our own optimistic land. But even amid the merry chatter there hovers over every gathering of French workmen a gloominess, an infestivity that speaks of lost hope, of fatalistic despair. Briefly and unconsciously, a craftsman of chance acquaintance summed up this inner feeling of his class: “Ah, mon pauvre pays,” he sighed, “elle n’est plus ce qu’elle était.”

Chattering groups of Lyonese, mounting to the freer air of the hills in Sunday attire, enlivened my morning tramp down the descending highway. By early afternoon I came in sight of the second city of France and the confluence of the Soâne and Rhône. The vineyards ceased, to give place to mulberry trees. Even on this day of merry-making the whir of silk-looms sounded from the wayside cottages, well into the suburbs of the city. The humble dwellings were succeeded by mansions; the national highway, by a broad boulevard that led down to the meeting-place of the two rivers, and the first stage of my journey to southern Europe was ended.

From Lyon I turned northeastward towards Geneva and the Alps. A serpentine route climbed upward. Often I tramped for hours around the edge of a yawning chasm, having always in view a rugged village and its vineyards far below, only to find myself at the end of that time within stone’s throw of a long-forgotten kilometer-post. Near the frontier hovered a general air of suspicion. The aubergiste of the mountain hamlet of Moulin Chabaud hesitated long and studied every dot and letter of my papers before offering me a chair under the big fire-place; he remained surly and distraught all through the evening, as if convinced in spite of himself that he was harboring one whose career had not been unsullied. When I awoke, a mountain rain was falling, cold and ceaseless; but preferring always a certain amount of physical discomfort to sour looks, I pushed on, splashing into Geneva long after nightfall.

It would doubtless require a frequent repetition of such experiences to stifle that indefinable dread, akin to fear, which oppresses the weary pedestrian who, entirely unbefriended, enters an unknown city in the darkness of night. Limping aimlessly through the streets of Geneva in my water-soaked garments, I felt particularly dismal and forlorn. Genevese, huddled under their umbrellas, pushed me aside when I attempted to speak to them or snapped a few incoherent words over their shoulders. In vain I attempted to escape from the district of jewellers’ shops and watch-makers’ show-windows, little suspecting that I was virtually on an island given over almost entirely to business houses and rich dwellings.

A slippery street led to a bridge across the Rhône, and a policeman beyond pointed out the district gendarmerie as the proper place to prosecute my inquiries. From a window of the building shown a dim light, and within sounded a brisk “entrez” in answer to my knock. Two police sergeants, engrossed in a game of cards, turned to scowl at me across the room.

“Eh bien, toi! Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?”

“I am looking for a lodging house and the policeman—”

“Lodging! At this time of night? Do you think the city provides a hotel de luxe for vagabonds, that they may come and go at any hour—?”

“But I intend to pay my own lodging.”

“Pay! Quoi! Tu as de l’argent?”

“Certainly I have money!” I cried indignantly, though to tell the truth the weight of it was not making me stoop-shouldered.

“Ah!” gasped the senior officer, speaking the word high up in his mouth after the fashion of Frenchmen expressing supreme astonishment. “Que je vous aie mal jugé! I thought you were asking admittance to the night shelter.”

The shock of hearing one he had taken for a vagabond admit that he had money was clearly a unique experience in the sergeant’s constabulary career. He had by no means recovered when I turned away to the inn he had pointed out.

Three days later I boarded a steamer that zigzagged between the cities flanking blue Lac Léman, and descending at Villeneuve, set out along the valley of the upper Rhône. Here all was free and open as the mountains bordering the fertile strip, for the close-hedged fields of France are not to the taste of the Swiss peasant. No gendarme waylaid me at each hamlet; I had but to step off the highway to gather apples under the trees or to escape from the glaring sun.

Night overtook me at St. Maurice, a sure-footed mountain village, straddling the Rhône where it roars through a narrow gorge on its way to the lake beyond. Even within doors the villagers speak a high-pitched treble, so fixed has become the habit of raising their voices above the constant boom of the cataract. In my lodging directly above, the roaring intruded on my dreams, and in fancy I struggled against the rushing current that carried me down a sheer mountainside.

Church-bound peasants fell in with me along the route next morning, peasants lacking both the noisy gaiety of the French and the gloominess of the Sunday-clad German. Wayside wine-shops, or a pace too rapid for a day of rest cut short my acquaintance with each group, but I had not far to plod alone before the curiosity of a new band gave me companionship for another space.

At Martigny the highway bent with the river to the eastward; the mountain wall crowded more closely the narrow valley, pushing the road to the edge of the stream that mirrored the rugged peaks. Here and there a foot-hill boldly detached itself from the range, and taking its stand in the valley, drove off the route on a winding detour.

Two such hills gave Sion a form all its own. An ample Paradplatz in the foreground held back the jumble of houses tossed upon an undulating hillside. Back of the village, like gaunt sentinels guarding the valley of the upper Rhône, stood two towering rocks, the one crowned by the ruins of an ancient castle, the other by a crumbling church that gazed scornfully down on the jostling buildings of modern times. A Sunday festival was raging on the parade-ground. Around the booths and puppet-shows surged merry countrymen in gay attire; from the flanking shops hung streamers and the flags of many nations.

I had barely reached the town when a rumble of thunder sounded. Dense, black clouds, flying before a wind that did not reach us in the valley, appeared from the north, tearing themselves on the jagged peaks above. Close on the heels of the warning a storm broke in true Alpine fury. The festooned multitude broke madly for the shelter of the shops, the gaudy streamers and booths turned to drooping rags, the puppets humped their shoulders appealingly, and the parade-ground became a shallow lake that reflected a bright sun ten minutes after the first growl of thunder.

The oppressive heat tempered by the shower, I rounded the greater of the sentinel rocks and continued up the valley. Rolling vineyards stretched away on either hand to the brink of the river or the base of the enclosing mountains. A burning thirst assailed me. Almost unconsciously I paused and picked two clusters of plump grapes that hung over the stone coping of a field above the highway.

A stone’s throw ahead, two men stepped suddenly from behind a clump of bushes and strolled towards me.

“Do you know what that is?” demanded one of them, in French, as he waved a small badge before my eyes.

I certainly did. It was the official shield of the rural gendarmerie.

“Yes,” I admitted.

“Back you go with us to Sion!” roared the officer. He was a lean, lank giant who, evidently in virtue of his length, assumed the position of spokesman. His companion, almost a dwarf, nodded his head vigorously in approval.

“Eh bien?” I answered, too weary to argue the matter.

“Yes,” blustered the spokesman, “back to Sion and the magistrate—” he paused, squinted at the dwarf, and went on in dulcet tones, “unless you pay thirty francs.”

“Thirty francs! Where on earth should I get thirty francs?”

In my excitement I somewhat bungled my French.

“Where go you?” asked the pocket edition of the law. His voice was soothing and he spoke in German.

“To Italy. I am a workman.”

“Ja! Und in deinem Lande—in your land you may pick grapes when you like, was?” shouted the long one.

“A couple of bunches? Of course!”

“Was! In Italien?” In his voice was all the sarcasm he could call up from a tolerably caustic nature.

“I am no Italian. I come from the United States.”

“United States!” bellowed the gendarme, looking around at his companion. “What is this United States?”

“Ah-er-well, there is such a country,” suggested the midget, “but—”

“And in this country of yours you do not speak French, nor German, nor yet Italian?” snapped the officer, relapsing unconsciously into French.

“No, we speak English.”

“Mille diables! English! What then is that?”

“Ja. Es gibt so eine Sprache,” ventured the dwarf.

The spokesman ignored him.

“Well, pay fifteen francs and we have seen nothing.”

“Impossible.”

“Then back to Sion and the gendarmerie.”

“Very well, en route.”

The pair scowled and turned aside to whisper together. The tall one continued, “My comrade says, as you are a pauvre diable on foot—five francs.”

“Five francs for two bunches of grapes, comme ça?” I gasped holding them out.

“Ach! Ein, unglücklicher Kerl,” urged the dwarf. “Say three francs.”

“No!” I cried, “C’en est trop. Two bunches, like that? I have here two francs—”

The leader shook his head, glanced at his mate, and took several steps in the direction of Sion.