He grunted and went on eating. I waited. After a coupleof minutes he looked up with an I-thought-you-were-goneexpression on his face， and demanded： —
“Well？”
“I ... I am waiting for something to eat，” I said gently.
“I knew you wouldn’t work！” he roared.
He was right， of course； but his conclusion must havebeen reached by mind-reading， for his logic wouldn’t bearit out. But the beggar at the door must be humble， so Iaccepted his logic as I had accepted his morality.
“You see， I am now hungry，” I said still gently. “Tomorrowmorning I shall be hungrier. Think how hungry Ishall be when I have tossed bricks all day without anythingto eat. Now if you will give me something to eat， I’ll be ingreat shape for those bricks.”
He gravely considered my plea， at the same time goingon eating， while his wife nearly trembled into propitiatoryspeech， but refrained.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do，” he said between mouthfuls.
“You come to work to-morrow， and in the middle of theday I’ll advance you enough for your dinner. That willshow whether you are in earnest or not.”
“In the meantime—” I began； but he interrupted.
“If I gave you something to eat now， I’d never see youagain. Oh， I know your kind. Look at me. I owe no man. Ihave never descended so low as to ask any one for food. Ihave always earned my food. The trouble with you is thatyou are idle and dissolute. I can see it in your face. I haveworked and been honest. I have made myself what I am.
And you can do the same， if you work and are honest.”
“Like you？” I queried.
Alas， no ray of humor had ever penetrated the sombrework-sodden soul of that man.
“Yes， like me，” he answered.
“All of us？” I queried.
“Yes， all of you，” he answered， conviction vibrating in hisvoice.
“But if we all became like you，” I said， “allow me topoint out that there’d be nobody to toss bricks for you.”
I swear there was a flicker of a smile in his wife’s eye.
As for him， he was aghast—but whether at the awfulpossibility of a reformed humanity that would not enablehim to get anybody to toss bricks for him， or at myimpudence， I shall never know.
“I’ll not waste words on you，” he roared. “Get out ofhere， you ungrateful whelp！”
I scraped my feet to advertise my intention of going，and queried： —
“And I don’t get anything to eat？”
He arose suddenly to his feet. He was a large man. I wasa stranger in a strange land， and John Law was looking forme. I went away hurriedly. “But why ungrateful？” I askedmyself as I slammed his gate. “What in the dickens did hegive me to be ungrateful about？” I looked back. I could stillsee him through the window. He had returned to his pie.
By this time I had lost heart. I passed many houses bywithout venturing up to them. All houses looked alike，and none looked “good”. After walking half a dozen blocksI shook off my despondency and gathered my “nerve”.
This begging for food was all a game， and if I didn’t likethe cards， I could always call for a new deal. I made upmy mind to tackle the next house. I approached it in thedeepening twilight， going around to the kitchen door.
I knocked softly， and when I saw the kind face of themiddle-aged woman who answered， as by inspirationcame to me the “story” I was to tell. For know that uponhis ability to tell a good story depends the success of thebeggar. First of all， and on the instant， the beggar must “sizeup” his victim. After that， he must tell a story that willappeal to the peculiar personality and temperament of thatparticular victim. And right here arises the great difficulty： in the instant that he is sizing up the victim he must beginhis story. Not a minute is allowed for preparation. As ina lightning flash he must divine the nature of the victimand conceive a tale that will hit home. The successfulhobo must be an artist. He must create spontaneously andinstantaneously—and not upon a theme selected from theplenitude of his own imagination， but upon the themehe reads in the face of the person who opens the door， beit man， woman， or child， sweet or crabbed， generous ormiserly， good-natured or cantankerous， Jew or Gentile，black or white， race-prejudiced or brotherly， provincial oruniversal， or whatever else it may be. I have often thoughtthat to this training of my tramp days is due much of mysuccess as a story-writer. In order to get the food wherebyI lived， I was compelled to tell tales that rang true. At theback door， out of inexorable necessity， is developed theconvincingness and sincerity laid down by all authoritieson the art of the short-story. Also， I quite believe it wasmy tramp-apprenticeship that made a realist out of me.
Realism constitutes the only goods one can exchange atthe kitchen door for grub.
After all， art is only consummate artfulness， and artfulnesssaves many a “story”. I remember lying in a police stationat Winnipeg， Manitoba. I was bound west over theCanadian Pacific. Of course， the police wanted my story，and I gave it to them—on the spur of the moment. Theywere landlubbers， in the heart of the continent， and whatbetter story for them than a sea story？ They could nevertrip me up on that. And so I told a tearful tale of my lifeon the hell-ship Glenmore. （I had once seen the Glenmorelying at anchor in San Francisco Bay.）
I was an English apprentice， I said. And they saidthat I didn’t talk like an English boy. It was up to me tocreate on the instant. I had been born and reared in theUnited States. On the death of my parents， I had beensent to England to my grandparents. It was they who hadapprenticed me on the Glenmore. I hope the captain ofthe Glenmore will forgive me， for I gave him a characterthat night in the Winnipeg police station. Such cruelty！
Such brutality！ Such diabolical ingenuity of torture！ Itexplained why I had deserted the Glenmore at Montreal.
But why was I in the middle of Canada going west， whenmy grandparents lived in England？ Promptly I created amarried sister who lived in California. She would take careof me. I developed at length her loving nature. But theywere not done with me， those hard-hearted policemen.