There is a woman in the state of Nevada to whom Ionce lied continuously， consistently， and shamelessly， forthe matter of a couple of hours. I don’t want to apologizeto her. Far be it from me. But I do want to explain.
Unfortunately， I do not know her name， much less herpresent address. If her eyes should chance upon theselines， I hope she will write to me.
It was in Reno， Nevada， in the summer of 1892. Also， itwas fair-time， and the town was filled with petty crooksand tin-horns， to say nothing of a vast and hungry hordeof hoboes. It was the hungry hoboes that made the towna “hungry” town. They “battered” the back doors ofthe homes of the citizens until the back doors becameunresponsive.
A hard town for “scoffings，” was what the hoboes calledit at that time. I know that I missed many a meal， inspite of the fact that I could “throw my feet” with thenext one when it came to “slamming a gate” for a “pokeout”
or a “set-down，” or hitting for a “light piece” on thestreet. Why， I was so hard put in that town， one day， thatI gave the porter the slip and invaded the private car ofsome itinerant millionnaire. The train started as I madethe platform， and I headed for the aforesaid millionnairewith the porter one jump behind and reaching for me. Itwas a dead heat， for I reached the millionnaire at the sameinstant that the porter reached me. I had no time forformalities. “Gimme a quarter to eat on，” I blurted out.
And as I live， that millionnaire dipped into his pocket andgave me ... just ... precisely ... a quarter. It is my convictionthat he was so flabbergasted that he obeyed automatically，and it has been a matter of keen regret ever since， on mypart， that I didn’t ask him for a dollar. I know that I’d havegot it. I swung off the platform of that private car withthe porter manoeuvring to kick me in the face. He missedme. One is at a terrible disadvantage when trying to swingoff the lowest step of a car and not break his neck on theright of way， with， at the same time， an irate Ethiopian onthe platform above trying to land him in the face with anumber eleven. But I got the quarter！ I got it！
But to return to the woman to whom I so shamelesslylied. It was in the evening of my last day in Reno. I hadbeen out to the race-track watching the ponies run，and had missed my dinner （i.e. the mid-day meal）. I washungry， and， furthermore， a committee of public safety hadjust been organized to rid the town of just such hungrymortals as I. Already a lot of my brother hoboes hadbeen gathered in by John Law， and I could hear the sunnyvalleys of California calling to me over the cold crests ofthe Sierras. Two acts remained for me to perform beforeI shook the dust of Reno from my feet. One was to catchthe blind baggage on the westbound overland that night.
The other was first to get something to eat. Even youthwill hesitate at an all-night ride， on an empty stomach，outside a train that is tearing the atmosphere through thesnow-sheds， tunnels， and eternal snows of heaven-aspiringmountains.
But that something to eat was a hard proposition. I was“turned down” at a dozen houses. Sometimes I receivedinsulting remarks and was informed of the barred domicilethat should be mine if I had my just deserts. The worst ofit was that such assertions were only too true. That waswhy I was pulling west that night. John Law was abroad inthe town， seeking eagerly for the hungry and homeless， forby such was his barred domicile tenanted.
At other houses the doors were slammed in my face，cutting short my politely and humbly couched requestfor something to eat. At one house they did not open thedoor. I stood on the porch and knocked， and they lookedout at me through the window. They even held one sturdylittle boy aloft so that he could see over the shoulders ofhis elders the tramp who wasn’t going to get anything toeat at their house.
It began to look as if I should be compelled to go tothe very poor for my food. The very poor constitute thelast sure recourse of the hungry tramp. The very poorcan always be depended upon. They never turn away thehungry. Time and again， all over the United States， haveI been refused food by the big house on the hill； andalways have I received food from the little shack downby the creek or marsh， with its broken windows stuffedwith rags and its tired-faced mother broken with labor.
Oh， you charity-mongers！ Go to the poor and learn， forthe poor alone are the charitable. They neither give norwithhold from their excess. They have no excess. Theygive， and they withhold never， from what they need forthemselves， and very often from what they cruelly needfor themselves. A bone to the dog is not charity. Charity isthe bone shared with the dog when you are just as hungryas the dog.
There was one house in particular where I was turneddown that evening. The porch windows opened on thedining room， and through them I saw a man eating pie—abig meat-pie. I stood in the open door， and while he talkedwith me， he went on eating. He was prosperous， and outof his prosperity had been bred resentment against his lessfortunate brothers.
He cut short my request for something to eat， snappingout， “I don’t believe you want to work.”
Now this was irrelevant. I hadn’t said anything aboutwork. The topic of conversation I had introduced was“food.” In fact， I didn’t want to work. I wanted to take thewestbound overland that night.
“You wouldn’t work if you had a chance，” he bullied.
I glanced at his meek-faced wife， and knew that but forthe presence of this Cerberus I’d have a whack at thatmeat-pie myself. But Cerberus sopped himself in the pie，and I saw that I must placate him if I were to get a shareof it. So I sighed to myself and accepted his work-morality.
“Of course I want work，” I bluffed.
“Don’t believe it，” he snorted.
“Try me，” I answered， warming to the bluff.
“All right，” he said. “Come to the corner of blank andblank streets” — （I have forgotten the address） — “tomorrowmorning. You know where that burned building is， and I’ll put you to work tossing bricks.”
“All right， sir； I’ll be there.”
