FEATURES Hobo-ese Breaking the secret vagrant language Skippy McDougalhoun OP Contributor os ADA is endeavoring to Hy her after~the-war in the midst of many difficulties—debt, defla- tion and depreasion being Hobos! The scourge of society. A black mark for good, decent, hard-working, and spirit-free Americans every- where. What keeps this secret society secret is an insidious code: a series of icons that only these self-proclaimed “Knights of the Road” can read. Usually written in chalk or coal on a trestle, curb, fence, building, sidewalk, or sign- post, these marks pass warnings and directions, helping vagrants everywhere take the first hop of the loop. While undergoing my daily constitutional from the office to home, I have become increasingly confronted with more and more of these hieroglyphical signs, usually written in poor penmanship. Last month I asked my local flatfoot what one logo, a circle with a crude arrow drawn through it, meant. He simply shrugged, “Sorry, Charlie, it’s bull to me.” My interest blossomed into obsession. I asked more and more people, but it seemed nobody could help me. Armed with a pack of Lucky’s, I approached three hobos I saw warming their mitts by a flaming barrel in the old Winchester train yards. They gladly accepted the cigarettes, yet seemed dubious when I asked for some insights into their alphabet. I attempted to calm them by explaining who I was and who I wrote for. One of them exclaimed, “I know you! I’ve read your writing. This is the guy who wrote that the South Side should be turned into “Hobotown,” and that we should be rounded up, names taken, relocated, and employed as forced labour in exchange for bread! Now you’re gonna get what’s coming to you, Chum.” Subsequently, they armed themselves with a board with a nail through it and chased me off. The jig was up—or so it would seem. It dawned on me that the only way I could crack this code would be to adopt a pen name tome of them. ck remedies and academic theories beset her path on every side. Some suggest that our debt worries can best be eased by going further into debt, Others preach blue ruin, decry their own country and indulge In mischievous propaganda gener- ally, white still others ook for a new social order or some miraculous sign to indicate a better coming day—all this in apparent forgetfulness of the fact that jost as there was no royal road to win the war, there fs now no royal road to pay for it or regain our former baoyancy, vigor and confi- Some are Icaving Canada hoping to escape taxation, only to find there ig no escape a ere. In eecking for casy remedies too many of us overlook the fact that the teat remedy is honest, hard work faith- fully and intelligently performed, accompanied by old-fashioned thrift. Pe ot Camian lanes ne. & et Cando it coming through all right. Oar Experience Proves It Look hack over the path Canada has trod. ‘The French Colonists, cur off from civitization by 3,000 miles of sea, faced a Have Faith in Canada growing theic Gret wheat amid the and anaga of the new clearing. The Selxitk acttlera came to Manitebs when the prairie was a buifalo pasture, and wheat where none had grown before on ede the Canadian prairies grow ie ie the fineat wheat in the worl in the world, with average savin: posit per family of Geen“ Conada’ foreign trade per head of tlon stands among the highest ef the commercial nations, being 922-23, aa con ‘ore the wat, 92 capita in i with fiss in 1913-14, the “peak” year New Opportunities for Canada In Canada, although pricea in the wortd markets fell below war tevel, our farmers reaped last autem the largest grain crop in Canadian bistory, and Canada became the world’s lacgest exporter of wheat, thas in large measere making up for lower prices. Last pear, Orcat Britain, after an agtta- thom extending over thirty years, removed whe embarge om Canadian cattle, end rofitable and practically anfimnlted tence i opening up for Canadian stockere and foedore. “The dth comny belongs to Canada” add Canadiana keep faith. ‘The next erticle will suggest practical © reaities for profit making om our pA farens, Rathactiont fee galetivntion by the Domiston Department of Agricultare WE SCRE EE, Wier, Bee, FI GET OA LAL Peepers Helene, and pass myself off as a hobo. In preparation, I did- nt shave, bathe, or change my clothes for a week. Last Monday, armed with a stick, a bandana, and a bonnet of my own fashion, I made my way back down to the Winchester yards in search of hobos. In time, I found two who were bound for Shelbyville by way of the old Shelbyville Express Track. I gave them my pseudonym (Scruffy McGee), explained I was new to being a hobo and was looking for some chums to travel with. They believed my story and I found my way off with nothing but hobo symbols to guide us. My first companion was Corey “Cheese” Dupont, thusly named for his affec- tion for yelling, “Cheese it, it’s the coppers!” whenever our boys in blue were in the vicinity, regardless of whether the police where after them or not (which they never were— though they should be). My second companion’s handle was “Cracklin’ Sandy” (his knees crack constantly when he walks), who turned out to be none other than “Dandy” Sandy Sims, the ace spittleballer who was the bees knees for the Brooklyn Hilltoppers, Providence Clamdiggers, and Allentown Station Transfers in the old Congressional League of Baseball. It was sad to see how mighty this for- mer knickerbocker, a real man-about-town, had fallen—but that’s where booze and bearcats will get you. All in all, our pilgrimage to Shelbyville would take two days. For the first few hours, Cracklin’ Sandy kept me rapt with tales of conquest from the sporting world, along with a few tales of conquest of a more debaucherous nature. In due time, I was rewarded. We came across the same sym- bol of a circle with a crude arrow through it, written in chalk on a telephone poll. The arrow pointed to our left, and Cheese casually muttered, “Good thing we’re not going that way.” As it turns out, that’s exactly what that symbol means: There’s no use going that way. I was curi- ous as to why we shouldn’t go there, but Cheese wisely suggested that was something we didn’t need to know. “Somebody already made that mistake, Scruffy. That’s why we mark it up.” Sage advice, I suppose. The next symbol we came across was quite similar: a circle with an arrow attached to it. The arrow was pointing ahead, letting us know that it was safe to travel in the direction of Shelbyville. Shortly after we came upon anoth- er telephone pole-this one with two symbols. One indicat- ed a good camping spot; while the other said sympathetic people were about. We set up camp by sitting down, and Cheese went in the indicated direction to find these sympa- thetic people. I asked him to note their names, so that I could repay their kindness. Naturally, I have actually let the authorities know of these confessed sympathants. Cracklin’ Sandy got a fire going, and we passed the evening with idle bull until we nodded off to sleep. Both Cheese and Cracklin’ Sandy slept soundly and loudly (Cheese snores like the devil). I simply pined for my bed until the sun came up. Once on our way again, we encountered more and more symbols: man with dog lives here, man with gun lives here, work available, and so forth. By the time we stopped to rummage through some garbage on the outskirts of Shelbyville, I had earned the trust and confidence of my cohorts. I produced a small pad of paper (which looked suitably aged and soiled), and asked Cracklin’ Sandy to write out the symbols (I had told them that I would be pressing on to Nortonsburg after Shelbyville). He did so gladly, to which I replied, “Thanks, Chump!” and promptly made tracks to Roosevelt Station where I paid for a ticket back home. A three-hour train ride delivered me home, where I showered, changed, shaved, and had a wonderful dinner at Joe’s on the corner of Pentworth and 5th Avenue. With subversion of the highest order, we now bring you the hobo code in full. Upon consideration, I am not fully sure what we should do with this information, only that it must be used to bring about the fall of hobos every- where.