climbed into baggy, sprung-kneed trousers three inches short, boxlike brogans undifferentiated between right and left, and a homespun nubby wool shirt—the only one big enough—in which I’d roast by day but at least be snug at night.
The porter stepped back to see the total effect, and tactfully kept his opinion to himself. “Where you headed, suh?” he asked.
Good question. “It
was
Boston.”
“You got folks heah, suh?”
I shook my head. He regarded me silently. I hadn’t shaved for three days. The jockey shorts, the stubble, sleeping like a zombie—he must wonder if I’d really had any money. I searched for a way to demonstrate that I was honest.
“Heah, suh.” His outstretched hand held assorted coins, his tips from this trip. “To help you reach your folks.”
I took them gratefully. Later I’d have the paranoid thought that after robbing me he’d offered the coins to deflect suspicion. But I didn’t really believe it. The man had a good heart and simply felt sorry for me.
Meanwhile, somebody was using my ticket. In the station I told my story to the bowler-hatted railroad detective, a lantern-jawed tough-guy type who pointed out that a thief would likely sell the ticket, not use it himself, and even if it could be traced—which it couldn’t—the matter would boil down to my word against somebody else’s. As for the nearly two hundred dollars in gold, St. Louis was the connecting point for all western lines, and by now the thief could be on his way anywhere. No way I’d see my money again.
In the unlikely case you had it
, his attitude implied.
When he learned that I was from San Francisco, his eyes swept once again over my ramshackle clothes and unshaven face.
“What was your business in Keokuk?”
“Working on a story,” I lied. “I’m a journalist—”
“A what?”
“Newspaperman.” The temperature was hot and I was sweating inside the heavy shirt. “Travel stories,” I improvised. “I see a lot of country.”
“You’re following a ‘story’ to Boston?” Disbelief laced his voice. “For what paper?”
“The
Chronicle.”
I knew from microfilm files that it existed now. “The Red Stockings traveled from Cincinnati to play there in ’69. Now that they’re based in Boston, my editor wants a follow-up.”
“So he’s sending you clear across the country to write about … baseball?”
I nodded.
“Telegrapher’s around the corner,” he said briskly. “Let’s have that editor wire you some cash.”—
Uh oh
. “Look, I can’t afford—”
“I’ll take care of it,” he said. “What’s his name?”
I thought fast. “Isn’t today Sunday? He won’t be at his desk.”
“Okay.” A tight smile. “First thing tomorrow.”
“He’s on vacation.” I wondered if the word was in use yet. Or if people took them. “Won’t be back for another week.”
“All right,” he said after an ominous pause. “I’ll make my report. If your money belt”—given his tone, it might as well have been
satchel full of rubies
—“shows up, we’ll want to get hold of you. Where’ll you be?”
Where
would
I be? I shrugged helplessly.
His stare hardened. “I’ll say it straight out: This city has enough tramps, Mr. Fowler. We provide three places for vagrants: the almshouse, the workhouse, the jailhouse. Many end up in the last.” His expression said he figured I’d be joining them.
“I get your point.” An idea had finally begun to surface. Art Croft might help me. The trouble lay in finding him. No phonebooks yet. “How do I get to the ballpark?”
“That way, Grand Street.” He pointed northwest. “Keep out of trouble.”
“Right.”
Outside the towering facade of Union Station, dodging swift-moving pedestrians and rumbling baggage wagons, I felt like a fool in my silly clothes. The feeling grew more acute as I clumped in my ill-fitting brogans past the lavish Southern Hotel, where the doorman’s eyes tracked me along the boardwalk. I knew
The porter stepped back to see the total effect, and tactfully kept his opinion to himself. “Where you headed, suh?” he asked.
Good question. “It
was
Boston.”
“You got folks heah, suh?”
I shook my head. He regarded me silently. I hadn’t shaved for three days. The jockey shorts, the stubble, sleeping like a zombie—he must wonder if I’d really had any money. I searched for a way to demonstrate that I was honest.
“Heah, suh.” His outstretched hand held assorted coins, his tips from this trip. “To help you reach your folks.”
I took them gratefully. Later I’d have the paranoid thought that after robbing me he’d offered the coins to deflect suspicion. But I didn’t really believe it. The man had a good heart and simply felt sorry for me.
Meanwhile, somebody was using my ticket. In the station I told my story to the bowler-hatted railroad detective, a lantern-jawed tough-guy type who pointed out that a thief would likely sell the ticket, not use it himself, and even if it could be traced—which it couldn’t—the matter would boil down to my word against somebody else’s. As for the nearly two hundred dollars in gold, St. Louis was the connecting point for all western lines, and by now the thief could be on his way anywhere. No way I’d see my money again.
In the unlikely case you had it
, his attitude implied.
When he learned that I was from San Francisco, his eyes swept once again over my ramshackle clothes and unshaven face.
“What was your business in Keokuk?”
“Working on a story,” I lied. “I’m a journalist—”
“A what?”
“Newspaperman.” The temperature was hot and I was sweating inside the heavy shirt. “Travel stories,” I improvised. “I see a lot of country.”
“You’re following a ‘story’ to Boston?” Disbelief laced his voice. “For what paper?”
“The
Chronicle.”
I knew from microfilm files that it existed now. “The Red Stockings traveled from Cincinnati to play there in ’69. Now that they’re based in Boston, my editor wants a follow-up.”
“So he’s sending you clear across the country to write about … baseball?”
I nodded.
“Telegrapher’s around the corner,” he said briskly. “Let’s have that editor wire you some cash.”—
Uh oh
. “Look, I can’t afford—”
“I’ll take care of it,” he said. “What’s his name?”
I thought fast. “Isn’t today Sunday? He won’t be at his desk.”
“Okay.” A tight smile. “First thing tomorrow.”
“He’s on vacation.” I wondered if the word was in use yet. Or if people took them. “Won’t be back for another week.”
“All right,” he said after an ominous pause. “I’ll make my report. If your money belt”—given his tone, it might as well have been
satchel full of rubies
—“shows up, we’ll want to get hold of you. Where’ll you be?”
Where
would
I be? I shrugged helplessly.
His stare hardened. “I’ll say it straight out: This city has enough tramps, Mr. Fowler. We provide three places for vagrants: the almshouse, the workhouse, the jailhouse. Many end up in the last.” His expression said he figured I’d be joining them.
“I get your point.” An idea had finally begun to surface. Art Croft might help me. The trouble lay in finding him. No phonebooks yet. “How do I get to the ballpark?”
“That way, Grand Street.” He pointed northwest. “Keep out of trouble.”
“Right.”
Outside the towering facade of Union Station, dodging swift-moving pedestrians and rumbling baggage wagons, I felt like a fool in my silly clothes. The feeling grew more acute as I clumped in my ill-fitting brogans past the lavish Southern Hotel, where the doorman’s eyes tracked me along the boardwalk. I knew
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