Free Beggars of Life by Jim Tully Page A

to the judge in the mornin’.”
    He placed two of us on each side of him, and we walked down the tracks.
    There was no chance to talk, but Bill and I did some rapid thinking. We each decided that the detective had neither handcuffs nor revolver, as he would certainly have used them if he did. In an effort to be friendly, and with a double motive, Bill said, “You’re on duty early, ain’t you, Mister?”
    â€œIt’s none o’ your business. I’m on early enough to ketch you birds.”
    Bill walked two feet from the detective, while I was about four feet from him.
    â€œIf he has got a gun,” I thought, “he’s liable to plug me if I run, and that would be worse than a term in jail.”
    The moon rose higher, and the rails shone brighter. A “wildcat” engine came screeching down the yards. It was followed by another engine and flat cars with ropes and other wrecking paraphernalia.
    â€œBeen a wreck somewhere?” said Bill.
    â€œShut your mouth, ye damn parrot. Talk to yare ayquals.”
    â€œAin’t you my equal?” blurted out Bill. It was an unfortunate rejoinder. The man did not answer, but gave him a back-handed slap with the blackjack.
    Bill started forward but restrained himself. I was glad of his decision, for we were not over sixty miles from the scene of the fight with the other detectives. If we were caught, it meant a term in jail, or the Pontiac Reform School. Bill must have felt the same way about it. It may be that the detective was more fortunate than he knew, as “road-kids” are relentless and vicious in a fight. They have more initiative and energy than older tramps, and they will fight harder for freedom.
    We walked along with the detective, whose thoughts kept rambling on an unpleasant subject. “You kids’ll git Pontiac. That bunk about sick people don’t go wit’ the judge. He’ll soak ye all. If he don’t, I’ll quit. Ye guys are the ruin of the country, a bummin’ honest people, an’ a stealin’ money, an’ a breakin’ into cars, an’ a burnin’ barns.” The detective talked on and on.
    A yellow road crossed the tracks. The corn rustled in the fields as the wind blew over it.
    â€œI wonder where the dickens he’s takin’ us?” I thought. And then, “I might as well take a chance.” Suddenly there was a wild yell, “Run, guys—run!!!” thundered Bill. He turned swiftly, and gave my arm a quick jerk, and the two of us were suddenly tearing down the road for dear life.
    The man stood in the middle of the tracks, and wailed like a man whose professional pride had been hurt.
    â€œCome here, ye little hobo devils,” he yelled.
    We ran about a hundred yards when Bill said, “Duck over’n the cornfield, Red.”
    We walked daringly back through the corn toward the tracks at the crossing. No one was there. “The other two guys must of run the other way, and the dick figured he could get them easier,” I whispered.
    â€œThem two’ll knock hell outta him now, if he tries to catch ’em. They’re wise enough to know he ain’t got a gun by this time.”
    â€œI wonder if he thought we’d walk along to jail with him like little lambs,” I laughed.
    â€œHe got left if he did. But what was you thinkin’ about while you walked along with the dick?” asked Bill.
    â€œSame thing you were, Bill, I guess. I was prayin’ for a clear track for a getaway.”
    â€œI had a notion to bust him when he hit me with the jack, but I thought I’d better not. I don’t wanta make Pontiac again,” declared Bill.
    â€œI’d have slammed him before we went to jail. Wouldn’t you?” I muttered.
    â€œI’ll say I would, and slammed him hard,” whispered Bill.
    The quick footsteps of a man were heard. Then several dogs barked loud and long. “I wish to