He loved to cook. Each day he jumbled all the mixable portions
of the food together, and, in a big tin wash-boiler which he had rescued
from "the dump" outside of town, he stewed up quite a palatable mess
which we called "slum" or "slumgullion," or, more profanely,
"son-of-a-b----."
For plates we used old tomato cans hammered out flat ... for knives and
forks, our fingers, pocket-knives, and chips of wood.
It was a happy life.
One afternoon mysteriously our leader and cook disappeared--with a broad
grin on his face. Soon he returned, rolling a whole barrel of beer which
he had stolen during the night from the back of a saloon ... and had
hidden it nearby in the bushes till it was time to bring it forth....
We held a roaring party, and had several fights. ("Slopping up" is what
the tramps call a drinking jamboree.) This was the first time I got
drunk in my life. It took very little to set me off ... I burned a big
hole in my coat. I woke lying in the mud near the willows ... and with a
black eye ... a fellow tramp affectionately showed me his finger that I
had bitten severely ... for a day we had bad nerves, and lay about
grumbling....
We kept quite clean. The tramp is as clean as his life permits him to be
... usually ... the myth about his dirtiness is another of the myths of
the newspaper and magazine world ... though I have seen ones who were
extraordinarily filthy.
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