More hungry boys.

In the spring of 1933, I was sixteen years old, plowing cotton from daylight to dark. The entire country was poor, but my family had been hit especially hard, going from the prosperous life of ranchers to being grateful for whatever work my dad, my older brother, or I could get. Every day I dreamed of leaving, not because I didn't like home. I did. But life was sad, especially watching my mother's stoic endurance. She'd had such hopes for her children--good educations, good futures-- but the Great Depression had taken away all her dreams. Now her concern was whether there was enough food.

A train came through our Texas town every day always heading west. That train seemed my way out of the misery and sadness. So on a sunny day, without any planning, I jumped into an empty box car. On the floor of the car was a plain wooden plank, and on that board I quickly carved "Bob Logan gone west." As the train passed the outskirts of town, I tossed the board at a road crossing where I hoped someone would see it and give it to my mother.

After tossing out my only good-by note, I settled down to contemplate the hobo life I'd jumped into. There were other hoboes on the train, men who had been riding "rattlers," the hobo name for freight trains, for years. Some helped me, others frightened me, but all taught me something. I learned a great many things during the next eight months of my life. I learned how cold the ride is on top of a box car when the sun goes down; I learned to make a stew from whatever was at hand; I learned to harvest Idaho potatoes, Dakota wheat, and New Mexico fruit. I learned to sing hobo songs and to read hobo signs on buildings, the notes left to help other hobo "travelers." I learned how wonderful a familiar face can be and how to live under bridges, not trees; I learned the art of clever nicknames; and most of all I learned there are no free rides.

When the work finally ran out and winter invaded even the most southerly states, I learned that home was the place to be. So just as I'd left--without a friend or money--I headed back to Texas. After two days of traveling and hungry as only a sixteen-year-old without a meal in forty-eight hours can be, I left a train somewhere on the south side of Oklahoma City. I walked toward the closest eating establishment, a place with a sign proclaiming it "Ralph's Cafe," and I went inside.

Dirty, tired, and ravenous, I stood at the entrance and examined the crowd for any person who looked to be in charge. Eventually a short, slightly paunchy, forty-something man, Ralph, I assumed, walked over to me. He took a long look at the 140-pound teen-ager before him and said without any hint of either cordiality or sarcasm, "What can I do for you, son?"

"Well, I'm on my way home to my family in Texas, but I don't have any money, and I'm mighty hungry," I said.

"Are you willing to work for your food?"

"Sure. Yes, sir."

"Come this way." Ralph led me to a stool at the counter and pointed for me to sit. He went behind the counter, dished up a big bowl of vegetable soup, and put it in front of me. Then he turned to get some bread as I grabbed a spoon.

A few minutes later Ralph returned. "Want some more?"

"Yes, sir. This is good." He served up a second helping, and once I'd finished that, I felt ready to work, which I told Ralph.

"Okay, then. Come with me." He led me out the back of the cafe, first to a tool shed where he handed me a sling blade and then to the edge of two acres of overgrown, weed-covered land.

"Clear it," he said. Then he turned and headed back toward the cafe.

Surprised but still sixteen, I began cutting the waist-high weeds. The first few minutes were awkward work, but after ten minutes, I developed a rhythm and my young muscles were beginning to enjoy the movement. Just as I was starting to sweat, Ralph returned. He stood at the edge of the lot with his hands on his hips watching me.

Suddenly he yelled, "That's enough. Stop."

"What?" I said. "I've just started."

Ralph walked toward me, kicking aside the weeds I'd cut. He put out his hand for the sling blade and said, "I know, son. But there are more hungry boys out there who'll be coming along soon. And there ain't no free meals. Now give me that sling blade and head on home."

Bob Logan, a retired engineer for the Atomic Energy Commission, now lives in South Carolina.