ne.

Nickey the Greek's ambition didn't run to The Road. He was not a
success at throwing his feet, and he stowed away one night on a barge
and went down river to San Francisco. I met him, only a week ago, at a
pugilistic carnival. He has progressed. He sat in a place of honor at
the ring-side. He is now a manager of prize-fighters and proud of it.
In fact, in a small way, in local sportdom, he is quite a shining
light.

"No kid is a road-kid until he has gone over 'the hill'"--such was the
law of The Road I heard expounded in Sacramento. All right, I'd go
over the hill and matriculate. "The hill," by the way, was the Sierra
Nevadas. The whole gang was going over the hill on a jaunt, and of
course I'd go along. It was French Kid's first adventure on The Road.
He had just run away from his people in San Francisco. It was up to
him and me to deliver the goods. In passing, I may remark that my old
title of "Prince" had vanished. I had received my "monica." I was now
"Sailor Kid," later to be known as "'Frisco Kid," when I had put the
Rockies between me and my native state.

At 10.20 P.M. the Central Pacific overland pulled out of the depot at
Sacramento for the East--that particular item of time-table is
indelibly engraved on my memory. There were about a dozen in our gang,
and we strung out in the darkness ahead of the train ready to take her
out. All the local road-kids that we knew came down to see us
off--also, to "ditch" us if they could. That was their idea of a joke,
and there were only about forty of them to carry it out. Their
ring-leader was a crackerjack road-kid named Bob. Sacramento was his
home town, but he'd hit The Road pretty well everywhere over the whole
country. He took French Kid and me aside and gave us advice something
like this: "We're goin' to try an' ditch your bunch, see? Youse two
are weak. The rest of the push can take care of itself. So, as soon as
youse two nail a blind, deck her. An' stay on the decks till youse
pass Roseville Junction, at which burg the constables are horstile,
sloughin' in everybody on sight."

The engine whistled and the overland pulled out. There were three
blinds on her--room for all of us. The dozen of us who were trying to
make her out would have preferred to slip aboard quietly; but our
forty friends crowded on with the most amazing and shameless
publicity and advertisement. Following Bob's advice, I immediately
"decked her," that is, climbed up on top of the ro