FullReads

A year or more ago a party of four commercial travelers were making the trip from Portland to San Francisco, a ride of thirty-six hours– two nights and one day. They occupied the drawing room. After breakfast, on the day of the journey, one of the boys proposed a game of ten cent limit “draw.” They all took part. There is something in the game of poker that will keep one’s eyes open longer than will the fear of death, so the four kept on playing until time for luncheon. About one o’clock the train stopped for half an hour at a town in Southern Oregon. The party went out to take a stretch. Instead of going into the dining room they bought, at the lunch counter, some sandwiches, hard boiled eggs, doughnuts and pies and put them in their compartment. On the platform an old man had cider for sale; they bought some of that. Several youngsters sold strawberries and cherries. The boys also bought some of these. In fact, they found enough for a wholesome, appetizing spread.

The train was delayed longer than usual. The boys, tired of walking, came back to their quarters. They asked me to have some lunch with them. Just as one of the party opened a bottle of cider a little, barefoot, crippled boy, carrying his crutch under one arm and a basket half full of strawberries under the other, passed beneath the window of their drawing room.

“Strawberries. Nice fresh strawberries, misters–only a dime a box,” called out the boy. “Three for a quarter if you’ll take that many.”

There he was, the youthful drummer, doing in his boyish way just what we were–making a living, and supporting somebody, too, by finding his customer and then selling him. He was bright, clean and active; but sadly crippled.

“Let’s buy him out,” said the youngest of our party–I was now one of them.

“No, let’s make a jackpot, the winner to give all the winnings to the boy for his berries,” spoke up the oldest.

The pot was opened on the first hand. The limit had been ten cents, but the opener said “I’ll ‘crack’ it for fifty cents, if all are agreed.”

Every man stayed in–for the boy! Strangely enough four of us caught on the draw.

“Bet fifty cents,” said the opener.

“Call your fifty,” said numbers two and three, dropping in their chips.

“Raise it fifty,” spoke up number four.

The other three “saw the raise.”

“Three Jacks,” said the opener.

“Beats me,” said number two.

“Three queens here,” said number three.

“Bobtail,” spoke up number four.

“Makes no difference what you have,” broke in number three. “I’ve the top hand, but the whole pot belongs to the boy. The low hand, though, shall go out and get the berries.”

As the train pulled out, the little barefoot drummer with $6.50 hobbled across the muddy street, the proudest boy in all Oregon; but he was not so happy as were his five big brothers in the receding car.

Brethren, did I say. Yes, Brethren! To the man on the road, every one he meets is his brother–no more, no less. He feels that he is as good as the governor, that he is no better than the boy who shines his shoes. The traveling man, if he succeeds, soon becomes a member of the Great Fraternity–the Brotherhood of Man. The ensign of this order is the Helping Hand.

I once overheard one of the boys tell how he had helped an old Frenchman.

“I was down in Southern Idaho last trip,” said he. “While waiting at the station for a train to go up to Hailey, an old man came to the ticket window and asked how much the fare was to Butte. The agent told him the amount–considerably more than ten dollars.

“‘ Mon Dieu! Is it so far as that?’ said the old man. ‘ Eh bien! (very well) I must find some work.’