my place with the section crew, that until then would be held open for
my return.

I drifted to Saint Paul and then down to hustling St. Louis, and from
there to beautiful San Antonio, and when the binders cut wide swaths
into the ripening, top-heavy, golden grain on the banks of the Rio
Grande, I found myself back in my chosen element, toiling long hours
during the day in the harvest field, and then until way into the night
dancing the fantastic fandango with dark eyed Mexican Senoritas, to the
accompaniment of twanging guitars and squeaking mouth organs, and
staking my come-easy, go-easy earnings against the "Monte" layouts dealt
by swift-handed Mexican Senores, who had crossed the river from the
Mexican side for the double purpose of helping to harvest the wheat and
trimming, by means of "sure thing" games, the American harvesters.

Then came the harvest dance, the festival which indicated that upon the
ranch the harvest had been finished, and that I was no longer wanted.
So I drifted northward, following the ripening wheat, ever toiling, ever
squandering, and always attending the harvest dance which celebrated my
exit.

When the inclement weather set in, for want of something better to do, I
drifted back towards the lone prairie section reservation to take my
place in the ranks of those who tamp the ties and tighten the
"fish-plates," which hold the rails together.

I had hoboed a freight train as far as the water tank, that stood a
scant six miles east of the section reservation, and now I walked
leisurely through familiar scenery towards my former winter home, hoping
every minute to surprise Foreman McDonald and his crew at work on the