Three minutes before sunrise on Monday, Henry realized he would never catch the big one. "Not today. The cannonball smokolotive that comes regular on this bend of tracks must've beat the morning dew, or on the blink, or out of commission altogether." If I keep chin-wagging on the lonesome, I'll be headed to the nuthouse, not the Hobo belt or Los. The thought of citrus-scented, mile-long groves of fresh Cali oranges and avocados free for the taking made his mouth water. And the salty sweet smell of Pacific air, surrounded by warm sun and palm trees in Los Angeles—that's how all his buddies in his Army unit over in France described California and that's where he was headed. Keep thinking about food instead of finding some and I'll end up with belly wrinkles. "Well, looks like it's the shoe-leather express or back to the jungle," Henry said to no one in particular. It's either that or head off the steel, and dirt road it another two-thousand miles or so. Nix bo to that. Besides, there'll be a trainlet whistling by in an hour or so. If Tinpan told me straight, there'd be a peddler rattler due about then. Freight trains were easier to hop on—though since it was a peddler it made too many stops for him to make good time. I could always find a jungle along the way. Sit in front of a fire for a few days, meet some other knights of the road, and wait for the next battleship due Friday, so Moose told me back in Beantown. Henry had started his journey northwest of Portland, near Bangor, after dropping ship in Boston, discharged from the Great War. Some were already calling it the 'War to end all wars'. Henry certainly hoped so. His best bud, Alvin York, invited him to New York City, but Henry had demurred. He'd had second thoughts when he alit at Boston Harbor though. He'd purchased a Boston Herald-American when he noticed Alvin's mug on the cover page. According to the article, New Yorkers treated Sergeant York like a king. Henry barked a chuckle when he got to the part where the newspaper reporter related that everyone in the whole country, according to New Yorkers at least, was scratching their head when Alvin turned his back on offers to use his fame to sell products to all his 'fans' in the USA. They just don't know Alvin. They don't get it, because they weren't over there, Henry said to himself. Henry knew. He knew, as Alvin did, that Henry'd saved his bacon at least a dozen times, as did Arthur Templeton, and a host of other men, who were now dead. The thought of accepting money with blood on it—well that just wouldn't sit right with Sergeant Alvin York. Nor would it to any self-respecting man, as Henry believed. Maybe he should have taken Alvin up on his offer though. He knew Alvin hadn't wanted to be alone in the Big Apple, and he'd made all kinds of offers, since Henry was the last of Alvin's best buds. Most of the others stayed back 'Over There', pushing up daisies in a bone orchard. Henry wanted to get back home, back to Bangor. Back to Jessie. Once there, however, things hadn't turned out as expected. His friends, some now dead in France, had ribbed him about his Downeast accent, his carrot-top hair, and the handcuff he wore on his finger, but he loved Jessie, thought they'd be married as she'd promised in her letters. She'd even made him agree to buy and wear the ring before the wedding so they could both think of the other when the setting sun sprinkled its reflection off the shimmering gold. He got off the Bangor and Aroostook Express from Boston via Portland only to discover Jess had gotten herself handcuffed to someone else. Some butter-fingers lawyer whose family summered in one of the mansions that ringed the town. His parents tried to feed him some balloon juice about staying around, but Henry decided to take the air. He almost cut his Army roll in half buying a neighbor's dusty Model T, but reckoned only about a dozen or so people had even tried a cross-country motorcar drive, from the stories he'd read. His mother heard of the near purchase and sat Henry down after supper the next evening, while his father sat silent in the chair at the head of the table. "Dearest Henry," she began, "We realize you've had a rough go of it, both in the War, and with that hussy Jessie. When she appeared at the door four months ago to hand me the ring, I handed her a piece of my mind, I did." Her Irish brogue, mixed with the Downeast accent, never failed to raise Henry's attention. Henry allowed that he indeed had a shock to his system, but that he'd overcome his broken heart. Someday soon perhaps. "We wrote a letter to the Bowdoin College, about the scholarship the college offered before you left. Here's the reply." Henry sat motionless in his seat. "Well, I'll read it to you then." She followed with news that the college honored their scholarships, especially those who'd earned as many medals of valor as Henry Ward Arsenault. Henry's father beamed a rare smile, but it was just more of the same pill to Henry. Henry spent the next few hours relating the stories he'd heard of America—of a desert hotter than the Sahara, mountains taller than the Alps, the great depths of the Grand Canyon, the rows and rows of Kansas corn and wheat, and the miles of endless fruit groves in California. The War had changed him, he said, and he wanted to see the towns and cities his friends could never see again. He'd kept the addresses of his buried companions, and decided to visit the families of those great good buds; then reminded his parents how much he loved them, but Henry had carried a torch for war and Jessie, and both had been a bum hunch. The worst decision at this moment would be to attend some sit-down school, surrounded by a bunch of cubs and bag piping professors. What he required was distance. He needed miles and time between his self and his lost love and damaged heart, and there was nothing for it. He assured them he'd never buy one of those 'confounded noisemakers' as his father described the Model T. Instead, Henry decided to grab an armful of boxcars. He had most of his roll, pocketed that, snuck into the Bangor Rail yard as he'd done so many times as a child, and hopped the Spud route to Beantown. He hooked up lodging in an almost respectable rooming house, above a crib on High Street. He wasn't a gambling man nor interested in paying for a woman. Henry avoided the crib, as if it didn't exist. Sometimes at night, he could hear the prostitutes haggling price as they walked up the stairs with their John Does, but a little noise like that didn't bother him. Not after most of a year of endless pounding from Kraut bombs that made his molars shake thinking about it. He mostly hung out around the ballpark down in the Fens, dressed in his best monkey clothes. He attempted a few times to chat up some of the lovely young ladies, but they called Boston 'Bitches' heaven' for a reason, he guessed. He did meet a young damsel, Elizabeth O'Toole, of the South Boston O'Tooles. He sat on a park bench one Saturday afternoon, examining the ducks and geese in the pond, on the Boston Commons, and she walked right up to him, and asked directions to some place he'd never heard of, and told her so. That didn't appear to matter to her, since she took a seat next to him and allowed him to have a conversation with her. She was just the right size too—six feet tall or so, nice curves, and long wavy black hair. Sure, at times it seemed there were only fifty cards in her deck, and when she'd faced a certain way, he noticed the layers of makeup. For the next month or so, though, he accompanied her to the Boston City Theatre—her mother even invited him over a number of times for a proper supper. The first invite Elizabeth nibbled his interest with an offer of Irish turkey. On that Saturday eve, he walked up porch steps, rapped the knocker on the O'Toole's front door and was met with the aroma of corned beef and cabbage; still it was one of his favorite meals, and probably the best one he'd had in the year before or the months since. After dinner, he sat with Liz in the parlor, and listened to some records on the phonograph. Henry especially liked to hear the songs he'd missed whilst in the Army, so Elizabeth played '12th Street Rag Song', and 'Me and My Gal', and some Ira Gershwin songs that Henry especially enjoyed. But when Liz placed a George M. Cohan disc on the player, and turned the playing wheel a few times, Henry asked her to change the record. He had no use for 'Over There' anymore. The song brought back a moment in time, in a trench about to go over the top, and Henry was there again, and felt the same stunned look in his eyes as when his buds fell to his left and right, just as they'd shoved their bodies up the ladders. Elizabeth must have noticed, since she rose from her seat and brazenly sat herself beside him. She looked straight at his pine green eyes, and asked Henry to tell her about his War. At first, Henry took exception to the question, and almost stated it was no conversation for a lady, but he found himself talking about it, as if she knew the key to Henry's door would open if he released the horrors from it. He told her about the Ardennes, about the Argonne Forest, the Marne, the long and painful march from Herbeuville to Verdun. He removed the blood from the battles, but not the 'dommages à son âme', as his French friends had said. Elizabeth spoke French also, much clearer than Henry managed, without his Downeast twang. So they spoke in French. "Henry, I see the tears in your eyes, and the damage to your soul, as you so beautifully stated. I feel there is more to this story than you have revealed, and I know about the pain of losing a loved one." Henry asked what she meant, thinking how he resented people relating how they could feel his pain, when they had not stepped into his shoes. "You see Henry, I lost my dear father just nine months ago. Father had gone to New York City on business, and never returned. Mother and I received a telegram, and took a train to Grand Central Station, but it was already too late—father died alone in a hospital hallway of that dreaded Spanish Flu. There is small solace in knowing another war could never happen, when its mark has left scars even after the fighting was done with." Elizabeth wept, her forehead in her hands, until Henry gently covered her with his arms, letting her ivory skin surrounded by her scented ebony tresses, rest on his shoulder. He realized then that life dealt pain in many pairs of shoes, and her loss was no less a weight than his. They sat on the front porch for a while and talked of Boston and Augusta. Henry left long after sunset, smitten with Elizabeth's perfume, but more so with her plain speaking, and beautiful mind. He'd never met a woman like Elizabeth. The weeks first flew, then slowed somewhat. Elizabeth and Henry spent much time together, at first blissful. Liz felt Henry spoke with too much of an accent, and commented on this. Then she mentioned his style of dress, that his 'monkey clothes', as he'd called them, were not how gentlemen dressed themselves nor described their dress, and that obviously his wartime experience had left him with some low-brow speaking habits. Within a month, Henry developed itchy feet. His feelings for Elizabeth seemed to mirror the travails of the Red Stockings. They'd won the World Series the year before, and in 1916, the year before he'd left. Babe Ruth rarely pitched anymore. Manager Ed Barrow had decided he needed Babe's bat more than his arm, and placed him in the outfield. The results were great for the Babe, but a disaster for their pitching. There were even rumors that owner Harry Frazee needed money, and contemplated a trade for Babe. Whatever the cause, the Red Stockings had reached a new low. By July they were already twelve games back in the American League. Then Henry's thoughts began to flirt with his perceptions. He no longer saw the beauty in Elizabeth's smile, the comfort of her embrace. Instead, his mind danced with imagined hidden skin deformities under makeup, of the handcuffs he still held onto, how Liz never seemed satisfied with Henry as he was—he imagined she kept a chisel in a closet and waited only for a marriage to uncover the tool and begin sculpting a new Henry in her image. His memory glowed with stories of palm trees in California, the famous Chicago Stockyards, and the beautiful mountains in Tennessee, and the families of the friends he'd wanted to visit—so Henry made a decision. He wanted to keep traveling, and sought out the best way to accomplish this. He decided to learn a little more about hobology than he'd learned on his trip on the Spud route into Boston. One set of bad handcuffs was enough, and he had no plans to replace one pair with another, only to have his heart crushed again. He began to spend time down at the jungle near the South Station rail yards, learned about the different trains, their schedules, the goods they carried, the different kinds of cars, the funny way the hobos talked—all about Hobohemia as they called their world. He sometimes slept there instead of his room, sat around a crackling fire, drank a cup of Joe, and listened to their stories; stopping them occasionally to ask a question, like 'What's a comet?' Someone, usually either Moose or Tinpan Tommy, would tell him, "Oh, that's a 'bo that rides the fast trains. They're the most dangerous ones. There's a lotta bums used to ride the rails that are crawlers now, lost a leg or two being a flipper, a dangler—that's what we call ourselves that jump the trains, and ride the rails." As the sun set on August, nights started to chill Henry's bones, and many of the hobos set off to fatten their roll—they needed a Winter stake. Some battered the drag, found a good spot on Broad Street near Filene's and Jordan Marsh, and held out a tin cup. Others battered the privates; went from door to door, faking war injuries, or telling whatever stories placed some silver in their pockets. Henry joined them on occasion. He pulled a dummy chucker with Tinpan a few times, since that was Tinpan's specialty. He'd place a piece of stale bread on the edge of the sidewalk down on Newbury Street, the ritziest street in town. Then Henry and he took turns paddling down the street, as if all belly wrinkled and desperate for a meal. Tinpan would find the piece of bread, pick it up, and make as if eating it. Invariably, one of the rubes took pity on him, and deposited some coins in his grubby mitts. While playing the starving man that afternoon, a policeman came upon Tinpan. Henry approached the crusher and as Tinpan later described it, "Ole' Henry, he used all these words I never did hear of, and darn if he didn't talk that stick twirler out of tossing me a rock pile." That's how they came up with Henry's hobo name—Alphabet Arsenal. Henry protested, to no avail. When he explained this was not even the correct spelling of his name, the nickname then stuck to Henry like the glue they made from dead horses. Moose taught Henry things even more important. He had the whiskers, and more experience than most of the other members of Hobohemia. One night, toward the end of Henry's stay in the Beantown jungle, and after Tinpan cooked up some delicious beef stew they called 'bossy in a bowl', Moose sat down next to him, stoking the fire with the long stick he always carried. "So, Alphabet, I'll be nailing a rattler tomorrow. See that battleship there?" Henry wiggled his head. He saw no big boats anywhere nearby, and mentioned as much. "No, ya fuzz face. A battleship's that Irish railroad jig over there—a big, fat, fast, and long freight. Privates call it the Chicago, Burlington, and Quincy railroad. See all those palace sleepers on it? Those boxcars? Well, the ten-twenty night train is a silver dollar route. There's a brakeman I know, name of Silver Bill Buckman, you plant four bits in his hand, and he'll overlook ya hoppin' the train. That one heads to Baltymore, which is where I'm headed. Gets too damn cold up here in Beantown, and besides, it's about time for some stools to come around and harvest some hobos. I don't plan on spending my winter in some band-house cooler, sittin' behind bars at night and working in chain-gang stripes while the light's shinin'—just for a vagrancy rap." Henry nodded. It made sense. He figured Moose would know, so he asked him the best way to nail a rattler to Cali, maybe all the way to Los Angeles. He told Moose he wanted to be a beachcomber. "Ya mean Los? Well hell a loogin like you'd just get yerself in trouble, or hurt, or worse even." Henry mentioned that he'd hopped the Spud route from Bangor to here some months ago, and he wasn't no rail rube. Moose cackled. "Well, if you end up greasin' a track, don't say I didn't warn ya'. "Now if ya wants to get to Californey, you got yerself two choices. First, ya jump that Irish rig, head on down to Baltymore. From there take the Beefsteak and Onion line over to Louisville, Kentuck', then hop the Casey down to Kansa' City. Ya got to watch that Casey though. Those Kansas City and Southern railroad plutocrats got issues with us knights of the rail. They pay a pretty penny to a handful of hobo nighthawks to make sure they separate us from their trains. You gotta keep a sharp eye out for 'em. They put on a tramp dress, then try to make nice. Then they pull out the sap when yer not lookin', and the next thing ya know yer either wakin' up in some toolbox jail or some deserted stretch of rail wit' yer roll gone and what feels like a large hangover, 'til ya feel the bump on yer noggin'. You see any tramps nail a rattler at a toolbox stop—that's a small railroad station fuzz face—and you make sure ya don't buy whatever they're sellin'. "From Casey, ya take the Hobo and tin can route, that'll clear cover Texas. I spent a nice winter in Houston a few years back." He stopped and sighed. Henry guessed a woman had something to do with it. Then, as if remembering he hadn't finished, Moose added, "but if ya want to get to Los, then from Casey ya jump the Misery Pacific." Moose guffawed at Henry's uncomprehending look. "Grow your ears Alphabet. You're just a fresh cat and if'n you don't know to talk junglese, you'll be lucky to make it past the Baltymore leg with a collection box coin. "See, once you get on the Baltymore and Ohio railroad, well there are some burlys and ginks and buzzards and worse on that route, on account it heads to Chicago. They'll pick you clean. You might consider chiming Tinpan if he'll tribe up. "Now a Missouri Pacific battleship leaves from Casey every Monday and Friday morning, if I recollect. It's a true Hobo limited—the shacks, slooses, diamond throwers, and the rest of the crew are all nearsighted shacks." Henry stared at him, his mouth open, asked Moose to repeat that in American, so Moose sadly shook his head, then explained the brakemen, dicks, and engine room crew all overlooked most all tramps, unless they caused trouble or snuck into a reefer, and stole or ate some of the refrigerated goods. "Now yer other choice is to jump a Beefsteak and Onion, and hug it all the way to Chicago. Then nail a rattler on a Casey down to Kansa' City, but I'd strongly advise agin' it. If the yard dicks in Pittsburgh don't nail ya, well, like I said, there's more barrel stiffs and jungle buzzards—the lowest sort of 'bo—in the Chicago jungle who'd as soon leave ya full a' holes as they'd lay eyes on ya. Now it's a quicker rail, you can be sure of that. But if ya want to live to eat some o' those Cali Avocados, you'd best take the Casey from Louisville. The yard geese down there know lots a' knights of the road, it being Kentucky and all." Moose stopped short and said no more. Moose was like that. He'd chew the rag enough to fill four ears, then go mute. When he had no more to say, he said nothing. Henry appreciated men like Moose. Moose left the next night, just as he'd promised. Henry took Moose's advice, and Tinpan Tommy joined him the for most of the trip, stretched the trip for more than two months, until they reached Kansas City. Tinpan had a tickle for Dallas that winter, so he hopped a Houston and Texas freight the Saturday prior, and told Henry good luck on hitting the Misery Pacific cannonball. And that's where Henry now stood; by the iron rails, missed or missing the cannonball, waiting for a trainlet, and talking to himself. He heard a familiar air-filled whistle. The sun just started peeking through the smog filled Kansas City rail yard and over the myriad smokestacks a mile or so east, the light and smog merged into purple violets, lemon yellows, and Georgia peach oranges. The last time Henry'd seen Elizabeth, she'd worn a peach and white dress. It was after supper that he'd told her he planned to leave town the next day. He didn't explain how he was traveling. "Oh, Henry. I do wish you'd stay. My mother and I have become quite fond of you. You don't feel the same way as I?" She fluttered her lids, as if not sure he was already gone. Her slim, long-fingered hands gripped each other. There was a whole story held in those hands, Henry thought. When he hesitated to answer, Elizabeth blurted, "I think you are quite a diamond in the rough Henry. Please give me a chance to make you shine…" "Lady, I ain't no diamond in the rough. You got yourself the wrong man." Henry had risen and escaped. Damned diamond in the rough. Henry shook his head. The trainlet slowed as it turned the sharp curve. Henry saw a nice-sized palace sleeper, started running, nailed the rattler, and hoped for some nearsighted shacks.