By Jack London
There is a woman in the state of Nevada to whom I once liedcontinuously， consistently， and shamelessly， for the matter of acouple of hours. I don’t want to apologize to her. Far be it fromme. But I do want to explain. Unfortunately， I do not know hername， much less her present address. If her eyes should chanceupon these lines， I hope she will write to me.
It was in Reno， Nevada， in the summer of 1892. Also， it wasfair-time， and the town was filled with petty crooks and tinhorns，to say nothing of a vast and hungry horde of hoboes. Itwas the hungry hoboes that made the town a “hungry” town.
They “battered” the back doors of the homes of the citizensuntil the back doors became unresponsive.
A hard town for “scoffings，” was what the hoboes called it atthat time. I know that I missed many a meal， in spite of the factthat I could “throw my feet” with the next one when it came to“slamming a gate” for a “poke-out” or a “set-down，” or hittingfor a “light piece” on the street. Why， I was so hard put in thattown， one day， that I gave the porter the slip and invaded theprivate car of some itinerant millionnaire. The train started as Imade the platform， and I headed for the aforesaid millionnairewith the porter one jump behind and reaching for me. It was adead heat， for I reached the millionnaire at the same instant thatthe porter reached me. I had no time for formalities. “Gimme aquarter to eat on，” I blurted out. And as I live， that millionnairedipped into his pocket and gave me... just... precisely... a quarter.
It is my conviction that he was so flabbergasted that he obeyedautomatically， and it has been a matter of keen regret ever since，on my part， that I didn’t ask him for a dollar. I know that I’dhave got it. I swung off the platform of that private car with theporter manoeuvring to kick me in the face. He missed me. Oneis at a terrible disadvantage when trying to swing off the loweststep of a car and not break his neck on the right of way， with， atthe same time， an irate Ethiopian on the platform above trying toland him in the face with a number eleven. But I got the quarter！
I got it！
But to return to the woman to whom I so shamelessly lied.
It was in the evening of my last day in Reno. I had been outto the race-track watching the ponies run， and had missed mydinner （i.e. the mid-day meal）. I was hungry， and， furthermore，a committee of public safety had just been organized to ridthe town of just such hungry mortals as I. Already a lot ofmy brother hoboes had been gathered in by John Law， and Icould hear the sunny valleys of California calling to me overthe cold crests of the Sierras. Two acts remained for me toperform before I shook the dust of Reno from my feet. Onewas to catch the blind baggage on the westbound overland thatnight. The other was first to get something to eat. Even youthwill hesitate at an all-night ride， on an empty stomach， outsidea train that is tearing the atmosphere through the snow-sheds，tunnels， and eternal snows of heaven-aspiring mountains.
But that something to eat was a hard proposition. I was“turned down” at a dozen houses. Sometimes I receivedinsulting remarks and was informed of the barred domicilethat should be mine if I had my just deserts. The worst of itwas that such assertions were only too true. That was why Iwas pulling west that night. John Law was abroad in the town，seeking eagerly for the hungry and homeless， for by such washis barred domicile tenanted.
At other houses the doors were slammed in my face， cuttingshort my politely and humbly couched request for somethingto eat. At one house they did not open the door. I stood onthe porch and knocked， and they looked out at me throughthe window. They even held one sturdy little boy aloft so thathe could see over the shoulders of his elders the tramp whowasn’t going to get anything to eat at their house.
It began to look as if I should be compelled to go to thevery poor for my food. The very poor constitute the last surerecourse of the hungry tramp. The very poor can always bedepended upon. They never turn away the hungry. Time andagain， all over the United States， have I been refused food bythe big house on the hill； and always have I received food fromthe little shack down by the creek or marsh， with its brokenwindows stuffed with rags and its tired-faced mother brokenwith labor. Oh， you charity-mongers！ Go to the poor and learn，for the poor alone are the charitable. They neither give norwithhold from their excess. They have no excess. They give，and they withhold never， from what they need for themselves，and very often from what they cruelly need for themselves. Abone to the dog is not charity. Charity is the bone shared withthe dog when you are just as hungry as the dog.
There was one house in particular where I was turned downthat evening. The porch windows opened on the dining room，and through them I saw a man eating pie—a big meat-pie. Istood in the open door， and while he talked with me， he wenton eating. He was prosperous， and out of his prosperity hadbeen bred resentment against his less fortunate brothers.
He cut short my request for something to eat， snapping out， “Idon’t believe you want to work.”
Now this was irrelevant. I hadn’t said anything about work.
The topic of conversation I had introduced was “food.” In fact，I didn’t want to work. I wanted to take the westbound overlandthat night.
“You wouldn’t work if you had a chance，” he bullied.
I glanced at his meek-faced wife， and knew that but for thepresence of this Cerberus I’d have a whack at that meat-piemyself. But Cerberus sopped himself in the pie， and I saw thatI must placate him if I were to get a share of it. So I sighed tomyself and accepted his work-morality.
“Of course I want work，” I bluffed.
“Don’t believe it，” he snorted.
“Try me，” I answered， warming to the bluff.
“All right，” he said. “Come to the corner of blank and blankstreets”—（I have forgotten the address）—“tomorrow morning.
You know where that burned building is， and I’ll put you towork tossing bricks.”
“All right， sir； I’ll be there.”