It was in Reno, Nevada, in the summer of 1892. Also, it was fair-time, and the town was filled with petty crooks and tin-horns, to say nothing of a vast and hungry horde of hoboes. It was the hungry hoboes that made the town a "e;hungry"e; town. They "e;battered"e; the back doors of the homes of the citizens until the back doors became unresponsive. A hard town for "e;scoffings,"e; was what the hoboes called it at that time. I know that I missed many a meal, in spite of the fact that I could "e;throw my feet"e; with the next one when it came to "e;slamming a gate for a "e;poke-out"e; or a "e;set-down,"e; "e;or hitting for a light piece"e; on the street. Why, I was so hard put in that town, one day, that I gave the porter the slip and invaded the private car of some itinerant millionnaire. The train started as I made the platform, and I headed for the aforesaid millionnaire with the porter one jump behind and reaching for me. It was a dead heat, for I reached the millionnaire at the same instant that the porter reached me. I had no time for formalities. "e;Gimme a quarter to eat on,"e; I blurted out. And as I live, that millionnaire dipped into his pocket and gave me just precisely a quarter.