In short, he was a tramp.
"Where are you from?" asked Bert.
"From New York. I was asleep under that haystack, and I woke up to
find it on fire."
"Were you smoking there?" asked Bert, suspiciously.
"No," replied the tramp, so earnestly that Bert believed him. "I don't
smoke. But I was traveling with a fellow who did. Maybe it was his
pipe that set the fire. He ran off, and I stayed around to see you
boys put out the fire. You did it in great shape. I started to cross
the bridge and I fell off. I'm weak, I guess. I haven't had anything
to eat all day."
"Where are you going?" asked Bert, for he felt a sympathy for the man.
No one else had been attracted to the scene, as every one was too much
interested in the new engine to leave it.
"I don't know," replied the man, despondently, "I'm looking for work."
"What do you do."
"I'm a stenographer and typewriter, but there are so many girls at it
now that a man can't get living wages. So I decided to become a tramp.
I wanted to get out doors, because my health is not good. But I can't
get anything to do, except very heavy tasks, and I'm not able to do
them."
"I'll see if I can't help you," proposed Bert.
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