The following is a collection of stories related to A. Leroy Keaton by one of his war buddies. They are not fiction, although, of course, we cannot verify them now.
"Yeah! And I don't intend to move either, and just who's gonna make me move?" came the stern, slow drawl of Tom, sitting solemnly on a wooden box before his tent on the little River Bache.
"Well, I reckon you don't know that I'm the fish warden here do you?"
"Yeah, I could tell any of you birds as far off as I can shoot." As many a duck hunter will testify to this stern statement of Tom's.
With an air of authority, the fish warden threw back his coat collar, producing a shiny silver badge. "Reckon you'll have to come with me, fellow."
"Well, I don't know about that, Mr. Warden, for you see I'm a little ill right now and I don't intend to get any worse in a jailhouse when I can get healthy here by the River Bache--harming no one." This added last phrase stirred the Warden while at the same time Tom reached behind him to a gunny sack on the limb of a tree. Underneath was his shotgun. Before the warden knew what Tom was doing, he stood facing just a few feet from Tom, a 12 gauge shotgun pointed point blank at his middle.
With a considerable decrease in air of authority, the warden spoke softer and just a bit of something or other bothering his neck as he squirmed clutching at it. "Lay that down Mister--I-I was only fooling."
"Well, I ain't!" was Tom's stern reply, and that's all that was said as the warden turned tail, making tracks for his boat.
With a half-grin, Tom watched the warden push out his fishing boat and paddle as fast as God only knows what was chasing him.
Further down the river, a smiling old man, about the age of fifty who had lived all his life at the place he now stood, greeted the frustrated warden. By now, he was sweating profusely and breathing heavily from paddling and fear.
His greeting to the old man who was expecting him was not odd for the state of mind he was in. "Why that fellow'd of killed me--he must be mad--crazy!"
"I warned you not to bother him. He doesn't bother anybody nor does he harm any property or fish life. Just an honest man getting along in an honest way. Leave him alone...."
"Yes, I know," interrupted the now calmer warden, "and he'll leave me alone." As if an answer to that, he replied, "You can bet I will."
Tom's adventures on the railroad were mostly in the form of "hoboing." Now most people belive that a hobo is as low a man as he can be. Some of Tom's relationships to the railroad beg to differ with that belief.
For instance, the time that he departed from a freight train just before it reached the city limits. As he tumbled off the fast rolling freight train, he skinned both his hands. His first aid was a clean, white handkerchief that he tore in two--one piece for one hand and one for the other.
After brushing off his well-kept clothes, he strolled through the streets in town. As he walked over a space leading to the railroad station, a black sedan pulled up beside him, sleek-looking in the dark.
"Where ya going, buddy?" came from the driver's side of the car.
"Why, up the street and look around town a little tonight," Tom's answer as casual as could be.
"Now, don't get smart, mister," at the same time the driver who spoke this leaned forward with an air of superiority, set the hand brake, opened the door, and produced a gun in the face of startled Tom.
"What's this for?" asked Tom, bewildered.
"Trespassing on railroad property without a ticket to the railroad."
At once, Tom knew his predicament. Looking about, he noticed the ticket office was across the street from the railroad.
Staring back at the pistol, Tom realized the man was a "railroad dick," as the term was well-known to the hobos. The man said, "Okay, get in. You're going with me." Nothing for Tom to do but get in.
As they sauntered through the courthouse, a fellow "dick" with a smiling jest asked, "Caught yourself another tonight? Making quite a haul." The hearing was brief and the sentence quick and precise. He was charged with being on railroad property without a ticket or permission. The narrow strip from the ticket office to the railroad was the railroad's property. Of course, Tom's answer to the charge was "not guilty."
"Which do you prefer, as the court has found you guilty. Six days in jail, or $25?" To the surprise of the judge and the "railroad dick," Tom's answer was again to his favor, he figured. "Six days."
Oh yes, Tom had the money all right, but he had it sewn in the seam of his coat for such an occasion. He was especially pleased to see them not get his money--hard-earned money that a hobo has to earn.
Tom asks himself, "Is this America?"
"When I was about six," Tom started off his story, "dad was regular as clockwork going to the woodshed daily to take up a mug and hastily drink down a mug of homemade brew. Now after seeing him do that many times and coming out licking his chops like a contented bear after eating a cone of honey, I decided to get some."
"It was a bright, sunny day that mom had gone to town, bought groceries and about 8 dozen eggs in a basket. The eggs were left outside near the path to the woodshed, still in the basket. Dad had already had his mug of home brew and gone to work."
"Into that woodshed I went, sneaking up to the spigot as if it were a snake, poured me a big one, and, after some time, got it all down. It tasted pretty good, so down went another. I thought I'd bust. But then things began to go wrong. That damn mug looked like a barrel, the key wouldn't stand still, and a sudden dizziness had me whirling in circles."
"I threw down that mug, staggered out of the shed, and fell on my nose on the hard path. There I was, a drunken little fool, trying to be a man like pop. Along with dizziness, my insides wanted to come up. Thus, sick as I felt, toward the house I went."
"When that basket of eggs came towards me, it got in my way, and down I went. Eggs snapped and cracked like just so many dead limbs on a fallen tree. Was I a mess! Was there an egg that didn't bust? Well, all I could remember was the whipping mom gave my sitter--eggs and all."