Full Speed Ahead: My Journey with Kit

I tell Kit it’s clear I should go. Mrs. Kittredge has been generous, and I don’t want to repay her kindness by mooching. I pick up the sack of potatoes, and Buddy looks up as if asking what we’re doing. Kit offers to at least walk me to the hobo jungle.

I agree, though I have no idea what a hobo jungle is. The name makes it sound like it has ferns and monkeys. The three of us set out, and I carry the potatoes Mrs. Kittredge gave me, feeling like a fraud, since my family orders delivery pizza and I’ve barely touched a potato. Someone else should have these.

I ask if Kit’s met a lot of homeless kids. She nods, her voice heavy and tired. She’s met them at the hobo jungle, the soup kitchen, and churches that offer food and clothes. That gives me an idea: we can give the potatoes away there, so Mrs. Kittredge’s kindness reaches more than just me. Kit asks if I’m sure. I say yes.

Kit says that’s kind of me, and admits before the Depression she was a carefree, selfish kid. I blush, since that’s exactly how I am at home. I ask if the Depression, and her dad losing his job, made her grow up faster. She says maybe, and hopes she’s become more caring, too. With a sideways smile, she supposes the Depression isn’t all bad if it changes people for the better.

Kit leads Buddy and me down a hill by the train station, and instead of the jungle I picture, a ragged little city appears, tents and lean-tos for houses, open fires with battered pots for kitchens. It’s sad and tumbledown.

We go up to one of the fires, where a tired woman stirs a pot of stew. Kit nods me toward her, and I offer the potatoes. She reacts as if I’ve handed her gold, thanking me in disbelief. I smile, privately ashamed of the food I’ve wasted, and resolve never to be picky about food again.

Buddy trots off to explore, and Kit and I hurry after him between the tents. We pass a sleeping man who jumps up, grabs Kit’s arm, and accuses her of stealing his shoes. Startled, Kit stammers that she didn’t. I shout at him to let her go, and Buddy barks. When he insists he saw her do it, I call him a liar and grab his arm, trying to wrench it free.

Kit wrenches loose and yells for us to run. We dash off, dodging people and obstacles, and struggle toward the tracks with the man right on our heels.

Kit climbs into a moving boxcar and calls for Buddy. I toss him up and fling myself in after, and the car lurches into motion before I can turn around. The man chases us, but falls behind as we pick up speed, his shouts lost in the rattle of the car.

“Full speed ahead!” I shout, thrilled by our getaway, and ask where we’re headed. Kit says it’s just changing tracks and about to stop, but she’s wrong. It thunders on, faster and faster. We clutch each other in the doorway until Kit moans, we’re crossing a bridge over a river far below. I’m scared enough to think about leaving, but I can’t desert Kit and Buddy.

We sink back into the dark of the car. There’s nothing to do but wait until the train stops, whenever and wherever that may be.

After a while, Buddy wiggles free and skitters into the dark, where I hear a voice, an old man petting him. He introduces himself as Mr. Birdseye, says he didn’t know he’d have company, and shakes our hands.

Mr. Birdseye welcomes us aboard and says we’ve just crossed into Kentucky. Kit asks if the train stops in Mountain Hollow; he says it stops in Poncton first, then there. Kit tells me her Aunt Millie lives in Mountain Hollow, and if we can reach her, she can help us get home to Cincinnati.

As the train lurches on, Mr. Birdseye chalks hobo symbols on the floor that we need to get home safely: an X with two dots and a line above it for “good jungle,” and a grid of three lines each way for “jail or prison.”

Just then, with a screech of brakes, the train halts. Mr. Birdseye says it’s bulls, and when I ask if he means cattle, he explains that railroad bulls are the men hired to throw tramps like us off the trains.

The four of us huddle in the corner as men’s voices draw closer. The door slides open, and a deep voice orders us out before they climb in and drag us out. Kit and I look at Mr. Birdseye, who sighs and stands, and we walk into the glaring sunlight.

Two big men shake their heads at the sight of us, just kids. Mr. Birdseye jumps down and helps us to the ground, and Buddy leaps into my arms. The bulls clamp heavy hands on our shoulders and march us ahead of them, with no idea where they’re taking us.