They were up early the next morning, and Henry felt much better about his adventure. Just like Tom and Huck, he was making his way in the wide world. Okay, he needed a little help from Clickety Clack, but he was going to find his father in Alberta! By now his mother must have read his note. He didn’t want to worry her, but a life riding the rails beat one on a boat any day. And as for Anne, why, he’d write her a long letter just as soon as he had a quiet hour or two. The exciting tale of his adventures would be told for years to come, of that he was certain. He’d stay with his pa in Calgary and work on the dam, make some real money and see the whole wide world.
Henry and the old tramp continued down the long road, their shoes kicking up puffs of powder-fine dust.
“Are you sure this is the way to Regina?” Henry asked after they had been walking several hours.
“All roads lead to Rome,” Clickety Clack said cryptically. “In these parts, you end up in Regina whether you want to or not. It’s the capital, you know.”
Henry shot him a dark look. “I’m not dumb.”
“Then stop acting like it. I know where we’re going. That’s what you hired me for.” The old hobo stuck a chaw in his mouth and ambled on.
They continued their trek, the searing heat from the sun beating down mercilessly on their heads. For the hundredth time, Henry wiped his brow and wished he had a hat.
As evening drew in, Clickety Clack appeared to be searching for something. “Keep your eyes peeled for a tall gate with a carving of a wooden fish for a latch. My memory ain’t what it used to be, but I’d swear the Fergusons’ spread is right along this road.”
Henry was tired and hungry but did as he was told. Then he spotted it. “Over there, in the trees.”
Clickety Clack spat out a gob of juice. “That’s the ticket, boy. This is where we’ll bunk for the night.” He started walking toward the gate, then stopped and rubbed the dust off the side of a stump near the fence. “You can add this to your dictionary of secret signs if you don’t already have it.”
Henry leaned over and saw a drawing that was a curved line like a smile with two small circles above it. “What’s it mean?”
“It means we won’t wake up with dew on our faces.” Clickety Clack chuckled. “It’s safe to sleep in the barn! We’ll be resting on a bed of soft hay tonight, boy.”
They made their way to the old barn, and when they went inside, sure enough, there was a bucket of fresh water on a table and, beside it, a box of beef jerky and biscuits.
“How did these folks know we were coming?” Henry hungrily bit off a piece of the jerky.
“Oh, they didn’t. All of us on the road know the Fergusons’ place. These kind folks leave provisions in case a couple of travelers drop by for the night. They’re mighty nice. They’ve got a boy, Johnny, about your age. He’s a good lad.”
While they were eating the delicious food, Henry scratched the newest sign into his journal. “This is a good one to know. It’s nice in here.” He looked around approvingly at the snug barn.
Clickety Clack harrumphed, then reached over and took Henry’s journal and pencil from him. He quickly sketched another of the signs and wrote something beside it, then handed it back to Henry. “This is an important one to know.”
Henry read the words beside the symbol, two sets of circles arranged over each other. “Generous people.” He smiled at Clickety Clack as he bit into his fourth biscuit. “I can’t argue with that.”
Although he was tired, sleep eluded Henry that night and he tossed and turned for a long time. Finally he propped himself up on one elbow. “Pssst! Are you asleep, Clickety Clack?”
“I was until a second ago,” the old hobo growled.
“You must have been riding the rods for quite a spell,” said Henry.
Clickety Clack sighed. “Since I was about your age, and that was a long time ago.” His voice sounded sad and Henry wondered why. This life was full of excitement and strange new places. He loved it.
Clickety Clack put his arms behind his head. “It was a cold spring when my ma died. My pa had lit out years before, and her death left me alone. An old gent passing through helped me bury my mother. Then, since there was nothing to hold me, I left with him. That was the start of my life on the road. I’ve been from one side of this country to the other more times than I can count.”
“Do you ever get lonely?” Henry asked.
“I’ve spent a month moseying around the Yukon, where I hardly saw a soul, and never felt lonely. I’ve also been in jam-packed cities and discovered that sometimes the loneliest place in the world is smack in the middle of a crowd. City folks bump into an old hobo like me on the street and pretend they don’t see me. At least out here, everyone’s in the same boat and we try to help each other as best we can.”
Henry thought about life on the road. He had to admit it was a tiny bit lonely, but it was still better than being on a fishing boat. “How did you get the name Clickety Clack?” he asked.
The tramp laughed heartily. “Why, on the road, everyone’s got a special name, boy. Usually other fellas give it to you because of something different about you or a special talent you have. I was fourteen when I got christened Clickety Clack. I was hopping a freight out of Vancouver, and that old steam engine was picking up speed. I caught sight of three big railway bulls hot on my heels and knew if I missed that train I was in trouble. By golly, I took two steps, jumped for my life and bingo! I was into that boxcar just like that.” He snapped his grimy fingers. “The other guys in the car said I went from standing still to landing in that car in the time it takes the big engine wheels to go around once—clickety-clack. The name stuck.”
“I wish I had a special name.” Henry put his arms behind his head too. “Henry sounds so boring. What kind of a name is that for a knight of the road?”
“Oh, I have exactly the right name for you, boy.” Clickety Clack chuckled. “Henry is what your mama called you, but out here it would be shortened to Hank. I believe I’ll call you High-handed Hank because of the way you’re always bossing people around and acting like the rest of the world isn’t worth wasting one minute of your time on.”
Henry sat up excitedly. “You mean it? I’ve got my own hobo name! It’s like a hobo sign. Only adventurous fellas like us understand what it means. High-handed Hank.” He rolled the name around in his mouth to see how it tasted. It was wonderful!
He should write Anne and tell her about his official hobo name, but he was too tired. He’d draw the new signs and include them in his letter the very next day, he promised himself.
This was not how he’d imagined today would go, but the smile on his face didn’t fade as he drifted off to sleep.