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  The three friends jumped to their feet. “What happened?” Anna asked. “It’s not moving!”

  Fred started toward it, and the girls followed. Fred had only taken a couple steps when he saw a tall, skinny boy a few years older than himself loping toward the rabbit. The boy carried a slingshot in one of his hands. “So that’s what happened,” he said under his breath.

  “Hey, that’s my rabbit! Leave it alone!” the boy yelled as Fred stopped beside the still rabbit.

  Fred could see in a flash the rabbit was dead. He hated to see it had been killed, but part of him had to admit the boy was a mighty good shot with a slingshot.

  The boy reached them, bent over, and picked up the rabbit by its ears.

  “You killed it!” Anna accused, her hands balled into fists at her sides. “You didn’t have to kill it!”

  The boy stared at her with dark eyes from beneath the visor of his hat. He didn’t say anything.

  The boy was wearing worn brown trousers and a corduroy jacket, with a shirt that used to be white. His clothes looked rumpled and a bit dusty.

  Surprise rolled through Fred. Why, it’s the boy who was arrested at the railway station!

  “Why did you kill that rabbit?” Anna demanded.

  Fred took hold of one of her arms. “I think it’s his dinner,” he said quietly.

  The boy’s chin went up with a proud air. “Yeah, it is. What’s it to ya?”

  Anna didn’t answer. She only folded her arms and stared at the rabbit.

  Fred hoped she understood that if the boy was killing a rabbit in the park for food, he probably didn’t have money to buy food.

  “We were just picking dandelion leaves for dinner,” Fred told him. Maybe if he thinks we’re eating “free” food, too, he’ll be friendlier, he thought. “My name is Fred. This is my cousin Anna and our friend Dot.”

  The boy glanced at the basket of dandelion greens Dot was carrying. He seemed to relax just a little. “I’m Chet Strand.”

  Fred pointed at the slingshot that Chet was still holding. “You’re really good with that. Can I see it?”

  Chet held it out to him.

  Fred pulled at the rubber sling, testing its strength. “Pretty tough. How did you make it? I mean, I can see the rubber bands, but what is this sling made from?”

  “First, you have to find a strong piece of wood with a fork in it. Then you cut holes in the top of the fork, so you can tie rubber bands through them. You cut a piece from a worn-out tire for the middle of the sling. It holds the shot a lot better than a plain rubber band. Cut a hole in each side of the tire piece, too, and hook a rubber band through each side. Works swell.”

  “I can tell.” Fred handed it back reluctantly. “You’re a great shot.”

  Chet grinned at him. “Thanks.”

  “You’re the hobo boy we saw arrested at the railroad station,” Anna said quietly.

  Chet’s back stiffened.

  Fred bit back a groan. Chet’s grin was gone, and his face looked stiff. Fred was sorry Chet might not act friendly anymore, but he was more worried about what Anna might tell their parents. Both of them had strict orders to stay away from the parks and riverside areas where hobos tended to stay, but Fred had never noticed hobos in this park before.

  “Are you really a hobo?” Dot’s eyes were shining.

  Chet glared at her.

  Dot didn’t seem to notice that he seemed angry at her question. She kept talking. “Because if you are, there’re some things I’d like to ask you.”

  Chet kept glaring at her.

  What does she want to ask him? Fred wondered. He couldn’t figure out why Dot, of all people, would want to talk to a hobo.

  Dot stamped her foot impatiently. “Well, are you a hobo or not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, good!”

  Chet looked at her as if she were nuts. Fred thought she was sounding pretty nuts, too.

  “My father went to Washington with the Bonus Marchers,” Dot explained. “Have you heard about them?”

  Chet nodded. “Sure. The first bunch of them started out from Oregon. Then other veterans from all over the country heard they were going to Washington and joined them. They’re living in abandoned government buildings and in shacks around Washington.”

  Dot nodded. “That’s right. My father doesn’t have a car or money for a train or bus ticket, so he was going to try to ride the trains like the hobos.”

  “Oh, I see,” Chet said. “Lots of men like your father are doing that these days.”

  “I’ve been really worried about him,” Dot said. “We haven’t heard from him since he left. Congress decided not to give the men their bonus. The news reports say the men are going to stay in Washington until Congress changes its mind, even if it takes years. But even so, I think Father will be coming home pretty soon. Is it awfully dangerous, riding on the trains like you do?”

  Chet’s face grew more friendly. “Well, it’s not so bad. A bit uncomfortable.”

  “What if he fell off and hurt himself?”

  “That happens to fellows sometimes,” Chet admitted, “but not to so many as you might think. Most hobos don’t get hurt. Some of the hobos who have been around awhile will give your father some tips, tell him how to get around the bulls, the safest ways to get on and off the trains. He’ll be all right.”

  “Then the hobos won’t hurt him?” Dot asked.

  Fred thought he saw a flicker of anger cross Chet’s face, and then it was gone.

  “Hobos aren’t bums,” Chet told her. “Hobos are gentlemen down on their luck, that’s all. There’s a couple bad apples among them, like there is anywhere else, but mostly they’re good men. Your father is probably as safe riding the rails as he is at home in his bed.”

  Dot grinned at him. “Thanks. I’ve really been worried about him.”

  Chet smiled at her.

  “What are ‘bulls’?” Fred asked.

  “Railroad detectives,” Chet told him. “Most every station has bulls these days because there’re so many hobos riding the rails.”

  “Did they take you to jail when they caught you?” Anna asked Chet.

  Chet shot her a dirty look. “Just overnight. Could have been worse. In some towns, the bulls aren’t honest men. They steal any money the hobos have. I’ve been in towns where the bulls run along beside every train that leaves, looking on top of the trains and beneath them and between the cars and in the cars. They carry guns and clubs.”

  Dot’s face grew pale. “I hope Father doesn’t run into any bulls.”

  “If he doesn’t have any money for them to take and he doesn’t run away when they spot him, he’ll be okay,” Chet told her.

  “What if they put him in jail like they did to you?” Dot asked.

  Chet grinned. “He’ll probably thank them. At least he’ll have a bed to sleep in for one night.”

  “Do you always get put in jail if you’re caught?” Fred asked. It was hard for him to imagine all this boy had seen and experienced. Their lives were so different.

  “Naw. Sometimes the bulls make us work to pay for riding the train, doing things like fixing the railroad tracks or shoveling coal on the trains.” Chet shrugged. “I don’t mind. It’s only fair to work in return for riding. I wouldn’t mind doing it all the time, but if you ask for work to pay for the ride before you catch the train, they’ll tell you there isn’t any work to be done.”

  “Would you like to come have supper with us?” Fred asked.

  Chet looks like he wants to say yes, Fred thought, but he shook his head. “This rabbit will be good to put in the stew at the hobo jungle tonight. Lots of nights there isn’t any meat for the stew. I’d hate to let the other hobos down.”

  Anna’s eyebrows drew together. “What’s a jungle?”

  “That’s where hobos stay,” Chet explained. “There’s always a stew cooking over the fire. Everyone who eats the stew has to bring something to put in it. The stew is more water than anything else, but
we get by.”

  Anna still looked confused. “I thought jungles were called ‘Hoover-villes,’ after President Hoover.”

  “Yeah.” Chet nodded. “Some guys call them that.”

  “Have … have you looked for a job in Minneapolis?” Fred asked him.

  “Yes. Haven’t had much luck. Not many jobs to be had, and most of the jobs there are go to men with families, not kids like me.”

  “How old are you?” Anna asked.

  “Seventeen. Anyway, I think I’ll catch a train out of Minneapolis soon. Harvest is starting. Maybe I can find some work on a farm.”

  “Good luck,” Fred told him.

  Chet walked away. When he got near the sidewalk at the edge of the park, he turned and waved at them.

  Fred and the girls waved back.

  “I wish he would have come to dinner,” Fred said. “It would have been interesting to talk to him some more.”

  “Your parents wouldn’t want you to bring home a hobo for dinner,” Anna reminded him.

  “They feed the hobos who come to our house and ask for work and food,” he said.

  Still, he thought she was right. Feeding someone who came to your door begging was different than going out and making friends with a hobo. He couldn’t help wondering about Chet. He felt sorry for him, but in some ways, he thought his life must be awfully exciting. More exciting than mine, anyway.

  CHAPTER 4

  Attack on the Marchers

  You don’t have to help,” Anna told Dot as she hoed weeds from the garden in the Harringtons’ backyard.

  “I don’t mind,” Dot told her. “We can visit easier if we’re working together.”

  Anna liked working outside with the smell of the vegetables and the earth. The hoes made soft scraping sounds while they worked.

  Anna’s ten-year-old brother, Steven, and seven-year-old sister, Isabel, were working in the next row. The garden was their responsibility. It was a lot of hard work planting it and taking care of it, but they were proud of the food they raised for their family.

  The garden helped the family save money. Anna’s father worked long hours in the summer, but in the winter, the company cut the employees’ hours.

  Usually Anna’s mother kept the two youngest children inside when the others were working in the garden. Four-year-old Frank and twenty-one-month-old Audrey were always pulling up plants instead of weeds or putting rocks in their mouths or causing trouble some other way when they were in the garden.

  “Excuse me, miss.”

  Anna looked up in surprise at the man standing at the edge of the garden. He was about her father’s age, very skinny, with gray and brown hair. His dusty clothes looked too big for him. He held his hat in his hands.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Are your mother and father at home?” he asked. “I’d like to speak with them.”

  Anna was sure he didn’t know her parents. He was a hobo, one of the many who stopped at their house every week. “My mother is home. I’ll get her for you.”

  Her mother came with her to the back door, where the man waited on the wooden porch. Anna slipped past her mother and headed back to the garden, but she could hear her mother and the man talking.

  Mother smiled at the man. “Hello. I’m Mrs. Harrington. What can I do for you, Mr….?” She waited for him to tell her his name.

  “Walters, ma’am.” The man shifted the dirty hat in his hands. “I was wonderin’ if you had any chores that might need doin’?”

  “Why, yes, I do. There’s some wood next to the shed that needs to be cut into stove lengths for my laundry stove.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Mr. Walters put his hat on and headed back toward the shed. Anna thought he walked a little straighter than before.

  Even though their family had to be more careful with their money these days, her parents never turned a man away who stopped and asked for work or food. “It’s important for a person to feel they’ve earned the things they need, like food,” her father always said. “That’s why we always leave wood to be cut by the men who stop or give them another chore to do. Some people think hobos just want a free handout, but I believe most people would rather work for what they get.”

  Listening to the ax thunk against the wood as Mr. Walters split logs, Anna remembered what her father had said. She thought she understood what he meant. After all, the peas and beans and lettuce and other vegetables they grew tasted much better when she had worked so hard to grow them than if they’d bought them from the store.

  When the man had chopped the wood and carried it down to the basement where the laundry stove was kept, Mother handed him a broom. “To brush off the sawdust,” she told him, but the man and everyone else knew she thought he needed to brush dust and dirt from his clothes, too. Anna liked the way her mother always tried to keep from hurting the hobos’ feelings.

  Since Father was home for dinner, Mr. Walters was invited to share their supper. Anna knew that if Father hadn’t been home, Mother would have let Mr. Walters eat outside on the back steps instead. When the meal was over, Mr. Walters left.

  Dot helped Anna with the dishes. “We have to hurry with them,” Anna told her, “so we don’t miss Amos ‘n’ Andy.”

  Mother took Frank and Audrey out of the room so they wouldn’t get in the girls’ way.

  “Whenever I see little kids like Frank and Audrey,” Dot told Anna, “I think about the Lindberghs’ baby. How could anyone hurt a baby like that?”

  “I don’t understand it, either,” Anna said quietly. “It hurts inside whenever I think about it.”

  That March, Charles Lindbergh’s baby, a boy who was named for his famous flying father, had been kidnapped from his crib. The kidnappers had demanded money, and the Lindberghs gave them fifty thousand dollars, but they didn’t get the baby back. Two months later, the baby was found dead.

  “Do you think they will ever find the people who kidnapped and murdered the little Lindbergh boy?” Dot asked.

  “I hope so,” Anna told her. “I feel so sorry for Colonel Lindbergh and his wife. If anything like that happened to Audrey or Frank, I’d feel awful.”

  “At least there are new laws against kidnapping now. Maybe that will help keep people from snitching babies.”

  The girls slipped into the living room and dropped onto the floor beside Anna’s brothers and sisters just as the radio program started. Laughter filled the room until the show was over and the news began.

  Dot stood up. “I’d better go home.”

  Just then, the news reporter began talking about the Bonus Marchers. “There’s trouble in Washington tonight,” said a deep voice. “As I speak, American troops and tanks are chasing Bonus Marchers—men who fought for us in the Great War—from our nation’s capital.”

  Dot sank back to the floor. Anna glanced at her. Dot knelt, staring at the radio, her green eyes large.

  Father turned up the radio.

  Mother shushed the younger children. She picked up Audrey and cuddled her in her lap to keep her quiet.

  “Earlier today,” the reporter continued, “police were ordered to put Bonus Marchers out of the abandoned government building where they had been living. While the police were following orders, vets surged about them. A policeman has told us that veterans were throwing bricks at the police. The police opened fire on the veterans. Details of the event are not known yet, but at least two of the men are seriously injured and may be dead.”

  Dot gasped. She clasped her hands to her mouth.

  CHAPTER 5

  An Exciting Plan

  Anna’s heart leaped to her throat. What if Dot’s father is one of the men who was shot? What if he’s dead?

  Mother reached out and rubbed one of Dot’s shoulders.

  The radio report went on. “At four-thirty this afternoon, General Douglas MacArthur led American troops from near the White House down Pennsylvania Avenue. First came the cavalry, then the army, then tanks. At first, the Bonus Marchers cheered the troops, sal
uting them as they passed. Their cheers turned to cries of fear as the cavalry began pushing the veterans back with the flat sides of their swords. After they’d pushed the veterans many blocks back, the soldiers put on gas masks and carried bayonets. They tossed tear gas bombs into abandoned buildings where Bonus Marchers were staying, forcing the veterans out of the buildings.”

  Tears ran down Dot’s face. Anna’s chest hurt because she felt so sorry for her friend.

  “Right now,” the reporter’s deep voice said, “orange flames are shooting up from the main camp of the Bonus Marchers. Hundreds of tents and lean-tos built of newspapers, cardboard boxes, and packing crates are being burned by the army. The Bonus Marchers and any wives and children with them have been cleared out. Smoke and the smell of burning cloth fill the air. Ambulances are carrying off men who have been injured. Many men’s eyes are still streaming from the tear gas.”

  Dot’s sobs broke into the room. Anna put an arm around her shoulder, wishing she could make her friend feel better.

  The reporter switched to other news, and Father turned off the radio.

  “How could they do that?” Mother asked Father, her voice filled with horror. “How could our army attack those people?”

  Father’s face looked grim beneath his dark curly hair. “I don’t understand. When the Senate voted against giving the men the bonus, the men didn’t cause any trouble. The men filled the Capitol steps, waiting for the news. When it came, all they did was sing ‘America.’”

  “The Bonus Marchers love this country,” Mother said. “They fought for it.”

  Father nodded. Anna thought he looked very tired. “This is a sad day for our country,” he said.

  Dot’s sniffs and sobs broke into their conversation. She dashed away tears with the back of her hand.

  “Find Dot a clean handkerchief, Anna. Then I think Father and I should walk Dot home. It’s getting dark. Does that sound all right to you, Dot?”

  Dot nodded.

  “If your mother hasn’t heard the news yet,” Mother told Dot, “Mr. Harrington and I can help you tell her. Anna, you and Steven put the other children to bed while we’re gone.”