None of my relatives was a railroad man, and so to obtain the free transportation which was every American's inalienable right, I had to let the passenger trains go by and take the freights.
Once I got ditched at a junction, and while waiting for the next freight I wandered down the track to where I had seen a small house and a big watermelon patch.

The man who lived there was a chap named Frank Bannerman.

I always remember him because he was a communist, the first one I ever saw, and he filled my pockets with about ten pounds of radical pamphlets which I promised to read.

He made a bargain with me that if I would read and digest the Red literature he would give me all the watermelons I could eat.
"I'm a comrade already," I said, meaning it as a merry jest, that I would be anything for a watermelon.

But he took it seriously and his eyes lit up like any fanatic's.
"I knew it," he said.