While writing A Sentimental Journey Down Country Roads, I collected several humorous stories about former residents of Sale Creek, including one about the antics of a bricklayer-turned-hobo. In March 1990, I spent an evening with George Gothard, who had worked as a coal miner and farmer his entire life. As he shared stories about the coal mining industry, he told a humorous story about a man named Chauncey Reavley. It was so entertaining that I included it in the book.

George remembered Chauncey, a bricklayer by trade who built many foundations and houses for townspeople. During his work, he often obtained bricks from kilns near the coal mines and coke ovens at the foot of Sale Creek Mountain. Those ovens produced large numbers of bricks, although some were of poor quality and often deteriorated to red dust over time. As a brick mason, Chauncey knew this well. Keep this detail in mind; it will become relevant later.

In his later years, Chauncey developed a wanderlust for travel and exploration. What better way to travel cheaply than to become a hobo and catch free rides on boxcars to distant, exotic destinations? When he embraced this lifestyle, he teamed up with a friend named James, whose last name remains unknown. Together, Chauncey and James set out on their Gulliver Travels across the South, North, and Midwest. They often stayed away for up to two weeks until their limited funds ran out. One trip in particular stood out in George Gothard’s memory because Chauncey returned crowing like a rooster, proudly telling everyone how he and James had outwitted the residents of a northern town.

One day, they hopped a freight train on the Leggett Road siding and headed north. At some point, their route veered northwest toward a city in Indiana. By the time Old Ninety-Seven pulled into the Midwestern town, their small stash of money was nearly gone, leaving them with not enough to buy food on their return trip to Sale Creek.

Never underestimate the resourcefulness and cunning of a hungry hobo far from home. Being a former brick mason, Chauncey spotted old brick ovens by the tracks as the train pulled into the railyard. He quickly devised a plan to make some quick cash before the next southbound freight train left late that night.

He and James went to the nearest country store and used their last pennies to buy small paper bags. Then they visited the brick kilns, where they collected decaying bricks and ground them into fine red dust. Then, they scooped handfuls of the powder into the paper bags. The scam was ready.

At this point, the two hobos began canvassing the town, visiting homes and businesses to promote the substance as a guaranteed cure for bedbugs, a common problem at the time. When their bags of fake bedbug powder ran out and their pockets full of silver, Chauncey and James beat a hasty retreat to the rail yard to catch the next freight train out of town. I kid you not. I can't make this stuff up. It takes a crazier mind than mine to come up with this kind of crap.

By the time the next southbound train pulled out, Chauncey and James had collected enough money to dine in style all the way home. When the residents of that Indiana town finally realized that two hobos had hoodwinked them, the two resourceful bandits had already returned to Sale Creek and were sitting on Dolph Lane’s storefront porch, sipping Grapette sodas and eating Moon Pies.

True story. No exaggeration, which is uncommon for this author. Long live the resourcefulness of small-town, hungry hobos!

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Curtis Coulter writes about other humorous events that have occurred in his hometown of Sale Creek on his FaceBook page, and his latest book of humor, “This Is The Way I Heard It”, which is available on coulterpublications.com. He can be reached at cncoulter318@epbfi.com