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    "Most every day." He talked not much more than this, didn't amplify on the subject of Saint Teresa, and was very modest about his religion and told me little about his personal life. He is the kind of thin quiet little bum nobody pays much attention to even in Skid Row, let alone Main Street. If a cop hustled him off, he hustled, and disappeared, and if yard dicks were around in bigcity yards when a freight was pulling out, chances are they never got a sight of the little man hiding in the weeds and hopping on in the shadows. When I told him I was planning to hop the Zipper firstclass freight train the next night he said, "Ah you mean the Midnight Ghost."

    "Is that what you call the Zipper?"

    "You musta been a railroad man on that railroad."

    "I was, I was a brakeman on the S.P."

    "Well, we bums call it the Midnight Ghost cause you get on it at L.A. and nobody sees you till you get to San Francisco in the morning the thing flies so fast."

    "Eighty miles an hour on the straightaways, pap."

    "That's right but it gits mighty cold at night when you're flyin up that coast north of Gavioty and up around Surf."

    "Surf that's right, then the mountains down south of Margarita."

    "Margarity, that's right, but I've rid that Midnight Ghost more times'n I can count I guess."

    "How many years been since you've been home?"

    "More years than I care to count I guess. Ohio was where I was from."

    Dharma Bums
    by Jack Kerouac

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