by Michael Adams
On a lonely road high up in the Wasatch Mountains of America Mr. Adams stopped to give a lift to a man standing by the roadside. The man's name was Josh, and over the next two hundred miles he told Adams of his strange wandering existence. He was a ' hobo,' one of the dwindling fraternity of out-of-works left over from the 1929 depression who still roam the country, doing odd jobs on farms and filling stations.