The sentimental celebration of hobos reached its peak in the 60s, I think. I remember you could buy canned “Hobo Stew,” as if there was something special about throwing everything into a filthy kettle and stirring it until it no longer smelled like feet. This hobo has all the trappings: the bindle, the battered hat, and the cigar pierced with a toothpick. Of course, he’s a World Traveler Philosopher, and it goes without saying he has the hobo knack for being a connoisseur of good food, beggars being the finest choosers. They would speak with exaggerated courtesy and make reference to their past accomplishments, all the while giving off the aroma of buzzard arse.