The next morning he looked over the papers and waded through a long listof advertisements, making a few notes. Then he turned to themale-help-wanted column, but with disagreeable feelings. The day wasbefore him--a long day in which to discover something--and this was howhe must begin to discover. He scanned the long column, which mostlyconcerned bakers, bushelmen, cooks, compositors, drivers, and the like,finding two things only which arrested his eye. One was a cashier wantedin a wholesale furniture house, and the other a salesman for a whiskeyhouse. He had never thought of the latter. At once he decided to lookthat up.

The firm in question was Alsbery & Co., whiskey brokers.

He was admitted almost at once to the manager on his appearance.

"Good-morning, sir," said the latter, thinking at first that he wasencountering one of his out-of-town customers.

"Good-morning," said Hurstwood. "You advertised, I believe, for asalesman?"

"Oh," said the man, showing plainly the enlightenment which had come tohim. "Yes. Yes, I did."

"I thought I'd drop in," said Hurstwood, with dignity. "I've had someexperience in that line myself."

"Oh, have you?" said the man. "What experience have you had?"

"Well, I've managed several liquor houses in my time. Recently I owned athird-interest in a saloon at Warren and Hudson streets."

"I see," said the man.

Hurstwood ceased, waiting for some suggestion.

"We did want a salesman," said the man. "I don't know as it's anythingyou'd care to take hold of, though."

"I see," said Hurstwood. "Well, I'm in no position to choose, just atpresent. If it were open, I should be glad to get it."

The man did not take kindly at all to his "No position to choose." Hewanted some one who wasn't thinking of a choice or something better.Especially not an old man. He wanted some one young, active, and glad towork actively for a moderate sum. Hurstwood did not please him at all.He had more of an air than his employers.

"Well," he said in answer, "we'd be glad to consider your application.We shan't decide for a few days yet. Suppose you send us yourreferences."

"I will," said Hurstwood.

He nodded good-morning and came away. At the corner he looked at thefurniture company's address, and saw that it was in West Twenty-thirdStreet. Accordingly, he went up there. The place was not large enough,however. It looked moderate, the men in it idle and small salaried. Hewalked by, glancing in, and then decided not to go in there.

"They want a girl, probably, at ten a week," he said.

At one o'clock he thought of eating, and went to a restaurant in MadisonSquare. There he pondered over places which he might look up. He wastired. It was blowing up grey again. Across the way, through MadisonSquare Park, stood the great hotels, looking down upon a busy scene. Hedecided to go over to the lobby of one and sit a while. It was warm inthere and bright. He had seen no one he knew at the Broadway Central. Inall likelihood he would encounter no one here. Finding a seat on one ofthe red plush divans close to the great windows which look out onBroadway's busy rout, he sat musing. His state did not seem so bad inhere. Sitting still and looking out, he could take some slightconsolation in the few hundred dollars he had in his purse. He couldforget, in a measure, the weariness of the street and his tiresomesearches. Still, it was only escape from a severe to a less severestate. He was still gloomy and disheartened. There, minutes seemed to govery slowly. An hour was a long, long time in passing. It was filled forhim with observations and mental comments concerning the actual guestsof the hotel, who passed in and out, and those more prosperouspedestrians whose good fortune showed in their clothes and spirits asthey passed along Broadway, outside. It was nearly the first time sincehe had arrived in the city that his leisure afforded him ampleopportunity to contemplate this spectacle. Now, being, perforce, idlehimself, he wondered at the activity of others. How gay were the youthshe saw, how pretty the women. Such fine clothes they all wore. They wereso intent upon getting somewhere. He saw coquettish glances cast bymagnificent girls. Ah, the money it required to train with such--howwell he knew! How long it had been since he had had the opportunity todo so!

The clock outside registered four. It was a little early, but he thoughthe would go back to the flat.

This going back to the flat was coupled with the thought that Carriewould think he was sitting around too much if he came home early. Hehoped he wouldn't have to, but the day hung heavily on his hands. Overthere he was on his own ground. He could sit in his rocking-chair andread. This busy, distracting, suggestive scene was shut out. He couldread his papers. Accordingly, he went home. Carrie was reading, quitealone. It was rather dark in the flat, shut in as it was.

"You'll hurt your eyes," he said when he saw her.

After taking off his coat, he felt it incumbent upon him to make somelittle report of his day.

"I've been talking with a wholesale liquor company," he said. "I may goout on the road."

"Wouldn't that be nice!" said Carrie.

"It wouldn't be such a bad thing," he answered.

Always from the man at the corner now he bought two papers--the "EveningWorld" and "Evening Sun." So now he merely picked his papers up, as hecame by, without stopping.

He drew up his chair near the radiator and lighted the gas. Then it wasas the evening before. His difficulties vanished in the items he so wellloved to read.

The next day was even worse than the one before, because now he couldnot think of where to go. Nothing he saw in the papers he studied--tillten o'clock--appealed to him. He felt that he ought to go out, and yethe sickened at the thought. Where to, where to?

"You mustn't forget to leave me my money for this week," said Carrie,quietly.

They had an arrangement by which he placed twelve dollars a week in herhands, out of which to pay current expenses. He heaved a little sigh asshe said this, and drew out his purse. Again he felt the dread of thething. Here he was taking off, taking off, and nothing coming in.

"Lord!" he said, in his own thoughts, "this can't go on."

To Carrie he said nothing whatsoever. She could feel that her requestdisturbed him. To pay her would soon become a distressing thing.

"Yet, what have I got to do with it?" she thought. "Oh, why should I bemade to worry?"

Hurstwood went out and made for Broadway. He wanted to think up someplace. Before long, though, he reached the Grand Hotel at Thirty-firstStreet. He knew of its comfortable lobby. He was cold after his twentyblocks' walk.

"I'll go in their barber shop and get a shave," he thought.

Thus he justified himself in sitting down in here after his tonsorialtreatment.

Again, time hanging heavily on his hands, he went home early, and thiscontinued for several days, each day the need to hunt paining him, andeach day disgust, depression, shamefacedness driving him into lobbyidleness.

At last three days came in which a storm prevailed, and he did not goout at all. The snow began to fall late one afternoon. It was a regularflurry of large, soft, white flakes. In the morning it was still comingdown with a high wind, and the papers announced a blizzard. From out thefront windows one could see a deep, soft bedding.

"I guess I'll not try to go out to-day," he said to Carrie at breakfast."It's going to be awful bad, so the papers say."

"The man hasn't brought my coal, either," said Carrie, who ordered bythe bushel.

"I'll go over and see about it," said Hurstwood. This was the first timehe had ever suggested doing an errand, but, somehow, the wish to sitabout the house prompted it as a sort of compensation for the privilege.

All day and all night it snowed, and the city began to suffer from ageneral blockade of traffic. Great attention was given to the details ofthe storm by the newspapers, which played up the distress of the poor inlarge type.

Hurstwood sat and read by his radiator in the corner. He did not try tothink about his need of work. This storm being so terrific, and tying upall things, robbed him of the need. He made himself wholly comfortableand toasted his feet.

Carrie observed his ease with some misgiving. For all the fury of thestorm she doubted his comfort. He took his situation toophilosophically.

Hurstwood, however, read on and on. He did not pay much attention toCarrie. She fulfilled her household duties and said little to disturbhim.

The next day it was still snowing, and the next, bitter cold. Hurstwoodtook the alarm of the paper and sat still. Now he volunteered to do afew other little things. One was to go to the butcher, another to thegrocery. He really thought nothing of these little services inconnection with their true significance. He felt as if he were notwholly useless--indeed, in such a stress of weather, quite worth whileabout the house.

On the fourth day, however, it cleared, and he read that the storm wasover. Now, however, he idled, thinking how sloppy the streets would be.

It was noon before he finally abandoned his papers and got under way.Owing to the slightly warmer temperature the streets were bad. He wentacross Fourteenth Street on the car and got a transfer south onBroadway. One little advertisement he had, relating to a saloon down inPearl Street. When he reached the Broadway Central, however, he changedhis mind.

"What's the use?" he thought, looking out upon the slop and snow. "Icouldn't buy into it. It's a thousand to one nothing comes of it. Iguess I'll get off," and off he got. In the lobby he took a seat andwaited again, wondering what he could do.

While he was idly pondering, satisfied to be inside, a well-dressed manpassed up the lobby, stopped, looked sharply, as if not sure of hismemory, and then approached. Hurstwood recognised Cargill, the owner ofthe large stables in Chicago of the same name, whom he had last seen atAvery Hall, the night Carrie appeared there. The remembrance of how thisindividual brought up his wife to shake hands on that occasion was alsoon the instant clear.

Hurstwood was greatly abashed. His eyes expressed the difficulty hefelt.

"Why, it's Hurstwood!" said Cargill, remembering now, and sorry that hehad not recognised him quickly enough in the beginning to have avoidedthis meeting.

"Yes," said Hurstwood. "How are you?"

"Very well," said Cargill, troubled for something to talk about."Stopping here?"

"No," said Hurstwood, "just keeping an appointment."

"I knew you had left Chicago. I was wondering what had become of you."

"Oh, I'm here now," answered Hurstwood, anxious to get away.

"Doing well, I suppose?"

"Excellent."

"Glad to hear it."

They looked at one another, rather embarrassed.

"Well, I have an engagement with a friend upstairs. I'll leave you. Solong."

Hurstwood nodded his head.

"Damn it all," he murmured, turning toward the door. "I knew that wouldhappen."

He walked several blocks up the street. His watch only registered 1.30.He tried to think of some place to go or something to do. The day was sobad he wanted only to be inside. Finally his feet began to feel wet andcold, and he boarded a car. This took him to Fifty-ninth Street, whichwas as good as anywhere else. Landed here, he turned to walk back alongSeventh Avenue, but the slush was too much. The misery of lounging aboutwith nowhere to go became intolerable. He felt as if he were catchingcold.

Stopping at a corner, he waited for a car south bound. This was no dayto be out; he would go home.

Carrie was surprised to see him at a quarter of three.

"It's a miserable day out," was all he said. Then he took off his coatand changed his shoes.

That night he felt a cold coming on and took quinine. He was feverishuntil morning, and sat about the next day while Carrie waited on him. Hewas a helpless creature in sickness, not very handsome in adull-coloured bath gown and his hair uncombed. He looked haggard aboutthe eyes and quite old. Carrie noticed this, and it did not appeal toher. She wanted to be good-natured and sympathetic, but something aboutthe man held her aloof.

Toward evening he looked so badly in the weak light that she suggestedhe go to bed.

"You'd better sleep alone," she said, "you'll feel better. I'll openyour bed for you now."

"All right," he said.

As she did all these things, she was in a most despondent state.

"What a life! What a life!" was her one thought.

Once during the day, when he sat near the radiator, hunched up andreading, she passed through, and seeing him, wrinkled her brows. In thefront room, where it was not so warm, she sat by the window and cried.This was the life cut out for her, was it? To live cooped up in a smallflat with some one who was out of work, idle, and indifferent to her.She was merely a servant to him now, nothing more.

This crying made her eyes red, and when, in preparing his bed, shelighted the gas, and, having prepared it, called him in, he noticed thefact.

"What's the matter with you?" he asked, looking into her face. His voicewas hoarse and his unkempt head only added to its grewsome quality.

"Nothing," said Carrie, weakly.

"You've been crying," he said.

"I haven't, either," she answered.

It was not for love of him, that he knew.

"You needn't cry," he said, getting into bed. "Things will come out allright."

In a day or two he was up again, but rough weather holding, he stayedin. The Italian newsdealer now delivered the morning papers, and thesehe read assiduously. A few times after that he ventured out, but meetinganother of his old-time friends, he began to feel uneasy sitting abouthotel corridors.

Every day he came home early, and at last made no pretence of goinganywhere. Winter was no time to look for anything.

Naturally, being about the house, he noticed the way Carrie did things.She was far from perfect in household methods and economy, and herlittle deviations on this score first caught his eye. Not, however,before her regular demand for her allowance became a grievous thing.Sitting around as he did, the weeks seemed to pass very quickly. EveryTuesday Carrie asked for her money.

"Do you think we live as cheaply as we might?" he asked one Tuesdaymorning.

"I do the best I can," said Carrie.

Nothing was added to this at the moment, but the next day he said:

"Do you ever go to the Gansevoort Market over here?"

"I didn't know there was such a market," said Carrie.

"They say you can get things lots cheaper there."

Carrie was very indifferent to the suggestion. These were things whichshe did not like at all.

"How much do you pay for a pound of meat?" he asked one day.

"Oh, there are different prices," said Carrie. "Sirloin steak istwenty-two cents."

"That's steep, isn't it?" he answered.

So he asked about other things, until finally, with the passing days, itseemed to become a mania with him. He learned the prices and rememberedthem.

His errand-running capacity also improved. It began in a small way, ofcourse. Carrie, going to get her hat one morning, was stopped by him.

"Where are you going, Carrie?" he asked.

"Over to the baker's," she answered.

"I'd just as leave go for you," he said.

She acquiesced, and he went. Each afternoon he would go to the cornerfor the papers.

"Is there anything you want?" he would say.

By degrees she began to use him. Doing this, however, she lost theweekly payment of twelve dollars.

"You want to pay me to-day," she said one Tuesday, about this time.

"How much?" he asked.

She understood well enough what it meant.

"Well, about five dollars," she answered. "I owe the coal man."

The same day he said:

"I think this Italian up here on the corner sells coal at twenty-fivecents a bushel. I'll trade with him."

Carrie heard this with indifference.

"All right," she said.

Then it came to be:

"George, I must have some coal to-day," or, "You must get some meat ofsome kind for dinner."

He would find out what she needed and order.

Accompanying this plan came skimpiness.

"I only got a half-pound of steak," he said, coming in one afternoonwith his papers. "We never seem to eat very much."

These miserable details ate the heart out of Carrie. They blackened herdays and grieved her soul. Oh, how this man had changed! All day and allday, here he sat, reading his papers. The world seemed to have noattraction. Once in a while he would go out, in fine weather, it mightbe four or five hours, between eleven and four. She could do nothing butview him with gnawing contempt.

It was apathy with Hurstwood, resulting from his inability to see hisway out. Each month drew from his small store. Now, he had only fivehundred dollars left, and this he hugged, half feeling as if he couldstave off absolute necessity for an indefinite period. Sitting aroundthe house, he decided to wear some old clothes he had. This came firstwith the bad days. Only once he apologised in the very beginning:

"It's so bad to-day, I'll just wear these around."

Eventually these became the permanent thing.

Also, he had been wont to pay fifteen cents for a shave, and a tip often cents. In his first distress, he cut down the tip to five, then tonothing. Later, he tried a ten-cent barber shop, and, finding that theshave was satisfactory, patronised regularly. Later still, he put offshaving to every other day, then to every third, and so on, until once aweek became the rule. On Saturday he was a sight to see.

Of course, as his own self-respect vanished, it perished for him inCarrie. She could not understand what had gotten into the man. He hadsome money, he had a decent suit remaining, he was not bad looking whendressed up. She did not forget her own difficult struggle in Chicago,but she did not forget either that she had never ceased trying. He nevertried. He did not even consult the ads. in the papers any more.

Finally, a distinct impression escaped from her.

"What makes you put so much butter on the steak?" he asked her oneevening, standing around in the kitchen.

"To make it good, of course," she answered.

"Butter is awful dear these days," he suggested.

"You wouldn't mind it if you were working," she answered.

He shut up after this, and went in to his paper, but the retort rankledin his mind. It was the first cutting remark that had come from her.

That same evening, Carrie, after reading, went off to the front room tobed. This was unusual. When Hurstwood decided to go, he retired, asusual, without a light. It was then that he discovered Carrie's absence.

"That's funny," he said; "maybe she's sitting up."

He gave the matter no more thought, but slept. In the morning she wasnot beside him. Strange to say, this passed without comment.

Night approaching, and a slightly more conversational feelingprevailing, Carrie said:

"I think I'll sleep alone to-night. I have a headache."

"All right," said Hurstwood.

The third night she went to her front bed without apologies.

This was a grim blow to Hurstwood, but he never mentioned it.

"All right," he said to himself, with an irrepressible frown, "let hersleep alone."