The gloomy Hurstwood, sitting in his cheap hotel, where he had takenrefuge with seventy dollars--the price of his furniture--between him andnothing, saw a hot summer out and a cool fall in, reading. He was notwholly indifferent to the fact that his money was slipping away. Asfifty cents after fifty cents were paid out for a day's lodging hebecame uneasy, and finally took a cheaper room--thirty-five cents aday--to make his money last longer. Frequently he saw notices of Carrie.Her picture was in the "World" once or twice, and an old "Herald" hefound in a chair informed him that she had recently appeared with someothers at a benefit for something or other. He read these things withmingled feelings. Each one seemed to put her farther and farther awayinto a realm which became more imposing as it receded from him. On thebill-boards, too, he saw a pretty poster, showing her as the QuakerMaid, demure and dainty. More than once he stopped and looked at these,gazing at the pretty face in a sullen sort of way. His clothes wereshabby, and he presented a marked contrast to all that she now seemed tobe.

Somehow, so long as he knew she was at the Casino, though he had neverany intention of going near her, there was a sub-conscious comfort forhim--he was not quite alone. The show seemed such a fixture that, aftera month or two, he began to take it for granted that it was stillrunning. In September it went on the road and he did not notice it. Whenall but twenty dollars of his money was gone, he moved to a fifteen-centlodging-house in the Bowery, where there was a bare lounging-room filledwith tables and benches as well as some chairs. Here his preference wasto close his eyes and dream of other days, a habit which grew upon him.It was not sleep at first, but a mental hearkening back to scenes andincidents in his Chicago life. As the present became darker, the pastgrew brighter, and all that concerned it stood in relief.

He was unconscious of just how much this habit had hold of him until oneday he found his lips repeating an old answer he had made to one of hisfriends. They were in Fitzgerald and Moy's. It was as if he stood in thedoor of his elegant little office, comfortably dressed, talking to SagarMorrison about the value of South Chicago real estate in which thelatter was about to invest.

"How would you like to come in on that with me?" he heard Morrison say.

"Not me," he answered, just as he had years before. "I have my handsfull now."

The movement of his lips aroused him. He wondered whether he had reallyspoken. The next time he noticed anything of the sort he really didtalk.

"Why don't you jump, you bloody fool?" he was saying. "Jump!"

It was a funny English story he was telling to a company of actors. Evenas his voice recalled him, he was smiling. A crusty old codger, sittingnear by, seemed disturbed; at least, he stared in a most pointed way.Hurstwood straightened up. The humour of the memory fled in an instantand he felt ashamed. For relief, he left his chair and strolled out intothe streets.

One day, looking down the ad. columns of the "Evening World," he sawwhere a new play was at the Casino. Instantly, he came to a mental halt.Carrie had gone! He remembered seeing a poster of her only yesterday,but no doubt it was one left uncovered by the new signs. Curiously, thisfact shook him up. He had almost to admit that somehow he was dependingupon her being in the city. Now she was gone. He wondered how thisimportant fact had skipped him. Goodness knows when she would be backnow. Impelled by a nervous fear, he rose and went into the dingy hall,where he counted his remaining money, unseen. There were but ten dollarsin all.

He wondered how all these other lodging-house people around him gotalong. They didn't seem to do anything. Perhaps they begged--unquestionablythey did. Many was the dime he had given to such as they in his day. Hehad seen other men asking for money on the streets. Maybe he could getsome that way. There was horror in this thought.

Sitting in the lodging-house room, he came to his last fifty cents. Hehad saved and counted until his health was affected. His stoutness hadgone. With it, even the semblance of a fit in his clothes. Now hedecided he must do something, and, walking about, saw another day go by,bringing him down to his last twenty cents--not enough to eat for themorrow.

Summoning all his courage, he crossed to Broadway and up to the BroadwayCentral hotel. Within a block he halted, undecided. A big, heavy-facedporter was standing at one of the side entrances, looking out. Hurstwoodpurposed to appeal to him. Walking straight up, he was upon him beforehe could turn away.

"My friend," he said, recognising even in his plight the man'sinferiority, "is there anything about this hotel that I could get todo?"

The porter stared at him the while he continued to talk.

"I'm out of work and out of money and I've got to get something--itdoesn't matter what. I don't care to talk about what I've been, but ifyou'd tell me how to get something to do, I'd be much obliged to you. Itwouldn't matter if it only lasted a few days just now. I've got to havesomething."

The porter still gazed, trying to look indifferent. Then, seeing thatHurstwood was about to go on, he said:

"I've nothing to do with it. You'll have to ask inside."

Curiously, this stirred Hurstwood to further effort.

"I thought you might tell me."

The fellow shook his head irritably.

Inside went the ex-manager and straight to an office off the clerk'sdesk. One of the managers of the hotel happened to be there. Hurstwoodlooked him straight in the eye.

"Could you give me something to do for a few days?" he said. "I'm in aposition where I have to get something at once."

The comfortable manager looked at him, as much as to say: "Well, Ishould judge so."

"I came here," explained Hurstwood, nervously, "because I've been amanager myself in my day. I've had bad luck in a way, but I'm not hereto tell you that. I want something to do, if only for a week."

The man imagined he saw a feverish gleam in the applicant's eye.

"What hotel did you manage?" he inquired.

"It wasn't a hotel," said Hurstwood. "I was manager of Fitzgerald andMoy's place in Chicago for fifteen years."

"Is that so?" said the hotel man. "How did you come to get out of that?"

The figure of Hurstwood was rather surprising in contrast to the fact.

"Well, by foolishness of my own. It isn't anything to talk about now.You could find out if you wanted to. I'm 'broke' now and, if you willbelieve me, I haven't eaten anything to-day."

The hotel man was slightly interested in this story. He could hardlytell what to do with such a figure, and yet Hurstwood's earnestness madehim wish to do something.

"Call Olsen," he said, turning to the clerk.

In reply to a bell and a disappearing hall-boy, Olsen, the head porter,appeared.

"Olsen," said the manager, "is there anything downstairs you could findfor this man to do? I'd like to give him something."

"I don't know, sir," said Olsen. "We have about all the help we need. Ithink I could find something, sir, though, if you like."

"Do. Take him to the kitchen and tell Wilson to give him something toeat."

"All right, sir," said Olsen.

Hurstwood followed. Out of the manager's sight, the head porter's mannerchanged.

"I don't know what the devil there is to do," he observed.

Hurstwood said nothing. To him the big trunk hustler was a subject forprivate contempt.

"You're to give this man something to eat," he observed to the cook.

The latter looked Hurstwood over, and seeing something keen andintellectual in his eyes, said:

"Well, sit down over there."

Thus was Hurstwood installed in the Broadway Central, but not for long.He was in no shape or mood to do the scrub work that exists about thefoundation of every hotel. Nothing better offering, he was set to aidthe fireman, to work about the basement, to do anything and everythingthat might offer. Porters, cooks, firemen, clerks--all were over him.Moreover his appearance did not please these individuals--his temper wastoo lonely--and they made it disagreeable for him.

With the stolidity and indifference of despair, however, he endured itall, sleeping in an attic at the roof of the house, eating what the cookgave him, accepting a few dollars a week, which he tried to save. Hisconstitution was in no shape to endure.

One day the following February he was sent on an errand to a large coalcompany's office. It had been snowing and thawing and the streets weresloppy. He soaked his shoes in his progress and came back feeling dulland weary. All the next day he felt unusually depressed and sat about asmuch as possible, to the irritation of those who admired energy inothers.

In the afternoon some boxes were to be moved to make room for newculinary supplies. He was ordered to handle a truck. Encountering a bigbox, he could not lift it.

"What's the matter there?" said the head porter. "Can't you handle it?"

He was straining hard to lift it, but now he quit.

"No," he said, weakly.

The man looked at him and saw that he was deathly pale.

"Not sick, are you?" he asked.

"I think I am," returned Hurstwood.

"Well, you'd better go sit down, then."

This he did, but soon grew rapidly worse. It seemed all he could do tocrawl to his room, where he remained for a day.

"That man Wheeler's sick," reported one of the lackeys to the nightclerk.

"What's the matter with him?"

"I don't know. He's got a high fever."

The hotel physician looked at him.

"Better send him to Bellevue," he recommended. "He's got pneumonia."

Accordingly, he was carted away.

In three weeks the worst was over, but it was nearly the first of Maybefore his strength permitted him to be turned out. Then he wasdischarged.

No more weakly looking object ever strolled out into the spring sunshinethan the once hale, lusty manager. All his corpulency had fled. His facewas thin and pale, his hands white, his body flabby. Clothes and all, heweighed but one hundred and thirty-five pounds. Some old garments hadbeen given him--a cheap brown coat and misfit pair of trousers. Alsosome change and advice. He was told to apply to the charities.

Again he resorted to the Bowery lodging-house, brooding over where tolook. From this it was but a step to beggary.

"What can a man do?" he said. "I can't starve."

His first application was in sunny Second Avenue. A well-dressed mancame leisurely strolling toward him out of Stuyvesant Park. Hurstwoodnerved himself and sidled near.

"Would you mind giving me ten cents?" he said, directly. "I'm in aposition where I must ask someone."

The man scarcely looked at him, but fished in his vest pocket and tookout a dime.

"There you are," he said.

"Much obliged," said Hurstwood, softly, but the other paid no moreattention to him.

Satisfied with his success and yet ashamed of his situation, he decidedthat he would only ask for twenty-five cents more, since that would besufficient. He strolled about sizing up people, but it was long beforejust the right face and situation arrived. When he asked, he wasrefused. Shocked by this result, he took an hour to recover and thenasked again. This time a nickel was given him. By the most watchfuleffort he did get twenty cents more, but it was painful.

The next day he resorted to the same effort, experiencing a variety ofrebuffs and one or two generous receptions. At last it crossed his mindthat there was a science of faces, and that a man could pick the liberalcountenance if he tried.

It was no pleasure to him, however, this stopping of passers-by. He sawone man taken up for it and now troubled lest he should be arrested.Nevertheless, he went on, vaguely anticipating that indefinite somethingwhich is always better.

It was with a sense of satisfaction, then, that he saw announced onemorning the return of the Casino Company, "with Miss Carrie Madenda." Hehad thought of her often enough in days past. How successful shewas--how much money she must have! Even now, however, it took a severerun of ill-luck to decide him to appeal to her. He was truly hungrybefore he said:

"I'll ask her. She won't refuse me a few dollars."

Accordingly, he headed for the Casino one afternoon, passing it severaltimes in an effort to locate the stage entrance. Then he sat in BryantPark, a block away, waiting. "She can't refuse to help me a little," hekept saying to himself.

Beginning with half-past six, he hovered like a shadow about theThirty-ninth Street entrance, pretending always to be a hurryingpedestrian and yet fearful lest he should miss his object. He wasslightly nervous, too, now that the eventful hour had arrived; but beingweak and hungry, his ability to suffer was modified. At last he saw thatthe actors were beginning to arrive, and his nervous tension increased,until it seemed as if he could not stand much more.

Once he thought he saw Carrie coming and moved forward, only to see thathe was mistaken.

"She can't be long, now," he said to himself, half fearing to encounterher and equally depressed at the thought that she might have gone in byanother way. His stomach was so empty that it ached.

Individual after individual passed him, nearly all well dressed, almostall indifferent. He saw coaches rolling by, gentlemen passing withladies--the evening's merriment was beginning in this region of theatresand hotels.

Suddenly a coach rolled up and the driver jumped down to open the door.Before Hurstwood could act, two ladies flounced across the broad walkand disappeared in the stage door. He thought he saw Carrie, but it wasso unexpected, so elegant and far away, he could hardly tell. He waiteda while longer, growing feverish with want, and then seeing that thestage door no longer opened, and that a merry audience was arriving, heconcluded it must have been Carrie and turned away.

"Lord," he said, hastening out of the street into which the morefortunate were pouring, "I've got to get something."

At that hour, when Broadway is wont to assume its most interestingaspect, a peculiar individual invariably took his stand at the corner ofTwenty-sixth Street and Broadway--a spot which is also intersected byFifth Avenue. This was the hour when the theatres were just beginning toreceive their patrons. Fire signs announcing the night's amusementsblazed on every hand. Cabs and carriages, their lamps gleaming likeyellow eyes, pattered by. Couples and parties of three and four freelymingled in the common crowd, which poured by in a thick stream, laughingand jesting. On Fifth Avenue were loungers--a few wealthy strollers, agentleman in evening dress with his lady on his arm, some clubmenpassing from one smoking-room to another. Across the way the greathotels showed a hundred gleaming windows, their cafés and billiard-roomsfilled with a comfortable, well-dressed, and pleasure-loving throng. Allabout was the night, pulsating with the thoughts of pleasure andexhilaration--the curious enthusiasm of a great city bent upon findingjoy in a thousand different ways.

This unique individual was no less than an ex-soldier turnedreligionist, who, having suffered the whips and privations of ourpeculiar social system, had concluded that his duty to the God which heconceived lay in aiding his fellow-man. The form of aid which he choseto administer was entirely original with himself. It consisted ofsecuring a bed for all such homeless wayfarers as should apply to him atthis particular spot, though he had scarcely the wherewithal to providea comfortable habitation for himself.

Taking his place amid this lightsome atmosphere, he would stand, hisstocky figure cloaked in a great cape overcoat, his head protected by abroad slouch hat, awaiting the applicants who had in various wayslearned the nature of his charity. For a while he would stand alone,gazing like any idler upon an ever-fascinating scene. On the evening inquestion, a policeman passing saluted him as "captain," in a friendlyway. An urchin who had frequently seen him before, stopped to gaze. Allothers took him for nothing out of the ordinary, save in the matter ofdress, and conceived of him as a stranger whistling and idling for hisown amusement.

As the first half-hour waned, certain characters appeared. Here andthere in the passing crowds one might see, now and then, a loitereredging interestedly near. A slouchy figure crossed the opposite cornerand glanced furtively in his direction. Another came down Fifth Avenueto the corner of Twenty-sixth Street, took a general survey, and hobbledoff again. Two or three noticeable Bowery types edged along the FifthAvenue side of Madison Square, but did not venture over. The soldier, inhis cape overcoat, walked a short line of ten feet at his corner, to andfro, indifferently whistling.

As nine o'clock approached, some of the hubbub of the earlier hourpassed. The atmosphere of the hotels was not so youthful. The air, too,was colder. On every hand curious figures were moving--watchers andpeepers, without an imaginary circle, which they seemed afraid toenter--a dozen in all. Presently, with the arrival of a keener sense ofcold, one figure came forward. It crossed Broadway from out the shadowof Twenty-sixth Street, and, in a halting, circuitous way, arrived closeto the waiting figure. There was something shamefaced or diffident aboutthe movement, as if the intention were to conceal any idea of stoppinguntil the very last moment. Then suddenly, close to the soldier, camethe halt.

The captain looked in recognition, but there was no especial greeting.The newcomer nodded slightly and murmured something like one who waitsfor gifts. The other simply motioned toward the edge of the walk.

"Stand over there," he said.

By this the spell was broken. Even while the soldier resumed his short,solemn walk, other figures shuffled forward. They did not so much asgreet the leader, but joined the one, sniffling and hitching andscraping their feet.

"Cold, ain't it?"

"I'm glad winter's over."

"Looks as though it might rain."

The motley company had increased to ten. One or two knew each other andconversed. Others stood off a few feet, not wishing to be in the crowdand yet not counted out. They were peevish, crusty, silent, eyingnothing in particular and moving their feet.

There would have been talking soon, but the soldier gave them no chance.Counting sufficient to begin, he came forward.

"Beds, eh, all of you?"

There was a general shuffle and murmur of approval.

"Well, line up here. I'll see what I can do. I haven't a cent myself."

They fell into a sort of broken, ragged line. One might see, now, someof the chief characteristics by contrast. There was a wooden leg in theline. Hats were all drooping, a group that would ill become asecond-hand Hester Street basement collection. Trousers were all warpedand frayed at the bottom and coats worn and faded. In the glare of thestore lights, some of the faces looked dry and chalky; others were redwith blotches and puffed in the cheeks and under the eyes; one or twowere rawboned and reminded one of railroad hands. A few spectators camenear, drawn by the seemingly conferring group, then more and more, andquickly there was a pushing, gaping crowd. Some one in the line began totalk.

"Silence!" exclaimed the captain. "Now, then, gentlemen, these men arewithout beds. They have to have some place to sleep to-night. They can'tlie out in the streets. I need twelve cents to put one of them to bed.Who will give it to me?"

No reply.

"Well, we'll have to wait here, boys, until some one does. Twelve centsisn't so very much for one man."

"Here's fifteen," exclaimed a young man, peering forward with strainedeyes. "It's all I can afford."

"All right. Now I have fifteen. Step out of the line," and seizing oneby the shoulder, the captain marched him off a little way and stood himup alone.

Coming back, he resumed his place and began again.

"I have three cents left. These men must be put to bed somehow. Thereare"--counting--"one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine,ten, eleven, twelve men. Nine cents more will put the next man to bed;give him a good, comfortable bed for the night. I go right along andlook after that myself. Who will give me nine cents?"

One of the watchers, this time a middle-aged man, handed him a five-centpiece.

"Now, I have eight cents. Four more will give this man a bed. Come,gentlemen. We are going very slow this evening. You all have good beds.How about these?"

"Here you are," remarked a bystander, putting a coin into his hand.

"That," said the captain, looking at the coin, "pays for two beds fortwo men and gives me five on the next one. Who will give me seven centsmore?"

"I will," said a voice.

Coming down Sixth Avenue this evening, Hurstwood chanced to cross eastthrough Twenty-sixth Street toward Third Avenue. He was whollydisconsolate in spirit, hungry to what he deemed an almost mortalextent, weary, and defeated. How should he get at Carrie now? It wouldbe eleven before the show was over. If she came in a coach, she would goaway in one. He would need to interrupt under most trying circumstances.Worst of all, he was hungry and weary, and at best a whole day mustintervene, for he had not heart to try again to-night. He had no foodand no bed.

When he neared Broadway, he noticed the captain's gathering ofwanderers, but thinking it to be the result of a street preacher or somepatent medicine fakir, was about to pass on. However, in crossing thestreet toward Madison Square Park, he noticed the line of men whose bedswere already secured, stretching out from the main body of the crowd. Inthe glare of the neighbouring electric light he recognised a type of hisown kind--the figures whom he saw about the streets and in thelodging-houses, drifting in mind and body like himself. He wondered whatit could be and turned back.

There was the captain curtly pleading as before. He heard withastonishment and a sense of relief the oft-repeated words: "These menmust have a bed." Before him was the line of unfortunates whose bedswere yet to be had, and seeing a newcomer quietly edge up and take aposition at the end of the line, he decided to do likewise. What use tocontend? He was weary to-night. It was a simple way out of onedifficulty, at least. To-morrow, maybe, he would do better.

Back of him, where some of those were whose beds were safe, a relaxedair was apparent. The strain of uncertainty being removed, he heard themtalking with moderate freedom and some leaning toward sociability.Politics, religion, the state of the government, some newspapersensations, and the more notorious facts the world over, foundmouthpieces and auditors there. Cracked and husky voices pronouncedforcibly upon odd matters. Vague and rambling observations were made inreply.

There were squints, and leers, and some dull, ox-like stares from thosewho were too dull or too weary to converse.

Standing tells. Hurstwood became more weary waiting. He thought heshould drop soon and shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. Atlast his turn came. The man ahead had been paid for and gone to theblessed line of success. He was now first, and already the captain wastalking for him.

"Twelve cents, gentlemen--twelve cents puts this man to bed. He wouldn'tstand here in the cold if he had any place to go."

Hurstwood swallowed something that rose to his throat. Hunger andweakness had made a coward of him.

"Here you are," said a stranger, handing money to the captain.

Now the latter put a kindly hand on the ex-manager's shoulder.

"Line up over there," he said.

Once there, Hurstwood breathed easier. He felt as if the world were notquite so bad with such a good man in it. Others seemed to feel likehimself about this.

"Captain's a great feller, ain't he?" said the man ahead--a little,woe-begone, helpless-looking sort of individual, who looked as though hehad ever been the sport and care of fortune.

"Yes," said Hurstwood, indifferently.

"Huh! there's a lot back there yet," said a man farther up, leaning outand looking back at the applicants for whom the captain was pleading.

"Yes. Must be over a hundred to-night," said another.

"Look at the guy in the cab," observed a third.

A cab had stopped. Some gentleman in evening dress reached out a bill tothe captain, who took it with simple thanks and turned away to his line.There was a general craning of necks as the jewel in the white shirtfront sparkled and the cab moved off. Even the crowd gaped in awe.

"That fixes up nine men for the night," said the captain, counting outas many of the line near him. "Line up over there. Now, then, there areonly seven. I need twelve cents."

Money came slowly. In the course of time the crowd thinned out to ameagre handful. Fifth Avenue, save for an occasional cab or footpassenger, was bare. Broadway was thinly peopled with pedestrians. Onlynow and then a stranger passing noticed the small group, handed out acoin, and went away, unheeding.

The captain remained stolid and determined. He talked on, very slowly,uttering the fewest words and with a certain assurance, as though hecould not fail.

"Come; I can't stay out here all night. These men are getting tired andcold. Some one give me four cents."

There came a time when he said nothing at all. Money was handed him, andfor each twelve cents he singled out a man and put him in the otherline. Then he walked up and down as before, looking at the ground.

The theatres let out. Fire signs disappeared. A clock struck eleven.Another half-hour and he was down to the last two men.

"Come, now," he exclaimed to several curious observers; "eighteen centswill fix us all up for the night. Eighteen cents. I have six. Somebodygive me the money. Remember, I have to go over to Brooklyn yet to-night.Before that I have to take these men down and put them to bed. Eighteencents."

No one responded. He walked to and fro, looking down for severalminutes, occasionally saying softly: "Eighteen cents." It seemed as ifthis paltry sum would delay the desired culmination longer than all therest had. Hurstwood, buoyed up slightly by the long line of which he wasa part, refrained with an effort from groaning, he was so weak.

At last a lady in opera cape and rustling skirts came down Fifth Avenue,accompanied by her escort. Hurstwood gazed wearily, reminded by her bothof Carrie in her new world and of the time when he had escorted his ownwife in like manner.

While he was gazing, she turned and, looking at the remarkable company,sent her escort over. He came, holding a bill in his fingers, allelegant and graceful.

"Here you are," he said.

"Thanks," said the captain, turning to the two remaining applicants."Now we have some for to-morrow night," he added.

Therewith he lined up the last two and proceeded to the head, countingas he went.

"One hundred and thirty-seven," he announced. "Now, boys, line up. Rightdress there. We won't be much longer about this. Steady, now."

He placed himself at the head and called out "Forward." Hurstwood movedwith the line. Across Fifth Avenue, through Madison Square by thewinding paths, east on Twenty-third Street, and down Third Avenue woundthe long, serpentine company. Midnight pedestrians and loiterers stoppedand stared as the company passed. Chatting policemen, at variouscorners, stared indifferently or nodded to the leader, whom they hadseen before. On Third Avenue they marched, a seemingly weary way, toEighth Street, where there was a lodging-house, closed, apparently, forthe night. They were expected, however.

Outside in the gloom they stood, while the leader parleyed within. Thendoors swung open and they were invited in with a "Steady, now."

Some one was at the head showing rooms, so that there was no delay forkeys. Toiling up the creaky stairs, Hurstwood looked back and saw thecaptain, watching; the last one of the line being included in his broadsolicitude. Then he gathered his cloak about him and strolled out intothe night.

"I can't stand much of this," said Hurstwood, whose legs ached himpainfully, as he sat down upon the miserable bunk in the small,lightless chamber allotted to him. "I've got to eat, or I'll die."