That Printer of Udells | Page 6

All that afternoon he continued his search with the same
result--We don't need you. Some, it is true, were kind in their answers.
One old gentleman, a real estate man, Dick felt sure was about to help
him, but he was called away on business, and the poor fellow went on
his weary search again.
Then the whistles blew for six o'clock, and the workmen, their faces

stained with the marks of toil, hurried along the streets toward home;
clerks and business men crowded the restaurants and lunch counters,
the street cars were filled with shoppers going to their evening meal.
Through hungry eyes, Dick watched the throng, wondering what each
worked at during the day and what they would have for supper.
The sun went behind a bank of dull, lead-colored clouds and the wind
sprang up again, so sharp and cold that the citizens turned up the collars
of their coats and drew their wraps about them, while Dick sought
shelter from the chilly blast in an open hallway. Suddenly a policeman
appeared before him.
"What are you doing here?"
"Nothing," answered Dick.
"Wal, ye'd better be doing something. I've had my eye on you all the
afternoon. I'll run ye in if I ketch ye hanging round any more. Get a
move on now." And Dick stepped out on the sidewalk once more to
face the bitter wind.
Walking as rapidly as possible, he made his way north on Broadway,
past the big hotel, all aglow with light and warmth, past the vacant lots
and the bicycle factory, until he reached the ruins of an old smelter just
beyond the Missouri Pacific tracks. He had noticed the place earlier in
the day as he passed it on his way to the brickyard. Groping about over
the fallen walls of the furnace, stumbling over scraps of iron and
broken timbers in the dusk, he searched for a corner that would in some
measure protect him from the wind. It grew dark very fast, and soon he
tripped and fell against an old boiler lying upturned in the ruin.
Throwing out his hand to save himself, by chance, he caught the door
of the firebox, and in a moment more was inside, crouching in the
accumulated dirt, iron rust and ashes. At least the wind could not get at
him here; and leaning his back against the iron wall of his strange
bed-room, tired and hungry, he fell asleep.
CHAPTER II

The next morning Dick crawled from his rude lodging place stiff and
sore, and after making his toilet as best he could, started again on his
search for employment. It was nearly noon when he met a man who in
answer to his inquiry said: "I'm out of a job myself, stranger, but I've
got a little money left; you look hungry."
Dick admitted that he had had no breakfast.
"Tell you what I'll do," said the other. "I ain't got much, but we can go
to a joint I know of where they set up a big free lunch. I'll pay for the
beer and you can wade into the lunch."
Poor Dick, weak from hunger, chilled with the March winds, tired and
discouraged, he forgot his resolve of the day before and followed his
would-be benefactor. It was not far and they soon stood in a
well-warmed saloon. The grateful heat, the polished furniture, the rows
of bottles and glasses, the clean-looking, white-jacketed and aproned
bar-tender, and the merry air of those whom he served, were all
wonderfully attractive to the poor shivering wanderer from out in the
cold. And then there was the long table well loaded with strong, hot
food. The starving fellow started toward it eagerly, with outstretched
hand. "Two beers here," cried his companion.
Then Dick remembered his purpose. The hand reaching out to grasp the
food was withdrawn; his pale face grew more haggard. "My God!" he
thought, "what can I do. I must have food."
He saw the bartender take two large glasses from the shelf. His whole
physical being plead with him, demanding food and drink, and shaking
like a leaf he gazed about him with the air of a hunted thing.
He saw one of the glasses in the hand of the man in the white jacket
and apron filling with the amber liquid. A moment more and--"Stop!"
he cried, rushing toward the one who held the glasses. "Stop! it's a
mistake. I don't drink."
The man paused and looked around with an evil leer, one glass still
unfilled in his hand. Then with a brutal oath, "What are ye in here for

then?"
Dick trembled. "I--I--was cold and hungry--" his eyes sought the food
on the table--"and--and--this gentleman asked me to come. He's not to
blame; he thought I wanted