HE fell into an instant slumber on the hospitable heap in the corner, and was awakened while it was still dark. In the flicker of the oil lamp the old man's face swam vaguely against the night. Without the wagon was loaded, a drooping horse insecurely harnessed into patched shafts. The world was a still space of blue gloom, of indefinite forms suspended in the hush of color, sound; it seemed to be spun out of shadows like cobwebs, out of vapors, scents. A pale, hectic glow on the horizon marked the city. They ambled noiselessly, slowly, forward, under the vague foliage of trees. There was a glint of light in a passing window, the clatter of milk pails; a rooster crowed, thin and clear and triumphant; on a grassy slope by the road they saw a smoldering fire, recumbent forms.

They entered the soiled and ragged outskirts of the city—isolated ranks of hideous, boxlike dwellings amid raw stretches of clay, rank undergrowth. The horse's hoofs rang on a bricked pave, and the city surged about them. Overhead the elevated tracks made a confused, black tracing rippling with the red and white and green fire of signals. A gigantic truck, drawn by plunging horses whose armored hoofs were ringed in pale flame, passed with a shattering uproar of its metallic load. A train thundered above with a dolorous wail, showering a lurid trail of sparks into the sky, out of which a thick soot sifted down upon the streets. On either hand the blank walls of warehouses shut in the pavements deserted save for a woman's occasional, chalky countenance in the frosty area of the arc lights, or a drunkard lurching laboriously over the gutters. The feverish alarm of firebells sounded from a distant quarter. A heavy odor of stagnant oil, the fetid smoke of flaring chimneys, settled over Anthony, and gratefully he recalled the pastoral peace of the house he had left—the house hidden in its tangled verdure amid the scented space of the countryside.

They stopped finally before a shed open upon the street, where bluish-orange flames, magnified by tin reflectors, illuminated busy groups. Silvery fish with exposed carmine entrails were ranged in rows; the crisp, green spoil of the countryside was spread in the stalls—the silken stalks of early onions, the creamy pink of carrots, wine-red beets; rosy potatoes were heaped by cool, crusty cantaloupe, the vert pods of peas, silvery spinach and waxy, purple eggplant. Over all hung the delicate aroma of crushed mint, the faint, sweet tang of scarlet strawberries, the spicy fragrance of simple flowers—of cinnamon pinks and heliotrope and clover.

Anthony assisted the other to transfer his load to part of a stall presided over by a woman with bare, powerful elbows, shouting in a boisterous voice in perfect equality with her masculine neighbors.

High above the dawn flushed the sky; the flares dimmed from a source of light to mere colored fans, and were extinguished. Early buyers arrived at the market with baskets and pushcarts.

Anthony remained at the old man's side; it was too early to start in search of work; and, at his companion's invitation, he shared the latter's breakfast of cheese and bread, with a stoup of the bitter wine. As the market became crowded, in the stress of competition, bargaining, the vendor forgot Anthony's presence; and with a deep breath of determination, he started in search of employment; he again faced the West.

He had no difficulty in discovering the section of the city given over to the automobile industry, a broad, asphalt way with glittering show windows, serried ranks of cars, by either curb. There was, however, no work to be obtained here; a single offer would scarcely pay for his maintenance; in its potentialities California was the merest blur upon the future. Then for a second and more lucrative position he lacked the necessary papers. Midday found him without a prospect of employment. He had almost two dollars in change that had remained intact; and, lunching sparingly, he continued his inquiries.

It was late when he found himself before a sign that proclaimed the ability within to secure positions for competent chauffeurs. And, influenced largely by the chairs which he saw ranged against the wall, he entered and registered. The fee for registration was a dollar, and that left him with scant supplies as he took a place between three other men awaiting skeptically the positions which they had been assured they might confidently expect. With a casual nod to Anthony, a small man with watery blue eyes, clad in a worn and greasy livery, continued a dissertation on methods of making money additional to that of mere salary, of agreements with tiremen, repairs necessary and otherwise, the proper manner in which to bring a car's life quickly and gracefully to a close, in order, he added slyly to the indifferent clerk, to encourage the trade.

The afternoon wasted slowly but surely to a close; no one entered and the three rose with weary oaths and left in search of a convenient saloon. They waved to Anthony to follow them, but he silently declined.

A profound depression settled over him, a sense of impotence, of failure. His wounded head fretted him with frequent hot pains. He was enveloped by a sense of desolating loneliness which he endeavored to dispel with the thought of Eliza; but she remained as far, as faintly sweet, as the moon of a spring night. It seemed incredible that she had once been in his arms; surely he had dreamed her voice—such voices couldn't exist in reality—telling him that she loved him. Her letter had gone with his wallet, his ticket to California. He had not written her... she would be unable to penetrate the reason for his silence, his shame for blundering into such a blind way, his lack of anything reassuring to tell her. He could not write until his feet were once more firmly planted upon the only path that led to success, to happiness, to her.