Charles Franks, Charles Aldarondo, and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team.



SAMUEL THE SEEKER

BY Upton Sinclair





CHAPTER I


"Samuel," said old Ephraim, "Seek, and ye shall find."

He had written these words upon the little picture of Samuel's mother,
which hung in that corner of the old attic which served as the boy's
bedroom; and so Samuel grew up with the knowledge that he, too, was
one of the Seekers. Just what he was to seek, and just how he was to
seek it, were matters of uncertainty--they were part of the search.
Old Ephraim could not tell him very much about it, for the Seekers
had moved away to the West before he had come to the farm; and Samuel's
mother had died very young, before her husband had a chance to learn
more than the rudiments of her faith. So all that Samuel knew was that
the Seekers were men and women of fervor, who had broken with the
churches because they would not believe what was taught--holding that
it was every man's duty to read the Word of God for himself and to
follow where it led him.

Thus the boy learned to think of life, not as something settled, but
as a place for adventure. One must seek and seek; and in the end the
way of truth would be revealed to him. He could see this zeal in his
mother's face, beautiful and delicate, even in the crude picture; and
Samuel did not know that the picture was crude, and wove his dreams
about it. Sometimes at twilight old Ephraim would talk about her, and
the tears would steal down his cheeks. The one year that he had known
her had sufficed to change the course of his life; and he had been a
man past middle life, too, a widower with two children. He had come
into the country as the foreman of a lumber camp back on the mountain.

Samuel had always thought of his father as an old man; Ephraim had
been hurt by a vicious horse, and had aged rapidly after that. He had
given up lumbering; it had not taken long to clear out that part of
the mountains. Now the hills were swept bare, and the population had
found a new way of living.

Samuel's childhood life had been grim and stern. The winter fell early
upon the mountain wilderness; the lake would freeze over, and the
roads block up with snow, and after that they would live upon what
they had raised in the summer, with what Dan and Adam--Samuel's half-
brothers--might bring in from the chase. But now all this was changed
and forgotten; for there was a hotel at the end of the lake, and money
was free in the country. It was no longer worth while to reap the hay
from the mountain meadows; it was better to move the family into the
attic, and "take boarders." Some of the neighbors even turned their
old corncribs into sleeping shacks, and advertised in the city papers,
and were soon blossoming forth in white paint and new buildings, and
were on the way to having "hotels" of their own.

Old Ephraim lacked the cunning for that kind of success. He was lame
and slow, tending toward stoutness, and having a film over one eye;
and Samuel knew that the boarders made fun of him, even while they
devoured his food and took advantage of him. This was the first
bitterness of Samuel's life; for he knew that within old Ephraim's
bosom was the heart of a king. Once the boy had heard him in the room
beneath his attic, talking with one of the boarders, a widow with a
little daughter of whom the old man was fond. "I've had a feeling,
ma'am," he was saying, "that somehow you might be in trouble. And I
wanted to say that if you can't spare this money, I would rather you
kept it; for I don't need it now, and you can send it to me when
things are better with you." That was Ephraim Prescott's way with his
boarders; and so he did not grow in riches as fast as he grew in soul.

Ephraim's wife had taught him to read the Bible. He read it every
night, and on Sundays also; and if what he was reading was sublime
poetry, and a part of the world's best literature, the old man did not
know it. He took it all as having actual relationship to such matters
as trading horses and feeding boarders. And he taught Samuel to take
it that way also; and as the boy grew up there took root within him a
great dismay and perplexity, that these moral truths which he read in
the Book seemed to count for so little in the world about him.

Besides the Bible and his mother, Ephraim taught his son one other
great thing; that was America. America was Samuel's country, the land
where his fathers had died. It was a land set apart from all others,
for the working out of a high and wonderful destiny. It was the land
of Liberty. For this whole armies of heroic men had poured out their
heart's blood; and their dream was embodied in institutions which were
almost as sacred as the Book itself. Samuel learned hymns which dealt
with these things, and he heard great speeches about them; every
Fourth of July that he could remember he had driven out to the
courthouse to hear one, and he was never in the least ashamed when the
tears came into his eyes.

He had seen tears even in the summer boarders' eyes; once or twice
when on a quiet evening it chanced that the old man unlocked the
secret chambers of his soul. For Ephraim Prescott had been through the
War. He had marched with the Seventeenth Pennsylvania from Bull Run to
Cold Harbor, where he had been three times wounded; and his memory was
a storehouse of mighty deeds and thrilling images. Heroic figures
strode through it; there were marches and weary sieges, prison and
sickness and despair; there were moments of horror and of glory,
visions of blood and anguish, of flame and cannon smoke; there were
battle flags, torn by shot and shell, and names of precious memory,
which stirred the deep places of the soul. These men had given their
lives for Freedom; they had lain down to make a pathway before her--
they had filled up a bloody chasm so that she might pass upon her way.
And that was the heritage they handed to their children, to guard and
cherish. That was what it meant to be an American; that one must hold
himself in readiness to go forth as they had done, and dare and suffer
whatever the fates might send.

Such were the things out of which Samuel's life was made; besides
these he had only the farm, with its daily tasks, and the pageant of
Nature in the wilderness--of day and night, and of winter and summer
upon the mountains. The books were few. There was one ragged volume
which Samuel knew nearly by heart, which told the adventures of a
castaway upon a desert island, and how, step by step, he solved his
problem; Samuel learned from that to think of life as made by honest
labor, and to find a thrill of romance in the making of useful things.
And then there was the story of Christian, and of his pilgrimage; the
very book for a Seeker--with visions of glory not too definite,
leaving danger of premature success.

And then, much later, some one left at the place a volume of the "Farm
Rhymes" of James Whitcomb Riley; and before Samuel's eyes there opened
a new vision of life. He had been happy; but now suddenly he realized
it. He had loved the blue sky above him, and the deep woods and the
sparkling lake; but now he had words to tell about them--and the
common tasks of his life were transfigured with the glory of song. So
one might milk the cow with stirrings of wonder, and mow in the
meadows to the rhythm of "Knee-deep in June."

From which you may divine that Samuel was what is called an
Enthusiast. He was disposed to take rosy views of things, and to
believe what he was told--especially if it was something beautiful and
appealing. He was given to having ideals and to accepting theories. He
would be stirred by some broad new principle; and he would set to work
to apply it with fervor. But you are not to conclude from this that
Samuel was a fool. On the contrary, when things went wrong he knew it;
and according to his religion, he sought the reason, and he sought
persistently, and with all his might. If all men would do as much, the
world might soon be quite a different place.




CHAPTER II


Such was Samuel's life until he was seventeen, and then a sad
experience came to the family.

It was because of the city people. They brought prosperity to the
country, everyone said, but old Ephraim regretted their coming, none
the less. They broke down the old standards, and put an end to the old
ways of life. What was the use of grubbing up stumps in a pasture lot,
when one could sell minnows for a penny apiece? So all the men became
"guides" and camp servants, and the girls became waitresses. They wore
more stylish clothes and were livelier of speech; but they were also
more greedy and less independent. They had learned to take tips, for
instance; and more than one of the girls went away to the city to
nameless and terrible destinies.

These summer boarders all had money. Young and old, it flowed from
them in a continuous stream. They did not have to plow and reap--they
bought what they wanted; and they spent their time at play--with
sailboats and fishing tackle, bicycles and automobiles, and what not.
How all this money came to be was a thing difficult to imagine; but it
came from the city--from the great Metropolis, to which one's thoughts
turned with ever livelier interest.

Then, one August, came a man who opened the gates of knowledge a
little. Manning was his name--Percival Manning, junior partner in the
firm of Manning & Isaacson, Bankers and Brokers--with an address which
had caused the Prescott family to start and stare with awe. It was
Wall Street!

Mr. Percival Manning was round and stout, and wore striped shirts, and
trousers which were like a knife blade in front; also, he fairly
radiated prosperity. His talk was all of financial wizardry by which
fortunes were made overnight. The firm of Manning & Isaacson was one
of the oldest and most prosperous in the street, so he said; and its
junior partner was in the confidence of some of the greatest powers in
the financial affairs of the country. And, alas! for the Prescott
family, which did not read the magazines and had never even heard of a
"bucket-shop"!

Adam, the oldest brother, took Mr. Manning back to Indian Pond on a
fishing trip; and Samuel went along to help with the carries. And all
the way the talk was of the wonders of city life. Samuel learned that
his home was a God-forsaken place in winter--something which had never
been hinted at in any theological book which he had read. Manning
wondered that Adam didn't get out to some place where a man had a
chance. Then he threw away a half-smoked cigar and talked about the
theaters and the music halls; and after that he came back to the
inexhaustible topic of Wall Street.

He had had interesting news from the office that day; there was a big
deal about to be consummated--the Glass Bottle Trust was ready for
launching. For nearly a year old Harry Lockman--"You've heard of him,
no doubt--he built up the great glass works at Lockmanville?" said
Manning. No, Adam confessed that he had never heard of Lockman, that
shrewd and crafty old multi-millionaire who had gone on a still hunt
for glass-bottle factories, and now had the country in the grip of the
fourteen-million-dollar "Glass Bottle Securities Company." No one knew
it, as yet; but soon the enterprise would be under full sail--"And
won't the old cormorant take in the shekels, though!" chuckled
Manning.

"That might be a good sort of thing for a man to invest in," said Adam
cautiously.

"Well, I just guess!" laughed the other. "If he's quick about it."

"Do you suppose you could find out how to get some of that stock?" was
the next question.

"Sure," said Manning--"that's what we're in business for."

And then, as luck would have it, a city man bought the old Wyckman
farm, and the trustees of the estate came to visit Ephraim in solemn
state and paid down three crisp one-thousand-dollar bills and carried
off the canceled mortgage. And the old man sat a-tremble holding in
his hands the savings of his whole lifetime, and facing the eager
onslaught of his two eldest sons.

"But, Adam!" he protested. "It's gambling!"

"It's nothing of the kind," cried the other. "It's no more gambling
than if I was to buy a horse because I knowed that horses would be
scarce next spring. It's just business."

"But those factories make beer bottles and whisky bottles!" exclaimed
the old man. "Does it seem right to you to get our money that way?"

"They make all kinds of bottles," said Adam; "how can they help what
they're used for?"

"And besides," put in Dan, with a master-stroke of diplomacy, "it will
raise the prices on 'em, and make 'em harder to git."

"There's been fortunes lost in Wall Street," said the father. "How can
we tell?"

"We've got a chance to get in on the inside," said Adam. "Such chances
don't happen twice in a lifetime."

"Just read this here circular!" added Dan. "If we let a chance like
this go we'll deserve to break our backs hoeing corn the rest of our
days."

That was the argument. Old Ephraim had never thought of a broken back
in connection with the hoeing of corn. There were four acres in the
field, and every spring he had plowed and harrowed it and planted it
and replanted what the crows had pulled up; and all summer long he had
hoed and tended it, and in the fall he had cut it, stalk by stalk, and
stacked it; and then through October, sitting on the bare bleak
hillside, he had husked it, ear by ear, and gathered it in baskets--if
the season was good, perhaps a hundred dollars' worth of grain. That
was the way one worked to create a hundred dollars' worth of Value;
and Manning had paid as much for the fancy-mounted shotgun which stood
in the corner of his room! And here was the great fourteen-million-
dollar Glass Bottle Trust, with properties said to be worth twenty-
five million, and the control of one of the great industries of the
country--and stock which might easily go to a hundred and fifty in a
single week!

"Boys," said the old man, sadly, "it won't be me that will spend this
money. And I don't want to stand in your way. If you're bent on doing
it--"

"We are!" cried Adam.

"What do you say, Samuel?" asked the father.

"I don't know what to say," said Samuel. "It seems to me that three
thousand dollars is a lot of money. And I don't see why we need any
more."

"Do you want to stand in the way?" demanded Adam.

"No, I don't want to stand in the way," said Samuel.

And so the decision was made. When they came to give the order they
found themselves confronted with a strange proposition; they did not
have to buy the whole stock, it seemed--they might buy only the
increase in its value. And the effect of this marvelous device would
be that they would make ten times as much as they had expected to
make! So, needless to say, they bought that way.

And they took a daily paper and watched breathlessly, while "Glass
Bottle Securities" crept up from sixty-three and an eighth to sixty-
four and a quarter. And then, late one evening, old Hiram Johns, the
storekeeper, drove up with a telegram from Manning and Isaacson,
telling them that they must put up more "margin"--"Glass Bottle
Securities" was at fifty-six and five eighths. They sat up all night
debating what this could mean and trying to lay the specters of
horror. The next day Adam set out to go to the city and see about it;
but he met the mail on the way and came home again with a letter from
the brokers, regretfully informing them that it had been necessary to
sell the stock, which was now below fifty. In the news columns of the
paper they found the explanation of the calamity--old Henry Lockman
had dropped dead of apoplexy at the climax of his career, and the
bears had played havoc with "Glass Bottle Securities."

Their three thousand dollars was gone. It took them three days to
realize it--it was so utterly beyond belief, that they had to write to
the brokers and receive another letter in which it was stated in black
and white and beyond all misunderstanding that there was not a dollar
of their money left. Adam raged and swore like a madman, and Dan vowed
savagely that he would go down to the city and kill Manning. As for
the father, he wrote a letter of agonized reproach, to which Mr.
Manning replied with patient courtesy, explaining that he had had
nothing to do with the matter; that he was a broker and had bought as
ordered, and that he had been powerless to foresee the death of
Lockman. "You will remember," he said, "that I warned you of the
uncertainties of the market, and of the chances that you took."
Ephraim did not remember anything of the sort, but he realized that
there was nothing to be gained by saying so.

Samuel did not care much about the loss of his share of the money; but
he did care about the grief of his father, which was terrible to see.
The blow really killed him; he looked ten years older after that week
and he failed all through the winter. And then late in the spring he
caught a cold, and took to his bed; and it turned to pneumonia, and
almost before anyone had had time to realize it, he was gone.

He went to join Samuel's mother. He had whispered this as he clutched
the boy's hand; and Samuel knew that it was true, and that therefore
there was no occasion for grief. So he was ashamed for the awful waves
of loneliness and terror which swept over him; and he gulped back his
feelings and forced himself to wear a cheerful demeanor--much too
cheerful for the taste of Adam and Dan, who were more concerned with
what their neighbors would think than they were with the subtleties of
Samuel's faith.

The boy had been doing a great deal of thinking that winter; and after
the funeral he called a council of the family.

"Brothers," he said, "this farm is too small for three men. Dan wants
to marry already; and we can't live here always. It's just as Manning
said--"

"I don't want to hear what that skunk said!" growled Adam.

"Well, he was right that time. People stay on the land and they divide
it up and get poorer and poorer. So I've made up my mind to break
away. I'm going to the city and get a start."

"What can you do in the city?" asked Dan.

"I don't know," said Samuel. "I'll do my best. I don't expect to go to
Wall Street and make my fortune."

"You needn't be smart!" growled Dan.

But the other was quite innocent of sarcasm. "What I mean is that I'll
have to work," said he. "I'm young and strong, and I'm not afraid to
try. I'll find somebody to give me a chance; and then I'll work hard
and learn and I'll get promoted. I've read of boys that have done
that."

"It's not a bad idea," commented Adam.

"Go ahead," said Dan.

"The only thing is," began Samuel, hesitatingly, "I shall have to have
a little money for a start."

"Humph!" said Adam. "Money's a scarce thing here."

"How much'll ye want?" asked the other.

"Well," said the boy, "I want enough to feel safe. For if I go, I
promise you I shall stay till I succeed. I shan't play the baby."

"How do you expect to raise it?" was the next question.

"I thought," replied Samuel, "that we might make some kind of a deal--
let me sell out my share in the farm."

"You can't sell your share," said Adam, sharply. "You ain't of age."

"Maybe I'm not," was the answer; "but all the same you know me. And if
I was to make a bargain I'd keep it. You may be sure I'll never come
back and bother you."

"Yes, I suppose not," said Adam, doubtfully. "But you can't tell--"

"How much do you expect to git?" asked Dan warily.

"Well, I thought maybe I could get a hundred dollars," said the other
and then he stopped, hesitating.

Adam and Dan exchanged a quick glance.

"Money's mighty scarce hereabouts," said Adam.

"Still," said Dan, "I don't know, I'll go to the village tomorrow and
see what I can do."

So Dan drove away and came back in the evening and there was another
council; he produced eight new ten-dollar bills.

"It was the best I could do," he said. "I'm sorry if it ain't enough"-
-and then he stopped.

"I'll make that do," said Samuel.

And so his brother produced a long and imposing-looking document;
Samuel was too polite to read it but signed at once, and so the
bargain was closed. And that night Samuel packed his few belongings in
a neat newspaper bundle and before sunrise the next morning he set out
upon his search.




CHAPTER III


He had his bundle slung over his back and his eighty dollars pinned
tightly in an inside pocket. Underneath it his heart beat fast and
high; he was young and he was free--the open road stretched out before
him, and perpetual adventure beckoned to him. Every pilgrimage that he
had ever read of helped to make up the thrill that stirred him, as he
stood on the ridge and gazed at the old farmhouse, and waved his hand,
and turned and began his journey.

The horse was needed for the plowing, and so Samuel walked the six
miles to the village, and from there the mail stage took him out to
the solitary railroad station. He had three hours to wait here for the
train, and so he decided that he would save fifteen cents by walking
on to the next station. Distance was nothing to Samuel just then.

Halfway to his destination there was a fire in a little clearing by
the track, and a young man sat toasting some bread on a stick.

"Hello!" he said. "You're hittin' her lively."

"Yes," said Samuel. The stranger was not much older than he, but his
clothing was dirty and he had a dissipated, leering face.

"You're new at this game, aren't you?" said he.

"What game?" asked Samuel.

The other laughed. "Where ye goin'?"

"To New York."

"Goin' to hoof it all the way?"

"No!" gasped the boy. "I'm just walking to the next station."

"Oh, I see! What's the fare?"

"Six thirty-seven, I think."

"Humph! Got the price, hey!"

"Yes--I've got the price." Samuel said this without pride.

"Well, you won't have it long if you live at that rate," commented the
stranger. "Why don't you beat your way?"

"How do you mean?" asked Samuel.

"Nobody but a duffer pays fare," said the other. "There'll be a
freight along pretty soon, and she stops at the water tank just below
here. Why don't you jump her?"

Samuel hesitated. "I wouldn't like to do that," he said.

"Come," said the other, "sit down."

And he held out a piece of his toast, which Samuel accepted for
politeness' sake. This young fellow had run away from school at the
age of thirteen; and he had traveled all over the United States,
following the seasons, and living off the country. He was on his way
now from a winter's holiday in Mexico. And as Samuel listened to the
tale of his adventures, he could not keep the thought from troubling
him, how large a part of eighty dollars was six thirty-seven. And all
in a single day.

"Come," said the young fellow; and they started down the track. The
freight was whistling for brakes, far up the grade. And Samuel's heart
thumped with excitement.

They crouched in the bushes, not far beyond the tank. But the train
did not stop for water; it only slowed down for a curve, and it
thundered by at what seemed to Samuel an appalling rate of speed.
"Jump!" shouted the other, and started to run by the track. He made a
leap, and caught, and was whirled on, half visible in a cloud of dust.

Samuel's nerve failed him. He waited, while car after car went by. But
then he caught hold of himself. If anyone could do it, so could he.
For shame.

He started to run. There came a box-car, empty, with the door open,
and he leaped and clutched the edge of the door. He was whirled from
his feet, his arms were nearly jerked out of him. He was half blinded
by the dust, but he hung on desperately, and pulled himself up. A
minute more and he lay gasping and trembling upon the floor of the
car. He was on his way to the city.

After a while, Samuel began to think; and then scruples troubled him.
He was riding free; but was he not really stealing? And would his
father have approved of his doing it? He had begun his career by
yielding to temptation! And this at the suggestion of a young fellow
who boasted of drinking and thieving! Simply to start such questions
was enough, with Samuel; and he made up his mind that when he reached
the city the first thing he would do would be to visit the office of
the railroad, and explain what he had done, and pay his fare.

Perhaps an hour later the train came to a stop, and he heard some one
walking by the track. He hid in a corner, ashamed of being there. Some
one stopped before the car, and the door was rolled shut. Then the
footsteps went on. There came clankings and jarrings, as of cars being
shifted, and then these ceased and silence fell.

Samuel waited for perhaps an hour. Then, becoming restless, he got up
and tried the door. It was fast.

The boy was startled and rather dazed. He sat down to think it out. "I
suppose I'm locked in till we reach New York," he reflected. But then,
why didn't they go?

"Perhaps we're on a siding, waiting for the passenger train to pass,"
was his next thought; and he realized regretfully that he would have
been on that train. But then, as hour after hour passed, and they did
not go on, a terrible possibility dawned upon him. He was left behind-
-on a siding.

Two or three trains went by, and each time he waited anxiously. But
they did not stop. Silence came again, and he sat in the darkness and
waited and wondered and feared.

He had no means of telling the time; and doubtless an hour seemed an
age in such a plight. He would get up and pace back and forth, like a
caged animal; and then he would lie down by the door, straining his
ears for a sound--thinking that some one might pass, unnoticed through
the thick wall of the car.

By and by he became hungry and he ate the scanty meal he had in his
bundle. Then he became thirsty--and he had no water.

The realization of this made his heart thump. It was no joking matter
to be shut in, at one could not tell what lonely place, to suffer from
thirst. He sprang up and began to pound and kick upon the door in a
frenzy.

But he soon tired of that and crouched on the floor again listening
and shivering, half with fear and half with cold. It was becoming
chillier, so he judged it must be night; up here in the mountains
there was still frost at night.

There came another train, a freight, he knew by the heavy pounding and
the time it took to pass. He kicked on the door and shouted, but he
soon realized that it was of no use to shout in that uproar.

The craving for water was becoming an obsession. He tried not to think
about it, but that only made him think about it the more; he would
think about not thinking about it and about not thinking about that--
and all the time he was growing thirstier. He wondered how long one
could live without water; and as the torment grew worse he began to
wonder if he was dying. He was hungry, too, and he wondered which was
worse, of which one would die the sooner. He had heard that dying men
remembered all their past, and so he began to remember his--with
extraordinary vividness, and with bursts of strange and entirely new
emotions. He remembered particularly all the evil things that he had
ever done; including the theft of a ride, for which he was paying the
penalty. And meantime, with another part of his mind, he was plotting and
seeking. He must not die here like a rat in a hole. There must be some
way.

He tried every inch of the car--of the floor and ceiling and walls.
But there was not a loose plank nor a crack--the car was new. And that
suggested another idea--that he might suffocate before he starved. He
was beginning to feel weak and dizzy.

If only he had a knife. He could have cut a hole for air and then
perhaps enlarged it and broken out a board. He found a spike on the
floor and began tapping round the walls for a place that sounded thin;
but they all sounded thick--how thick he had no idea. He began picking
splinters away at the juncture of two planks.

Meantime hunger and thirst continued to gnaw at him. At long intervals
he would pause while a train roared by, or because he fancied he had
heard a sound. Then he would pound and call until he was hoarse, and
then go on picking at the splinters.

And so on, for an unknown number of hours, but certainly for days and
nights. And Samuel was famished and wild and weak and gasping; when at
last it dawned upon his senses that a passing train had begun to make
less noise--that the thumping was growing slower. The train was
stopping.

He leaped up and began to pound. Then he realized that he must control
himself--he must save his strength until the train had stopped. But
suppose it went on without delay? He began to pound again and to shout
like a madman.

The train stopped and there was silence; then came sounds of cars
being coupled--and meantime Samuel was kicking and beating upon the
wall. He was almost exhausted and in despair--when suddenly from
outside came a muffled call--"Hello!"

For a moment he could not speak. Then "Help! Help!" he shrieked.

"What's the matter?" asked the voice.

"I'm locked in," he called. .

"How'd you get in?"

"They locked me in by accident. I'm nearly dead."

"Who are you?"

"I was riding in the car."

"A tramp, hey? Serves ye right! Better stay there!"

"No! No!" screamed the boy, in terror. "I'm starving--I've been here
for days. For heaven's sake let me out--I'll never do it again."

"If I let you out," said the voice, "it's my business to arrest you."

"All right," cried Samuel. "Anything--but don't leave me here."

There was a moment's silence. "Have you got any money?" asked the
voice.

"Yes. Yes--I've got money."

"Don't yell so loud. How much?"

"Why--what?"

"How much?"

"I've got eighty dollars."

"All right. Give it to me and I'll let you out."

Frantic as he was, this staggered Samuel. "I can't give you all my
money," he cried.

"All right then," said the other. "Stay there."

"No, no!" he protested. "Wait! Leave me just a little."

"I'll leave you five dollars," said the voice. "Speak up! Quick!"

"All right," said Samuel faintly. "I'll give it to you."

"Mind! No nonsense now!"

"No. Let me out!"

"I'll bat you over the head if you try it," growled the voice; and the
boy stood trembling while the hasp was unfastened and the door was
pushed back a little. The light of a lantern flashed in through the
crack, blinding him.

"Now hand out the money," said the stranger, standing at one side for
safety.

"Yes," said Samuel, fumbling with the pin in his waistcoat. "But I
can't see to count it."

"Be quick! I'll count it!"

And so he shoved out the wad. Fingers seized it; and then the light
vanished, and he heard the sound of footsteps running.

For a moment he did not understand. Then, "Give me my five dollars!"
he yelled, and rolled back the door and leaped out. He was just in
time to see the figure with the lantern vanish among the cars up the
track.

He started to run up the track and tripped over a tie and fell
headlong into a ditch. When he scrambled to his feet again the long
train was beginning to move, and the light of the lantern was nowhere
to be seen.




CHAPTER IV


Samuel's money was gone, but he was suffering too keenly from hunger
and thirst to worry about it for more than a minute. Then the thought
came to him--he was here in a lonely place at night, and the train was
going! If he were left he might still starve.

He ran over and caught the iron ladder of one of the freight cars and
drew himself up and clung there. Later on he climbed on top of the
car; but the wind was too cold--he could not stand it, and had to
climb down again. And then he realized that he had left the bundle of
his belongings in the empty car.

Fortunately for him the train began to slow up at the end of an hour
or so, and peering out Samuel saw lights ahead. Also there were lights
here and there in the landscape, and he realized that he had come to a
large town. The east was just beginning to turn gray, and faint
shadows of buildings were visible.

Samuel got off and walked up the track very carefully, for he was
stiff as well as weak. There was a light in one of the offices at the
depot, and he looked in at the window and saw a man seated at a desk
writing busily. He knocked at the door.

"Come in," said a voice, and he entered.

"Please, may I have a drink of water?" he asked.

"Over there in the corner," said the man, scarcely looking up from his
papers.

There was a bucket and dipper, and Samuel drank. The taste of the
water was a kind of ecstasy to him--he drank until he could drink no
more.

Then he stood waiting. "I beg pardon, sir," he began timidly.

"Hey?" said the man.

"I'm nearly starved, sir. I've had nothing to eat for I don't know how
long."

"Oh!" exclaimed the other. "So that's it. Get out!"

"You don't understand," began Samuel, perplexed.

"Get out!" cried the man. "That don't go in here. No beggars allowed!"

Beggars! The word struck Samuel like a whip-lash.

"I'm no beggar!" he cried wildly. "I--" And then he stopped. He had
been going to say, "I will pay for it."

He went out burning with shame, and on the spot he took his
resolution--come what might, he would never beg. He would not put a
morsel of food into his mouth until he had earned it.

Across from the depot was a public square, and a broad street with
trolley tracks. Samuel walked down the street; and then, feeling weak
and seeing a dark doorway, he went in and crouched in a corner. For a
while he dozed; and then it was daylight. People were passing.

He got more water at a fountain and felt better. He went down one of
the poorer streets where a man was opening a shop. There was food in
the window--fruit and bread--and the sight made him ravenous. But he
asked for work and the man shook his head.

Samuel went on. Shops were opened here and there; and everywhere he
asked for a job--for any little thing to do--and always it was No. Now
and then he caught a whiff of some one's breakfast--bacon frying, and
coffee or hot bread in a bake shop. But each time he gripped his hands
together and set his teeth. He would not beg. He would find work.

And so on through the morning. He went into stores, big and little.
Sometimes they answered politely--sometimes gruffly; but no one
hesitated a moment. He went past warehouses, where men were loading
wagons--surely there would be work here.

He spoke to a busy foreman in his shirt sleeves.

"How often must I tell you no?" cried the man.

"But you never told me before," protested Samuel with great
earnestness.

"Get out!" said the man. "There are so many of you--how the devil can
I tell?"

There were so many! And suddenly Samuel realized that he had passed a
good many poor-looking men upon the streets. And were they all hunting
jobs and not finding them? Perhaps some were even begging and getting
nothing by that.

He went on with a blank terror in his soul. He gazed at the people he
passed on the street; some of them had kindly faces--surely they would
have helped him had they known. But there was no way for him to let
them know--no way but to be a beggar!

He came to the suburbs and asked at the houses. But no one wanted
anything done. It was noon and people were at luncheon--he caught
odors as doors were opened. He went back into the city, because he
could not stand it. He was feeling weaker, and he was afraid with a
ghastly fear. Pretty soon he might not be able to work!

It was a new idea to Samuel, that a man might starve in the midst of
civilization. He could hardly believe it, and grew half-delirious as
he thought about it. What would happen at the end? Would they let him
lie down and die in the street? Or was there some place where starving
men went to die?

So the day passed, and he found nothing. Several people advised him to
get out of town--this was no place to look for work, they said.
Apparently something was the matter with the place, but they did not
stop to tell him what.

This was the first large town Samuel had ever seen, and under other
circumstances he would have gazed at it with wonder. He passed great
buildings of brick and stone, and trolley cars, and a fire-engine
house, and many other strange sights. He came to a great high fence,
inclosing many acres of buildings, dingy and black with smoke; there
were tall chimneys, and rows of sheds, and railroad tracks running in.
He passed other factories, huge brick buildings with innumerable
windows; and many blocks of working-men's houses, small and dirty
frame structures, with pale-faced children in the doorways. The roads
and sidewalks here were all of black cinders, and it was hot even in
May.

And then he came to a steel bridge and crossed a river and the road
broadened out, and he climbed a hill and found himself walking upon a
macadamized avenue lined with trees, and with beautiful residences
overlooking the ridge. Rich people lived here, evidently; and Samuel
stared, marveling at the splendor. He came to a great estate with a
stone gateway and iron railings ten feet high, and an avenue of
stately elm trees; there were bright green lawns with peacocks and
lyre birds strutting about, and a great colonial mansion with white
pillars in the distance. "Fairview," read the name upon the gates.

And then again Samuel remembered his appetite. Surely amid all this
luxury there would be some chance for him! He started up the path!

He had got about halfway to the house when a man who was tending the
flowers caught sight of him and came toward him. "What are you doing
here?" he called, before he had come halfway.

"I'm looking for some work," began Samuel.

"Do you want to get your head punched?" shouted the man. "What do you
mean by coming in here?"

"Why, what's the matter?" asked the boy perplexed.

"Get out, you loafer!" cried the other.

And Samuel turned and went quickly. A loafer!

So for the first time it occurred to him to look at his clothes, which
were muddy from his tumble in the ditch. And no doubt his face and
hands were dirty also, and his hair unkempt, and his aspect
unprepossessing enough for an applicant for labor. At any rate it was
clear that this was not the part of the town to seek it in; so he went
back across the bridge.

Twilight had fallen and the stores were shutting up. Soon everything
would be closed; and that night he felt that he would perish. And so
at last desperation seized him.

He bolted into the first lighted place he saw.

It was a saloon--empty, save for a man in white behind the bar.

"I'm no beggar!" shouted Samuel.

"Hey?" said the man.

"I say I'm no beggar! I'll come back and pay you. I'm starving. I must
have something to eat."

"Gee whiz!" said the man.

"I was never in a saloon in my life before," added Samuel, as he
realized the character of the place. "But please--please give me
something to eat."

"Hully gee, young feller!" exclaimed the bar-keeper. "You do it great.
You ought to be an actor. Step up and feed your face."

"What?" stammered Samuel, perplexed.

"EAT!" said the other, and pointed. "Maybe you understand that."

And Samuel turned and saw a lot of food set out upon a counter. He
rushed to it and began. At the first taste a kind of madness seized
him, and he ate like a wild beast, gulping things.

For several minutes he did this, while the other watched curiously.
Then he remarked, "Say, you'd better quit."

"What?" asked Samuel, seizing more food.

"I say quit," said the man. "Just for your own good. I see your
story's true, an' a little rest won't hurt you."

Samuel gazed longingly at the food, desiring more handfuls. "Come over
here," said the man. "What happened to you?"

"I was locked in an empty freight car."

"Humph! That's a new one! How long?"

"What day is this?"

"Friday."

"I was locked in Wednesday morning. It seemed longer."

"It's long enough," commented the barkeeper.

"I was robbed," Samuel went on. "A man took all my money." And then
the old shame started up in him. "Don't think I'm a beggar. I'll work
and pay for this."

"That's all right," said the barkeeper. "Be easy."

"Haven't you anything I can do? Some wood to split?"
 "We don't burn wood."

"Or some cleaning up?" Samuel looked round. The place did not seem
very neat to him. "I'll scrub the floors for you," he said.

"We have 'em scrubbed in the early morning," replied the man.

"Well, let me come and do it," said Samuel.

"Go on!" said the other. "You'll be ready for more feed then."

"I'll come, just the same, sir."

"If you take my advice," the bartender observed, "you'll get out of
this town. Lockmanville's a poor place to hunt jobs in."

Samuel started. "Lockmanville!" he gasped.

"Yes," said the other. "Don't you know where you are?"

"I didn't know," said the boy. "Lockmanville! The one where the big
glass works are?"

"That's the one."

"And where old Henry Lockman lived!"

"What about it?" asked the other.

"Nothing," said Samuel, "only my father invested all his money in
Lockman's company, and lost it."

"Gee!" said the bartender.

"Maybe if I told them," said the boy, "they'd give me some work here."

"Maybe," said the other--"only the works is shut down."

"Shut down!" cried Samuel; and then added, "On account of his death?"

"No--they always close in summer. But this year they closed in March.
Times is bad."

"Oh," said Samuel.

"So there's plenty of men looking for jobs in Lockmanville,". the
other continued, "an' some of the other factories is closed, too--the
cotton mill is only runnin' half time."

"I see."

"Old Lockman used to say there was too many glass works," the
barkeeper added. "An' the fellers he bought out went an' built more.
So there you are."

There was a pause. "I'm coming back in the morning," said Samuel
doggedly.

"All right," said the other, with a smile--"if you don't forget it."
Then a couple of customers entered. "Run along now," said he.

And Samuel went--the more readily because he realized that he had been
all this time in a saloon, a place of mystery and wickedness to him.

He started down the street again. A fine cold rain had begun to fall.
What was he to do?

He felt warm, having feasted. But there was no use in getting wet. He
glanced into the doorways as he passed, and seeing a dark and empty
one, crouched inside.

Lockmanville! What a curious coincidence! And there were hundreds in
the town out of work. It seemed a strange and terrible thing. Could it
be that they let people starve as he was starving--people they knew?
Could it be that they went on about their business and paid no
attention to such a thing?

He must get out, they told him. But how? Would the railroad take him,
if he explained? Or would the people on the way give him work? He had
got some food at last, but only by begging. And was he expected to
beg?

There came footsteps outside. A man strode into the doorway and took
hold of the door and tried it. Then he turned to go out. Samuel moved
his foot out of the way.

"Hello!" said the man. "Who's that?"

"Only me," said Samuel.

"Get up there," commanded the other.

He got up and a hand seized him by the collar. "Who are you?"

He was jerked into the light before he had a chance to reply. "More
bums!" growled the voice; and Samuel, terrified, saw that he was in
the grasp of a policeman.

"Please, sir, I'm not doing any harm," he began.

"Come," said the policeman.

"Where to?" he cried.

But the other merely jerked him along. A sudden wild horror seized
Samuel. "You're not going to arrest me!" he exclaimed.

"Sure," said the other. "Why not?"

"But," he exclaimed, "I've not done anything. I can't help it. I--"

He started to drag back, and the man twisted a huge hand, in his
collar, choking him. "Do you want to be hit?" he growled.

So Samuel went on. But sobs shook him, convulsive sobs of terror and
despair, and tears of shame rolled down his cheeks. He was going to
jail!

"What's the matter with you?" said the policeman after a bit. "Why
don't you be quiet?"

"You've no business to arrest me," wailed the boy. "I haven't done
anything, and I couldn't help it. I've no place to go and no money.
And it's not my fault."

"You can tell that to the judge," replied the other.

"But--but what have I done? Why--"

"Shut up!" said the officer, and gave another twist at his throat. And
after that Samuel was quiet.




CHAPTER V


In the station-house a fat sergeant sat dozing upon his throne.
"Another vagrant," said the policeman, as if to say there was no
special need to rouse himself.

"What was he doing?" the sergeant asked.

"Sleeping in a doorway," was the reply.

By this time Samuel had come to realize the futility of protest. He
accepted his fate with dumb despair. He gave the information the
sergeant asked for--Samuel Prescott, aged seventeen, native born, from
Euba Corners, occupation farmer, never arrested before.

"All right," said the man, and went back to his nap; and Samuel was
led away, and after a pretense at a search was shoved into a cell and
heard the iron door clang upon him.

He was alone now, and free to sob out his grief. It was the
culmination of all the shame and horror that he could ever have
imagined; first, to have to beg, and then to be locked up in jail. He
knew now what they did with men who were out of work and starving.

He lay there weeping, and then suddenly he sat up transfixed. From the
cell next to him had come a cry, a horrible blood-curdling screech,
more like the scream of a wild cat than any human sound. Samuel
listened, his heart pounding.

There came the voice of a man from across the corridor--"Shut up, you
hag!" And after that bedlam broke loose. The woman--Samuel realized at
last that the scream had come from a woman--broke forth into a torrent
of yells and curses. Such hideous obscenities, such revolting
blasphemies he had never heard in his life before--he had never
dreamed that life contained within it the possibility of such
depravity. It was like an explosion from some loathsome sewer; and its
source was the lips of a woman.

For ten minutes or so the tirade continued until it seemed to the boy
that every beautiful and sacred thing he had ever heard of in his life
had been defiled forever. Then a jailer strolled down the corridor,
and with a few vigorous and judicious oaths contrived to quell the
uproar.

Samuel lay down again; and now he had a chance to make another
discovery. He had felt sharp stinging sensations which caused him to
scratch himself frantically. Then suddenly he realized that he was
lying upon a mattress infested with vermin.

The discovery sent him bounding to the middle of the floor. It set him
wild with rage. Such a thing had never happened to him in his life
before, for his home was a decent and clean one. This was the crowning
infamy--that they should have taken him, helpless as he was, and shut
him up in a filthy hole to be devoured by bedbugs and lice.

In the morning they brought him bread and coffee; and after a couple
of hours' more waiting he was taken to court.

It was a big bare room with whitewashed walls. There were a few
scattered spectators, a couple of policemen and several men writing at
tables. Seated within an inclosure were a number of prisoners, dull
and listless looking. One by one they stepped up before the railing
and faced the judge; there would be a few muttered words and they
would move on. Everything went as a matter of routine, which had been
going that way for ages. The judge, who was elderly and gray haired,
looked like a prosperous business man in a masquerade costume.

Samuel's turn came and he stood before the bar. His name was read, and
the charge--vagrancy.

"Well?" said the judge mechanically. "What have you to say for
yourself?"

Samuel caught his breath. "It's not my fault, sir," he began.

"Your honor," prompted the policeman who stood at his elbow.

"Your honor," said Samuel, "I lost all my money. And I've been trying
to find work, your honor."

"Have you any friends in town?"

"No, your honor."

"How long have you been here?"

"Only since yesterday, your honor."

"How did you get here?"

"I came in on a freight train, your honor."

"I see," said the judge. "Well, you came to the wrong place. We're
going to put an end to vagrancy in Lockmanville. Thirty days. Next
case."

Samuel caught his breath. "Your honor," he gasped.

"Next case," repeated the judge.

The policeman started to lead Samuel away. "Your honor," he cried
frantically. "Don't send me to jail." And fighting against the
policeman's grip, he rushed on, "It's not my fault--I'm an honest boy
and I tried to find work. I haven't done anything. And you'll kill me
if you send me to jail. Have mercy! Have mercy!"

The policeman shook him roughly. But there was something so genuine in
Samuel's wail that the judge said, "Wait."

"How could I help it if I was robbed?" the boy rushed on, taking
advantage of his chance. "And what could I do but ask for work? I was
brought up honest, your honor. It would have killed my father if he'd
thought I'd be sent to jail. He brought me up to earn my living."

"Who was your father?" asked the judge.

"His name was Ephraim Prescott, and he was a farmer. You can ask
anyone at Euba Corners what sort of a man he was. He'd fought all
through the war--he was wounded four times. And if he could be here
he'd tell you that I don't deserve to go to jail."

There was a moment's pause. "What regiment was your father in?" asked
the magistrate.

"He was in the Seventeenth Pennsylvania, your honor."

"Be careful, boy," said the other sternly. Don't try to deceive me."

"I don't want to deceive you, your honor," protested Samuel.

"What brigade was the Seventeenth Pennsylvania in?"

"In the Third Brigade, your honor."

"And who commanded it?"

"General Anderson--that is, until he was killed at the battle of
Chancellorsville. My father was there."

"I was there, too," said the judge.

"My father used to tell me about it," exclaimed Samuel with sudden
eagerness. "His brigade was in the right wing and they had a double
line of trenches. And the rebels charged the line with cavalry. They
charged a dozen times during the day, and there were big trees cut
down by the bullets. My father said the rebels never fought harder
than they did right there."