"Why, don't you know?" said Van Dorn. "That's the bread line. They get a cup of coffee and a loaf of bread every night at twelve o'clock. Old Fleischmann, who founded the bakery, made that provision in his will. They begin to collect here at ten o'clock and before, rain or shine, hot or cold."
"It's cold enough to-night!" said Livingstone.
They drew nearer. The waifs regarded them listlessly. They were a ragged, thinly clad lot—a drift-line of hunger, tossed up by the tide of chance.
The bohemians, remembering their own lavish dinner and their swiftly coming plenitude, regarded these unfortunates with silent compassion.
"I say, fellows," whispered Livingstone, presently, "let's get a lot of nickels and give one to each of them. I guess we can manage it," he added, running his eye down the line in hasty calculation.
The others began emptying their pockets. Perner the businesslike stripped himself of his last cent and borrowed a dollar of Van Dorn to make his share equal. Then they separated and scoured in different directions for change. By the time all had returned the line had increased considerably.
"We'd better start right away or we won't have enough," said Livingstone.
He began at the head of the line and gave to each outstretched hand as far as his store of coins lasted. Then Van Dorn took it up, and after him Perner. They had barely enough to give to the last comers. The men's hands stretched out long before they reached them. Some said "Thank you"; many said "God bless you"; some said nothing at all.
"There's more money in that crowd than there is in this now," said Perner, as they turned away.
"That's so," said Livingstone. "But wait till a year from to-night. We'll come down here and give these poor devils a dollar apiece—maybe ten of them."