Martin, though still weak, made haste to hobble to the factory, which, on the termination of the strike had opened as usual, to try for his former position.
"Is Mr. Denison here?" he asked of the book-keeper, who was a stranger to him.
"Mr. Denison has gone to Florida—the date of his return is uncertain," answered the book-keeper, returning to his interrupted occupation without paying any more attention to the white-faced cripple who stood leaning against the desk.
"My name is Martin, and I used to be in charge of the dyeing department here," persisted the anxious applicant, resolved not to be dismissed so easily.
"Every place is filled now, and well filled," said the book-keeper with a trace of irritation, not looking up from his big ledger; "and anyhow, you may be quite sure there will be no change in the staff as long as the boss is away."
Crushed and despairing, Martin tottered out of the office. But full of confidence in his ability as a dyer, he decided to go to another factory and offer his services.
His sad, depressed appearance, however, was no good introduction in a place where only strong hands were looked for, so nothing but disappointment awaited him at the other places.
"The strike has ruined business," said one of the manufacturers, while another laid the blame on over-production. "Come in some other day," said a third.
During all these unsuccessful attempts to provide the means of subsistence one week after another slipped away. Now the lack of the barest necessities stared them in the face—bitter need, upon whose hideous features they had not before been forced to look.
And Eugene, in the delirium of his fever, was always talking of the inaccessible maiden from another sphere. His clear-sighted mother began to grasp the meaning of all this with anxious foreboding.