Unable to talk and tell his troubles, surrounded by hostile youngsters, and contending with prospective customers made life one long, desperate fight for the Frenchman. The climax came one night, when he slumbered in his corner beneath the table in the press room, and a loafer, a town lad, slept above him. Somebody, on mischief bent, turned the hose on the shaver on the top berth, and the water poured down on Jan.
That was the straw that broke the camel’s back—the fighting word had passed, and the pent-up dander of the bushy red head was at last aroused. As the intruding chap fell off of his perch Jan nailed him, believing that he had wet him, and such a fight as was never witnessed in The Observer building before followed.
Round and round the diminutive pugilists went until Jan showed signs of the savage, and onlookers interfered to prevent murder. The devil in Jan was in tumult and he fought like a Spartan.
After that the boys—the paper sellers—left Jan alone.
Now, Jan is going to leave us. His friends will chip in and help him on the way.
He will be missed in circles where his auburn hair has become familiar. Jan, industrious, capable, and good-natured, but unfamiliar with the ways of this country, deserves credit for being as good as he is.
Some day Jan Pier may wander back again.